90% of the time, I consider myself a confident person. I stand up for myself, defend my opinions, put myself out there to meet new people and am the first to laugh at myself. Last night, however, I was thrust back to high school and those insecure and inferior feelings washed over me.
Dinner with friends - easy enough. Making the last-minute decision to run home to change clothes would make me late. Not "L.A. time" late, but late nonetheless. Faded jeans, grey sweater over white tank top and black chunky heel loafer shoes - nothing fancy, casual, perfectly fine for drinks and dinner. Or so I thought.
I arrive, greet the girls. Looking fabulous, I admire key pieces ~ Great bag! The patent shoes are tres chic! Those boots are reason enough to have The Surgery!
You didn't have to get so dressed up for us. Looking me up and down.
These are my best faded jeans, I said with a laugh. And I remembered to match my shoes to my bag.
It's no wonder you don't date, Reese. You don't take your appearance seriously. Blink.
Clinton and Stacy wouldn't ambush me on Ventura Boulevard.
They would certainly stop and think twice.
The 'Bash Reese' portion of the show continued for 20 minutes ~ my appearance, my dating record, why I'm not going to the gym, why I stopped wearing contact lenses, my body language. I felt smaller and smaller with every word. I don't know where my confidence was hiding...smaller and smaller, sadder and sadder, feeling more and more like my 15 year old self than the actual 41.
And, tears fell. Not rushing, blubbering, splatter my glasses crying. The welling, the filling and a couple falling.
And, you always wear heels. I don't get that. Men are intimidated by tall women. You know that - you hardly date tall men.
I couldn't retort. I couldn't say anything. I wanted to laugh it all off. I really did! But the words just hit...the sting, the venom, the hurt. I didn't get it, didn't understand where it came from. Didn't understand why I was having dinner with the Mean Girls. And I was completely baffled why I was so affected. I'd had such a great day! The 15 year old self was so beat down by it all...but 41 showed up just in time to save her.
I stood, said thank you, grabbed my faux Marc Jacobs and left. I shook and cried out the door, down the street, in the car and all the way home.
This morning, I have two voicemails, several text messages and a raging headache.
The thing that sticks with me is how easily I was affected.