My New Years resolution – to be more classy. As it was pointed out, it’s not like I’m trashy or anything. Yes, I know and understand this. And as I get ready to go out tonight, I think to myself, “When do we stop being fake?”
This comes to my attention as I’m looking for the bra that makes me look like I have the perfect 36Cs and not the actual ones hanging from my chest. The one that gives me the perfect cleavage and sits correctly on my shoulders with out back fat or hang overs.
When I found the tan bra with the maroon accents and put on the underwear that sucks my belly in just a little bit and then put on the boots that make me look 3 inches taller than I actually am while not being slutty.
This fascinating question dawns on me while I’m applying the eye shadow that makes the tiny speckles of blue in my green eyes stand out and as I’m applying the mascara that lengthens my short lashes.
As I flat iron my wavy blonde hair, noticing my roots are already starting to show and people will now know that I wasn’t born with amazing blonde hair with light brown accents. As I line my lips, just above the line to make them bigger and right after I applied the plumping lip gloss.
As I do the dip and tuck to help out the bra and fasten the zipper on the boots I wonder if I look classy. What I realize is that classy is not fake. And while I do plan on toning it down this year (I did well, except for the wood comment at work …) I also remember I can’t forget who I am.
This comes as I ponder a relationship with an ex. I posted once “Exes are Ex’s for a reason” and preach it to Di as she deals with her divorce yet here I am, afraid to be alone in this world that I am considering it. Funny how an email finally reminded me he’s a bit on the passive aggressive side. “she was really cool & cute too. Oh well, such is life with my luck I guess,” he writes in discussing what happened at my birthday last week. A slight, undertone to what I did to him just 10 months ago.
JF and I talked after my birthday last Wednesday, “Don’t get into a relationship just because everyone else is. That’s not you. You’re great. Get into a relationship because that’s what’s good for you, that you really connected with someone.” He gets me, I don’t understand how because I try so hard to be someone I’m not at times. “Are you okay?” He asks me after I tell him RS just cut ties, “Yeah, I am. It was just sex.” I respond. “I know you think you need to be tough, but not with me MG, not with me.” “It sucks” I tell him.
And it does. It does because he knows how I feel, how I’ve felt for 4 years, that’s why I’m his go to. When things aren’t peachy keen in Madison, it’s a phone or a text and a “Hey, what are you wearing?” and I’m on the road and at his door. It sucks because I want him to be the nice girl that he appeared to be, that he appears to be. The poor 36 year old guy that loves his family and has had his heart broken too many times. The poor guy that just wants to hold someone. The truth is – he is that guy, just not with me. It sucks that I’m not good enough. That I’ve never been good enough for anyone. My first “real” boyfriend told me when I called off the engagement, “You’ll never find anyone to love you. You were lucky I pretended.” The last three guys haven’t even been straight, some part of me thinks I turned them, but the reality is I don’t believe in that – you’re born that way.
I’m a fixer. I put energy into fixing broken things, like lights and paneling and gas stoves. Like businesses that need more work, friends that need to be near someone to love them and take care of them, boyfriends and lovers that are eternally broken and need the right path. Then it disappears, the lights turn on with a flip of the switch, the paneling no longer squeaks when you walk on it, the gas oven turns on. The friends get on their feet and find boyfriends and girlfriends, the boyfriends and lovers finally get the self esteem and leave to do better.
That’s why I am alone, too many broken irons in the fire and every time I fix one – it seems to get sold.
But that’s who I am, that’s not fake. What’s fake is that I pretend it doesn’t hurt. So I’ve adjusted my breasts, buckled and zipped my boots, re-plumped my lips, grabbed my fake Fendi and I jump into the car of one of my friends that doesn’t need fixing – the one thing out of everything right now that isn’t fake.
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4 comments:
Class doesn't have a lot to do with the way you look so much as it does with the moral and ethical parts of life. Take a well dressed, rich lady who talks down to everyone and cares only for herself. Then take a a girl in sweats who is willing to give up her umbrella to a woman on corner waiting for a bus because it is raining and the girl who is driving doesn't need it. I know which person I think of having more class. You can carry yourself with a confidence which may come across as class, but ultimately class is to treat others better than you expect them to treat you. Try your best every day and help people without compromising on your values and beliefs.
Gee Whiz, don't go beating yourself up so early in the new year! You're a hard worker and a nice person. You have neato tatoos and a desire to stay physically fit. You have a college degree and your own place to call home.
Of course your almost husband said some mean stuff, he was a manupilative son-of-a-gun who also sued you. And the Rock Star was just using you for the sex, which you were aware of at the time, even if you didn't totally admit it to yourself. Better for you to leave that relationship in the past history of your life, so you can move on to something more worthwhile while you still have your youth.
I'm with you. I went out last night and wore heeled boots to disguise my 5'3 self and a bra that pulls together the DDs that are now starting to show their age when bare. LOL I don't necessarily think it's fake, per se. But, rather a way to make our own selves feel good about our image. Is that fake? I don't know. Now you have me thinking!
Getting dressed up isn't about being fake, it's just part of being a girl.
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