To Be as Smooth as Frank

So I have just finished reading the famous essay "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold" and have concluded that Frank, even when phlegmy, hoarse, and full of mucus, never blundered in his words, misspoke, or stuck his foot in his mouth. This of course, is not to say that he didn't blow up at people or cut others down with words, it just seems like they weren't mistakes, they weren't, as they are so painfully for me, awkward mishaps.

In this article, the writer explains how Sinatra once harassed a man in a bar because he didn't like the way the guy was dressed. What happened? After escalating comments, a crackle of violent tension, a worried bar manager hustling into the room, eventually, the guy ended up leaving for another setting. Sinatra bullied this man out of the room. He didn't like that the guy wasn't wearing a coat and tie, so he proceeded to needle the guy until he left. And what's more, he didn't apologize for being rude, didn't worry over his comment and second guess himself; no, he stood where he was, next to the pool table, drinking bourbon, a blond on either arm, cigarette smoke swirling seductively around his head, and blue eyes piercing the room. In this moment, he was a jerk. More than that, he simply didn't care. That is what made him sexy. 

If this is the definition of sexy, disregarding others in the pursuit of one's own desires, then I may be, quite possibly, the least sexy being on the planet. Let's recast the scenario- I am standing in a bar, blonde on either arm, cigarette smoke swirling seductively, piano swelling, etc. etc. I don't like a guy's outfit. Well- already there are problems. First, it wouldn't occur to me not to like someone's dress and to think it grounds for exile. Seriously. Even mullets and cutoffs wouldn't make me think I had the right to boot someone from a bar. True, I might raise an eyebrow, but I would never think it grounds for dismissal. Now, say I actually did get annoyed enough to want the schmuck out. I can't imagine picking a fight unless I was really, really, really drunk. Here is where the bourbon comes in handy, I imagine. But, were I to yell at this man for not having a coat and somehow manage to get him kicked out of the bar, I would wake up the next day wringing my hands over my rude and unattractive behavior. I would feel immediately regretful for causing my friends an irritation, for causing a scene, for being anything other than a kind, gracious, accepting, and likable human being.

This is how I am different from Frank Sinatra. 

And what is the cause for this difference? Am I predisposed to be a sort of spineless worm in this world? A worm who wants to check to make sure everyone is having fun, is comfortable, and is happy to know me? Or is it something a little bigger--a gender predisposition, or something to do with being the eldest in a Catholic family. Why don't I think that I deserve to decide what people wear in the room I am in?

Well- to be honest, I don't want that role or responsibility. I think I would find myself irritating, bull-headed, and arrogant if I behaved that way, blondes, bourbon, blue eyes or not. But what I would like, what Sinatra had, and what I continue to work at is a sense of personal conviction. I want less hand-wringing. Less worry. Less fear of being unlovable. I want to say to say-- No, I don't want to sing right now, I have a cold, and to be quite honest, blondie, you are standing a little too close at the moment--and feel just fine about my convictions. 

I am sure Frank Sinatra could look back in his life and have regrets. All of us do. But he didn't apologize to himself about it. He accepted what he had done, who he was, where he was going, and what he wanted without excuse, guilt, shame, or explanation. That, and not a surly dislike for coatless slobs, is what made, makes, him sexy. That is the sexy I am looking to be.