The Day I Tried to Channel Marilyn and Just Ended Up With Blisters
Filed under Blog
I woke up with a mission. One crystal-clear, completely irrational goal: Today, I will live like Marilyn Monroe.
Now, did I define what that actually meant? No. I had coffee and delusion and a Pinterest board titled “soft chaos.” That was enough.
Step One: Becoming a Blonde Bombshell… with Drugstore Bleach
Let me start by saying this: bleaching your hair at home is never the answer. Never. Unless the question is, “How can I ruin my scalp and self-esteem before noon?” Then yes. Yes, it is.
I wanted that cool platinum shade she had in The Seven Year Itch—but what I got was more “fried spaghetti” than “Hollywood siren.” My bathroom smelled like burnt chemicals and crushed dreams.
“You still look cute,” said my cat, silently, while backing away slowly.
Step Two: Red Lipstick & Emotional Damage
I picked up my favorite bullet of red—MAC’s "Ruby Woo," because apparently, I like suffering—and swiped it on with all the confidence of a 1950s starlet. But halfway through, I remembered I was out of setting spray.
Fast forward 20 minutes later: I was in the kitchen, crying over toast, with lipstick on my chin, my sleeve, and somehow my ankle. Marilyn made it look easy. She had stylists. I had YouTube tutorials and a dangerously shaky hand.
Behind the Scenes, they say? I was living inside the mess.
Step Three: The Dress Situation
You know the white halter dress? THE dress? I found one online. I bought it two weeks ago and swore I’d only wear it when I “felt worthy.” Today was that day.
Except it didn’t zip. At all. Not even a polite “I’ll try.” It was like the fabric itself was judging me.
I lay on my bed, flat like a corpse, trying to yank it up. Sweating. Swearing. Singing “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” as a war cry.
Eventually, I settled for a wrap dress and told myself Marilyn would understand. I mean, she wore potato sacks once. That’s solidarity.
Step Four: Walking in Heels = Mistake
“If you’re going to walk like Marilyn, you need heels.” That was the voice in my head. Probably Satan. I slipped into vintage pumps I got at a thrift store. They were cute. They were also from 1983 and smelled like grandma powder and regrets.
By the time I reached the end of my block, I had three blisters and zero dignity. A man asked if I was limping. I told him I was channeling vulnerability. Marilyn had that. I do too, apparently. In my ankles.
Step Five: Breakdown in Aisle 4
I walked into the pharmacy to buy band-aids and a Diet Coke. A little girl stared at me. “Are you a princess?” she asked. “No,” I replied. “I’m trying to be Marilyn Monroe.” She blinked. “Who’s that?”
I died right there. Inside. I sent myself a voice note: “Never try to be an icon if your foot is bleeding and your eyeliner is smudged.”
Step Six: Collapse, Cry, Rewatch
By evening, I was home in sweatpants, makeup melted off, eating cereal from a mug. My phone was full of blurry selfies where I looked more like a haunted cupcake than a 50s goddess.
I put on How to Marry a Millionaire to make myself feel better. And you know what? Marilyn stuttered. She tripped. She didn’t get the guy right away. But she owned every second of it.
Maybe that’s the lesson.
What I Actually Learned
- You can adore someone and still completely fail to be them.
- Marilyn was magic—but she was also a person, with bad days and tired eyes.
- Being iconic takes more than red lips and bleach. It takes softness, silliness, and survival.
So no, I didn’t become her. But I did become someone who loves her even more.
And if you’re reading this thinking, “Wow, same,”—go ahead and try it for yourself. But maybe skip the heels.
.jpg)
.jpg)
0 Comments