Mai 8, 2011
Fun fact: I don’t like thinking about what I look like.
On good days, that’s because I genuinely don’t give a fuck. I wear flats because I can walk in them. I wear hoodies and jeans because they’re comfortable. I don’t wear make-up, and my hair is long because it’s by far the least trouble that way.
On not-so-good days, that’s because I have no clue how to even start doing something about it (so many things I don’t know shit about) and because I’m secretly convinced that it would be a hopeless waste anyway.
If I’m forced to think about what I look like, the day will go from „good“ to „not-so-good“ in about ten minutes.
This is what happened today. I’m supposed to go to a wedding. Now, I’m not the biggest fan of weddings anyway, but some of them can’t be avoided, because I actually care about the happy couple and they want me there and would it kill me to bite my tongue and spend one day smiling and pretending to be a social animal…and all of a sudden there’s a wedding on Saturday and even I realise that I can’t show up to my friends‘ wedding in jeans and a washed out hoodie.
Hence the agonising. Because I have no idea what to wear. I’ll have to find something. And then I’ll have to do something with myself to wear it properly.
I hate this. I hate the idea of putting on some kind of costume I’m not used to and failing miserably to come up with a way to make my hair look like, well, anything at all. I hate the idea of spending an entire day in shoes that make me look like a freak because I can’t walk in them. And most of all I hate the fact that, since this day is now very much a „not-so-good“ day, I am completely sure even the best efforts of people who know what they’re doing wouldn’t matter because it’d still me underneath, and I have never once in my life been elegant, let alone pretty.
And from that thought follows directly the idea that, if _I_ have this sort of gut reaction to seeing myself in the mirror, it must be even worse for other people. And really, never leaving my flat again would spare everybody a lot of grief.
And _that_, in turn, is when I know that I have to stop thinking about this shit and go to bed. Because somewhere in a sane corner of my mind, I kind of know that I’m not the hideous Gorgon I feel like right now…I’m maybe frumpy average with a large helping of clueless, but nobody has given me the Quasimodo-treatment just yet (and this isn’t me fishing for compliments, in case you were wondering – this is me typing what’s going on in my head)…but the feeling of investing in a paper bag, or chopping off my hair _right now_, or just curling up in a corner forever, it just won’t go away.
I’m off to bed. Because tomorrow, I get to try and shop for clothes.