3.52am. Brain finally lurches into the thing I wanted to write about yesterday and wakes me up in the impact. I love my brain. It is a champ. But there is a reason I medicate it to within an inch of its life:
Stylish friend of sister, to me, TEN YEARS AGO: "You could be pretty if you tried. Maybe some makeup? The hair?"
Obligatory I-am-fine-with-myself-I-don't-need-to-conform-I-have-more-to-offer-than-a-smoky-cat's-eye-I-am-above-all-such-nonsense-AND-I-AM-STILL-BREASTFEEDING-WHICH-TAKES-A LOT-OUT-OF-A-GIRL-plus-also-many-other-things thoughts are on the mark. They are set. They go. They go FOR TEN YEARS. Monkey brain? On the job.
This weekend: gathering at sister's. Stylish friend of sister to be in attendance. Fine, I admit it: I blew out my hair, wore a little mascara, put on heels.
Stylish friend of sister, after chatting with me for an hour: "You look great. Like a model! Nice hair! So pretty. But, forgive me for saying this: You used to be funny. I'm kind of sad about how you're not funny any more. You need to work on yourself maybe."
The bonfire was only 2 feet away. I am still debating which of us I should have shoved in there.
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