|I’ve moved! Please come visit and see this post in it’s new home: http://www.ramblingnotebook.com/crisis-of-confidence/|
I think a lot about what I want this space to be. I like to be positive, most of the time. I like to give pep talks, for my own good as much as for anyone else’s.
But sometimes I worry that too much pep becomes disingenuous. As though this path that I’m on is sprinkled with rose petals as I skip along arm-in-arm with shiny happy people, and that even the bumps in the road are so horrible they’re funny. Well, I’m sure you know there aren’t many rose petals on the road to better health. And shiny happy people make me twitchy.
So, confession time: I had an attack of fattitude today. I booked myself a half day off work. A whole 3.75 hours of me-time: a haircut and a makeup-counter makeover. New tops and boots to go with the lovely skirt I picked up at the last Losing It clothing swap. I was pumped.
The first sign of trouble appeared as I strode towards the MAC counter. I was ready for them to do me up for work, show me how to do it myself, and then sell me all the product they had just smeared/brushed/poofed all over my face. I’m not even going to tell you how old the makeup is in my linen closet – lets just say I’m surprised it hasn’t grown legs and crawled away.
Come to think of it, I haven’t seen it in ages.
But I digress. Last I checked, I was striding confidently towards the MAC display. And then striding purposefully past, lest the sleek 20-somethings behind the counter look up from their conversation.
I, uh, didn’t want to interrupt them. Yeah, that’s it.
I made a couple more passes before I realized I was now sweating and there was no way I was letting anyone near my face.
Things didn’t really improve from there. Clothes were a bust. (Bust. Right. I did get some bras. Really sexy beige bras.) Found some great knee-high boots, a huge departure from my usual attire and oh-so-styley… and I couldn’t even zip them to mid-calf. Talk about embarassing.
Tired, defeated, I came home, and grabbed some chocolate chips. Because, you know, chocolate chips melt away calf-fat. (Little known fact. Or maybe it was “chocolate chips melt on calf fat”. I should check that.)
So anyhow, now that you’re picturing me in my beige bra, with chocolate running down my calves (you weren’t? Oh. Sorry.), I should get to my point. Except I don’t think I have one. That was my day. Warts and all. Or just all warts.