"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win." (Stephen King)
I was browsing through Target-- my favorite store in the entire world besides Trader Joe's -- and I was feeling pretty good. I was able to pretend the extra 20 pounds weren't there around my belly and my crows feet were actually laugh lines (this term is supposed to make over-40 women feel better about aging. Riiiggghhhttt...). I had recently lost 50 lbs and had walked 6 miles that day, I was wearing my favorite size 9 butt jeans and my good bra that almost made me look like I had, well, definitely NOT 20 yr old breasts but I was hoping for maybe 30 or 35... well, you get the idea. I was feeling good, and kinda hot for an old lady and all the planets in my world were lined up JUST RIGHT. Ahhhh... for just a moment in time, the cosmos loved me for meeeeeeee...
I pushed my red Target shopping cart, doing the whole girl thing looking at pillows and towels and sheets and admiring bright, happy colors, just dreaming and getting in touch with my inner designer that I had buried years and years ago... and I round the corner, carrying every inch of my 5'3" tall and proud, smiling naively with NO IDEA what was lying in wait for me.
There she was. Bombshell Betty pushing her cart with two adorable babies. Blonde with long hair and the big bump of hair high on the back of her head, makeup perfectly done so she had the mommy and the naughty look, tight jeans slung low on her hips, her midriff showing from her form fitting baby doll T shirt, all upright and perky... and TALL. Why are they always tall and blonde?
Damn her.
Bombshell Betty was on her cell phone (of course... an ear piece... I DON'T have an earpiece!), pushing her cart with two of the most gorgeous toddlers, perfectly dressed with clean faces... well behaved, quiet and lovely children. She was on a Mission and walked purposely right past me as if I wasn't there. It was high school all over again.
Damn her.
Quicker than you can say Botox or plastic surgeon, I delflated like a balloon after the party is over, like a bald tire that finally gave in to age... my inner Weeble wobbled over and fell down. And stayed down. I wanted to run out and buy her a donut. Maybe two. Hell, let's make it a dozen... and then jump up, kick her in the knee and make her eat EVERY LAST ONE.
Yes, I know she puts on her very small, hip hugging jeans one leg at a time and I am sure --- if there is a God in Heaven and he likes me, please let it be true-- that she has bad days and maybe even, if at all possible, got her heart broken once. ((heavy sigh)) Reality bites.
But, unfortunately, we are our own worst enemies... especially at night when our regrets and mistakes rear their ugly head and whisper harsh words of defeat and failure. We see ourselves as not-quite-good-enough, glass-half-empty and brush aside compliments and praise from others, feeling we don't quite deserve it because we don't measure up to our idea of success.
I know that realistically, I have talents and gifts that Bombshell Betty doesn't have. I am sarcastic like nobodies business, I am quick with my wit and as loyal to my friends as a Saint Bernard. I am a fabulous cook who can also play a great -- from my mouth to God's ears -- game of golf. I can drive a car like a man and volunteer like SuperMom. I am just as wonderful as she is but in different ways.... yeah, yeah, yeah. I hear you, I see your mouth moving but all I can see is Bombshell Betty and the shreds of my self esteem on the floor of Target.
Anyone got a donut? Two?
'Nuff said. Let's play golf.
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