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.

The best-(getting)-laid plans

I might get to have sex tomorrow, so obviously my brain has picked today to have a total goddamn meltdown and decide that everything about my physical appearance is disgusting.

Whatever, bitch. You know he doesn’t care about a pimple — you wouldn’t want to sleep with him if he did. And he’s already seen you naked and still opted to invite you back.

We are getting laid if the opportunity presents itself, so get your judgy ass on board.

“What about all that other stuff I’m telling you, how he’s probably already over any real attraction but is smart enough not to say so to a woman who’s so clearly willing to sleep with him?”

Nope. Don’t care. Maybe he’ll fuck the Crazy out of you, and if that doesn’t work, that’s why we pay a therapist.

Beautifull of shit

I don’t think I ever roll my eyes harder than when a man on OkCupid comes at me with “Hello beautiful” (<– Lack of punctuation his, not mine.)

First, I HAVE a name. It’s in my profile. Twice.

Also, I’m 41, so please don’t make me quote Meghan Trainor: “Call me beautiful, so original, tellin’ me I’m not like other girls…”

I’m cute, dude. It’s OK, I know my lane. “Beautiful” seems to be some sort of résumé keyword men* say to average-looking chicks, assuming we all want to hear it and it’ll fast-track them into our draw’s.

BTW, it hadn’t occurred to me that “not like other girls” was a line until I heard this song. In hindsight, it makes sense—I am a special little lady snowflake…just like everybody else. My deep-seated desperation to feel unique is probably evident, so of course men would use it to infiltrate.

P.S. If I ever write a book, I’m calling it “Little Lady Snowflake.”

*SOME men. #NotAll. I know.

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.

“Look at me, I’m skinny. It never stopped me from gettin’ busy.”

I would prefer not to be the kind of woman who gets a tiny self-esteem boost when someone asks if she’s lost weight. Especially when it’s accompanied by, “You look so skinny!”

Ahem… I would prefer not to be…

In my defense, I was getting a li’l rotund for 5 feet tall. So it’s good to hear all this fresh food/taking walks/ordering less takeout bullshit may be helping. (Don’t get it twisted — there’s still ice cream. I don’t hate myself THAT much.)

Also, a happy bonus of ADD is that drugs for it can suppress appetite, and dehydrate you so you drink tons of water and aren’t as hungry. They may also have crack in them. I don’t know. I’m not a scientist.

I would prefer not to be the kind of woman who gets a tiny self-esteem boost when someone asks if she’s lost weight. Especially when it’s accompanied by, “You look so skinny!”
Ahem… I would PREFER…
In my defense, I was getting a li’l rotund for 5 feet tall. So it’s good to hear all this fresh food/taking walks/ordering less takeout bullshit may be helping. (Don’t get it twisted — there’s still ice cream. I don’t hate myself THAT much.)
Also, a happy bonus of ADD is that drugs for it can suppress appetite, and dehydrate you so you drink tons of water and aren’t as hungry. They may also have crack in them. I don’t know. I’m not a scientist.

P.S. I know I’ve bitched about people commenting on my weight in the past, so to clarify, this was someone I’m cool with.

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.