You're too Pretty to be That Girl

Someone very dear to me, in a heart to heart on a Musical Monday, told me a few weeks ago in reference to my qualms about relationships and men and vices and moving on and whatnot, "You're too pretty to be that girl."

I am thankful for this thought, even if I'm having a little trouble completely agreeing that it is applicable to this girl at this very second in my life. This is a good thought. I like this thought. I like that carefully manicured nails and well-trimmed bangs and thoughtfully applied Chanel 75 can battle being that girl. That a little playful confidence can will a text message during a tryst to work out the way you want it to. But surely enough, no amount of red lipstick seems to cover it in my eyes: I. Am. That. Girl.

Insecure, moody, messy, jealous, and sometimes even spiteful. Kind even when it kills, sunny dispositioned and fighting a slew of dark clouds. Worried and watchful, waiting. Trying to get through the tangle of how to move on and be ok for good. Well-intentioned but not sure how to make my dreams come true; sleepy and smart, a whirl of emotions exponentially more complicated than I could ever put into words. A ball of white hot rage burning in a huggge heart that would love everyone and everything if it could.

Furthermore, I am still THAT girl.

Worse, I am THAT girl and I'm not sure if I even believe in the fairy tale anymore. That's right. I said it. This princess can't seem to find a fairy tale she fits into, a glass slipper in a size 7 1/2, and trust me, poufy ball gowns on this figure just make me look like a cupcake.

I'm feeling dull, lackluster; this feeling vastly increased by a series of failed attempts to get back out there and misplaced emotions of the garden good and bad variety. This feeling vastly increased by the constant inescapable comparison in the back of my mind, excacerbated by staying in on weekend nights, by that truly desperate loneliness that only the holidays can bring, by the paralyzing fear of making all of the same mistakes that I have ever made in any friendship or relationship before.

I get it. This indicates a certain degree of not-readiness. Fine. These things will happen when they are meant to. But why am I having such a hard time feeling pretty inside and out? I have lovely things. I have people who love me. I am kind to others. I try really hard to match my shoes to my ensembles (Unless it's snowy and then the Croc boots win every time.)

Not to like get all crazy on the lack of self-esteem train because this most assuredly is not what this is. I believe in myself; I'm just feeling invisible, transparent, somewhat ashamed of my ongoing inability to be ok, to be functional, to pay my bills, to get enough sleep, etc etc etc.

And this is where it was always nice to have someone to curl into a ball with on the couch, to flatter my vanity and kiss me on the cheek before I left for work/school/shows. It's a time when it would be nice for out of nowhere, in some back corner of the bookstore where I buy my french books, I brush hands with someone who wants to buy the same French translation of Crime & Punishment that I'm looking at. When my umbrella breaks on the street, some tall, dark, and handsome stranger offers to let me borrow his. It's where it would be nice to be swept off my feet, surprised, reminded personally and not just by seeing it in others that magic and fairy tales do exist.

I'm a dreamer. I'm a hopeless romantic. I have honestly watched Notting Hill hundreds and hundreds of times. I don't think romance or fairy tales need to be standard to be magical; I don't expect Prince Charming to appear out of nowhere in the snow outside in a puff of smoke and whisk me away to a place where I don't have to worry about money or papers or writing or findind a job. Where I feel pretty sitting on my couch in my pajamas, typing furiously on a snowy Sunday morning, in spite of the way my bangs have crimped from a failed attempt at a side braid the night before.

But, I mean, my polka dotted fleece-y pajamas are pretty adorable. And I know that someday, I'll meet someone who isn't Brian or Elyse or Matty that thinks so too. And I wear red lipstick like it's going out of style. I understand the timelessness of black liquid liner and how much a compliment can make someone's day, how far a little kindness can go.

I'm going to go put my teacup in the dishwasher and start my day and try to ignore the things that being that girl implies. I'm going to go to the gym. I'm going to read. I'm going to keep being me, keep trying to be kind, keep trying to be forgiving, keep trying to stay abreast of current trends without destroying my bank account, keep putting on lipstick just to walk to the grocery store, keep talking to strangers on the train, in line for lunch, and in the elevator. Maybe I'll even ask that guy that I keep running into from Marketing for coffee.

Mostly though, I'm going to keep reminding myself that I'm too pretty to be that girl until I can finally agree inside and out, see it in the mirror and feel it from within. I'll probably always be that girl. That's who I am. Granted, usually happier, but someday, I'll run down the list without cringeing. I'll agree that my exceptional qualities vastly outweigh the bad, and I'll be happy with the smile I see in the mirror. I guess it's all moving forward and figuring it out until I get there.