Not Jenny 28

Jenny talks about the pageant circuit a lot. Well, mostly she talks about the dresses she wore at this-or-that pageant and I hate to admit it but it is sort of interesting. (I had no idea that pageant dresses were barely functional, cost over $5000 and often have to be glued or taped on.) Jenny says that when she finally made it to Miss America, she was wearing turquoise and that that is her pageant color -- the color you always look your best in. When you walk in a room wearing your pageant color -- and you know it -- everyone looks. (Did you know your pageant color actually enhances your talent?) Everyone has a pageant color and most people don't even realize it. I tell Jenny that I have no idea what my pageant color is and she tells me that, without a doubt, it is purple.

Not Jenny 27

"I'm off to another convention!" Jenny yells. She is talking and expertly maneuvering her wheeled shoulder bag down the crowded sidewalk. "You pack lightly, I see." I yell back at her. "Well yes," she responds, "but I also check my large, red, empty suitcase which, of course, will be full on the return flight. As usual, I plan to S-H-O-P my hot little ass off!" Later, I share this story with our colleague Amanda who then reminds me about how she once saw Jenny drop $1500 bucks on a pair of sunglasses at the mall. I look appropriately shocked. "I told you that, remember?" Amanda says, "That was the same trip when she and I stopped at the food court and Jenny told the Wendy's cashier that her tax dollars cashed her welfare check and so she better not fuck up our order."

Not Jenny 26

Even Jenny can't completely mask the fact that she is, at best, a Personal Assistant. She does, however, somehow make her job seem more glamorous than my job -- a job which, though not as glamorous, at least requires a terminal degree.
"I didn't just study acting," says Jenny, "I went to a Con-SER-va-to-ry."
"To ... study acting, right?" I reply, honestly looking for clarification.
"Well yes," she says, "but when you study acting at a Con-SER-va-to-ry, that is all you know. From graduation day on, acting it is all you can do -- It's a huge sacrifice."
"I see," I say, "So ... are you acting now?"
"Oh yes," Jenny answers, "I act all the time."

Not Jenny 25

I was Jenny once. Seriously. It all happened so fast that some of the details are a blur but I was definitely Jenny for at least a good ten minutes -- and you don't forget how something like that feels.

One way a Not Jenny like me can become a Jenny is by association with an actual Jenny. For example, last week I was briefly adopted by a bona fide Jenny while we were on our way to work. I was walking through the park with my iPod secretly blaring some completely Not Jenny music when my path intersected with the path of a total Jenny who was also walking with an iPod. (Let's not kid ourselves, they all have iPods.)

Jenny looked at me and my iPod and she smiled at us. I flashed back my best pleasedon'tnoticethatiamnotJennyjustthisonceplease counter-smile and she bought it completely. The next think I knew the earbuds were out and she was chatting me up. She was completely chatting up totally Not Jenny me. A Not Jenny who had, not five seconds earlier, been privately rocking out to music so Not Jenny that even mentioning the artist in the presence of a Jenny would make her pooh talcum powder in disgust. But my secret remained undiscovered and for that brief moment, I was Jenny too.

Everyone was jealous.

I tried to think of Jenny things to say and commented that the iPod was great because it made it socially acceptable to ignore people. "You just say you didn't hear them," I said, and laughed like a Jenny I once new. She laughed too and said, "You must be dead inside like Jenny and I!" The banter continued until a block later when our paths diverged and I was Not Jenny again. We waved goodbye, popped the earbuds back in and got back to ignoring people like me.

God, I love my iPod.