Day 50: Good Ol' Self

Despite the fact that gold and blue were my high school colors and thus invoke a certain puke factor for me, I still love this outfit. I love that yellow jeans and a strange, striped cardi can be glamourous (thanks to the earrings and heels). In fact, I've been wanting to pair this top with something for months, but could never quite figure out how to do it. Jeans was easy, and the right skirt never seemed to come along. Initially when picking out this ensemble, I had a orange tee. It looked good but lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. When I tried the sweater, it all clicked magically into place, and the heavens parted.

I don't know why, but I cut up my last remaining credit card three days ago. I was reading something on yahoo's homepage about credit card horror stories, and the next thing I knew, I was taking a scissors to my little platinum scapegoat. Maybe it was that my story was about as bad as the ones they were highlighting. Maybe it was that I've been thinking lately that it's time to start investing, and I can't very well do that if my interest rate on my visa is more than anything I would earn on stocks in a year's time (thanks, Dad, for explaining that one). For whatever reason, I no longer have ANY fallback payment device. To heck with making "no shopping" resolutions. These are desperate times.

They are also tempting times. Employee shopping day is upon me, and have an entire internal map of where to go once it's my turn. I've been eying, ticketing, colorizing, and sizing these clothes for weeks, and I'm ready to try them on, dangit. I don't know whether not having a credit card is a good or bad thing. We have two days where we get 33% off, and part of me is kicking myself for not waiting until after this week to purge my life of credit. On the other hand, I could do some serious damage. All in all, I have to believe (no matter if it kills me) that things are going exactly according to some greater cosmic plan that has my best financial interest in mind.

Today's episode deals with accepting oneself. Carrie gets chosen to be a "real person" model in a fashion show. Though she does it mainly for the clothes, it becomes an opportunity to conquer her insecurities about being pretty, skinny, and tall enough. Miranda dates a man who thinks she's sexy, which she finds hard to believe. Just when she starts to flaunt her inner sex goddess with him, he bolts, telling her she's too conceited for his tastes. Samantha gets nude photos of herself taken and framed in the hopes of capturing her youthful beauty forever--at least on camera. Meanwhile, Charlotte develops a gynecological condition that requires her to take antidepressants for her vagina. Her friends decide that part of the reason that area may be "depressed" is that Charlotte refuses to accept its beauty. Having never before seen it up close, Charlotte grabs a mirror and takes a closer look.

The show is starting to border on cliche. ("Border?" you may ask.) What's worse is that the next couple of episodes don't seem to hold anything exciting in store. I hate to ruin the suspense for you and myself, but I had to peek. Maybe this way I can push through them. I like the romance, and when it's not there, neither am I. But I'm trying.

Of course, good issues are raised here. The best part of the episode is (I won't lie) when Carrie falls flat on her face on the runway. I say this not really because I like to see people humiliate themselves (though, don't we all just a little bit?) but because it's a moment we all know too well--that one time (or, in my case, hundreds of times) where you made a fool of yourself, and there's no covering it up. What you do in those moments builds mega character, sorry to say. They become those stories in your mind that you fall back on to prove to yourself that you're tougher than you think.

The first of these moments that I can vividly remember happened in 5th grade. My best friend at the time (who I later disowned--not really, but we did lose touch over the years) dared me to fart with her on the count of three in health class. Maybe it's because we were kind of the guy-girls--you know, the ones the guys don't date but like to ski with--but for some reason, we were under the delusion that farting was cool. Stupid me, I agreed. So, we counted. On three, she either didn't fart, or it was an awfully silent one, which left me letting a loud one rip on my own. Mortifying. That's usually the point where these kind of stories stop, but what happens after is almost more interesting. That's when a person comes face to face with how he or she deals with being mortified, and it's a good lesson to learn.

So, what did I do? I started laughing with everyone else. I'm not sure it was a conscious decision, but it was the only thing I could think of. I will always remember the look our teacher gave me, like "Oh my, should I be mad? Should I laugh...no, I can't really do that. Oh God, I don't know what to do, so I will stand here and stare at you stupidly." Luckily for my reputation, a week later on the playground one of my good friends' pants ripped open at the crotch, and that made my farting old news. I felt sorry for her, but, hey, that was her moment to deal with, and she could learn to laugh, by golly. I had.

There have been others moments, of course, and I have not always laughed. Once, during a college piano recital with all of my friends, family, teachers, and fellow students watching, I had a memory slip on a difficult piece of music. For the first twenty seconds (which felt like a lifetime), I committed the cardinal sin of performance: I kept starting over. Of course, with my heart beating a thousand and two beats per minute and my hands starting to shake, I never made it any further than the try before. Eventually (about a hundred years later), I decided it would just be better to make up stuff until I found a place I felt comfortable with and could jump start my memory. That was interesting. It sounded awful, but I never stopped. I was so checked out mentally, that I was actually having a full conversation with myself in those decades of horror. It went something like this:

Me: "Okay, holy shit. What the hell are you doing? What are you playing? That's not right! Oh my God. Oh my God! You are lost, and everyone knows it."

Me: "Fine, I'm lost. So what now? I'm just going to keep moving my fingers. I suppose I could stop and leave the stage. Yes, I could. Maybe I should. Oh fuck, everyone's so quiet. No, I have to stay! I'm playing another piece right after this. Oh fuck! I'm fucked."

Me: "Pull yourself together. You love this piece. Now play the damn thing. Just keep jumping ahead if you have to, BUT DO IT FOR GOD'S SAKE. Do it fucking now. NOW."

Me: "Fine, fine. Okay, I think I have it...yes, I have it from here! Hallelujah. Oh, this is just so messed up, but fuck it. I'm just going to play with everything I have from this point on. Fuck it. Fuck. It. I love this piece."

True life. I went on to play the rest of my program nearly flawlessly. So, you know, whatever gets you through. At the reception, people who knew the piece I had botched laughed at my great improvisational skills (some, sadly, hadn't notice I'd been playing random notes), and my professor smiled and gave me a hug. "Well, the ending was fabulous." I was traumatized for months, but I eventually made it back on the stage. Now that some time has passed since that event, even though I still get nervous performing, I think, "The worst has already happened. If it happens again, I'll survive it again." Like with a bad breakup, when you've been at the bottom, there's nowhere to go but up.

So, here's to humiliation and self discovery. May it not always be painful. But if it has to be, let the pain not last too long.

I hope you'll be back. I will.