I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggonnit…

Texting a friend about therapy:

Me: “We ended up talking about why I don’t consider myself ‘beautiful.’ She showed me a fucking Dove commercial. I’m never going back. (Kidding.)”

Friend: “No one should be forced to watch a Dove commercial.”

And by the way? I don’t consider myself beautiful, and I don’t see a problem with that, so fuck right off, Dove. But I am a middle-age American woman who mostly thinks I’m cute, sometimes pretty, so I do think I’m a goddamn miracle.

Besides, “beautiful” doesn’t even crack the top 100 on my list of issues. When I think about my last pseudo-breakup, my appearance isn’t what keeps my brain spiraling. He once got hard while we were taking a walk because I made a JOKE about wearing high heels during sex — it’s easy enough to believe he found me attractive. So can we focus on this weird haze I get into where I think I’m not smart or interesting enough to keep a dude around AFTER we have sex, even as a friend? That seems to be the dominating self-esteem weirdness here.

I could totally sit with you.

bad-breathI wore a halter top to work today because I am classy as fuck.

But at least I can wear halters, because I don’t have man shoulders.

My pores are huge, but my hairline isn’t weird and my nail beds don’t suck, and I think my breath is OK in the morning. (I mean, obviously it’s not ideal, but no one’s ever run away or anything.)

So I think I’m orbiting the plus column today, appearance-criticism-wise.

P.S. Oh, and it’s Friday, so I’m wearing jeans, of course. It’s not like I’d wear the ugliest effing skirt you’d ever seen. I didn’t even buy that skirt; my friends weren’t around to ask if it looked good on me.

P.P.S. I’m not wearing hoop earrings, either—she told me those were her thing.

Friends/Fluffers

I’ve been discussing career goals with a friend, because I’ve been feeling totally stuck in what I’m doing, and I feel seven kinds of shitty** about it, just allllll the self-doubt/loathing, staring down the barrel of a TON of work and thought to figure out what my next move should be, because I have no idea. 
Friend’s response:

“I have always thought someone should pay you lots of money just to be you and write what you already write. I don’t know exactly who that should be — Cracked, Bustle, Jezebel, The Mary Sue, various advertisers for your personal blog? — but I very much want it to happen. I know you do too, I just thought you should know that I read a LOT online and I would read all your stuff even if I didn’t know you. Just saying.”

Awwwww! You guys! ❤

I mentioned this predicament to another friend, and SHE complimented my writing, too!

“I know you’re not fishing for compliments, but I LOVE reading you. Anything you write is super smart, quick, and has so much relatable stuff with large dose of humor and humility. You seem like you have a treasure of stories you could write about family, men, and relationships. WRITE!!! For me.”

I was not fishing (nor am I now), but DAMN, I should’ve done this YEARS ago! Ego. Boosted. My friends are like my self-esteem fluffers!

** There actually does exist a chart ranking the seven kinds of shit. The reason I know this is not as disgusting as you might think, but, I mean, possessing that knowledge is really never IDEAL… I’m going to stop talking now.

In the Wild: The Rare and Elusive Emotionally Damaged Single Woman

I hadn’t gotten any OkCupid messages in, like, 4 days, but now I’m all “woe is me” and suddenly I get THREE in the past hour?

Holy shit… Men, can y’all innately sense my broken self-worth online, too?! Wow, OkCupid, good work on that algorithm! I thought that sixth sense was reserved for when I’m at the grocery store, all gross, unshowered, no makeup, in sweats, and get the idiot wolf whistles I don’t get when I’m dressed normally.

But obviously the messages were the digital equivalents of a wolf whistle:
1. “Hi Smug [Spock finger emoji] lol”
2. “You’re so cute”
3. “So what does your weekend look like ?? –John”

*sigh* Check it out, you guys — it’s Drink O’Clock.

Getting a Master’s in Ego Tripping

One of my favorite college professors — who taught me women’s studies but now teaches master’s level writing — just told me I’m a real writer.

Feelin’ pretty preeny right about now. ‪#‎ExtraSmugSingleton‬

(Fret not, the crippling self-doubt will be back tomorrow. Hell, probably tonight.)

Must…numb…self-loathing…

Right. The OkCupid guy I messaged yesterday looked at my profile last night, and I just noticed he’s “either deleted or disabled his account.”

And the other guy just never answered.

*nod*

Understood. I am a hideous idiot trollbeast. If you need me, I’ll be on a bridge demanding answers to riddles. (Except I’m dumb, so I probably don’t know the answers to riddles.)

Actually, I take that back — I’m clearly not hideous given the number of shady hoodrats and married guys who’ve messaged to offer a one-night-only impotence extravaganza in my vagina. So I’m at least hot enough to put a dick in. So it’s just smart guys who don’t dig me. So I’m just a moron. Excellent.

I know, I KNOW. It’s fine. Let me have my pity party and I’ll be back to self-love tomorrow. I mean, maybe, I don’t know — I probably suck at clairvoyance as well.

I’m pretty good at martinis, though. I’ll get on that when I get home.