Yesterday I had a bit of the mean reds. I did something stupid where I cyber-stalked one of my man’s clients, and in a pitiful bout of self-pity and insecure lameness, I read her blog, pored over her pictures and decided that she’s not only the most gorgeous girl in the world, she also has EVERYTHING IN COMMON with my man, and therefore, most be DESTROYED.
It was a sad case of women on women hate.
My reaction and feelings were just plain silly. It must be my Danish blood. You know us Danes. We’re a raging, plate-throwing, pastry-gorging ball of theatrics. I got to thinking about myself, comparing myself, thinking of my hips and thighs, wrapped in pearly tiger stripes from stretching out to make room for a growing baby. I thought about my boobs. Champs, they are. Inflated to porn-star proportions then deflated beyond their years, they fed a baby every two hours for 16 months. Things jiggle. I like cake. I only run when being chased. You do the math.
And then, the downward spiral continued and I thought about that last time I was hit on by a stranger. A stranger that wasn’t a homeless crack-head, that is. On my walk home I started to think about that. Am I attractive? Am I looking old? Why do only crazy people ask me out? Do I give off a vibe that says “taken”, or is there a sign on my back that says “This One’s Nuts”?
Just as my thoughts were reaching a dangerous low, and my hands were becoming more and more clenched and I was milliseconds away from talking to myself, I heard “Excuse me!”
I stopped. A gentleman in a suit got out of his car.
Him: Sorry to just approach you out of the blue like this.
Me: (Stupid). Ok!
Him: But you’re really attactive and I just had to stop to talk to you.
I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. I just stared at his perfect white smile and his face that was a Seattle version of Taye Diggs and I grinned and nodded and said thank you fifty times while I dreamed of going to his mom’s house for sweet potato pie and how beautiful our green eyed baby with an afro would be. Taye Diggs. I said it.
Are you married? I’m engaged. That’s understandable. You’re so sweet, thank you for stopping. Have a great night. You too. La ti da, swagger away in my heels, my hands no longer clenched, embarrassed at my shallowness but thankful that maybe God was paying attention to my silly need to feel like I’ve still got it and that turning 30 in two weeks is not the end of the world.
I went home to my amazing man and my beautiful girl and said a quiet thank you and laughed. I’m a smart girl. I’ve got a good head on my shoulders. I don’t need much, but right then and there I needed an ego boost. And man alive, my ego just got a 90 minute Swedish massage on an isolated Seychelles beach. By Taye Diggs.
And it felt good.
