FIGHT the FRUMP

It’s lunchtime and I’ve just remembered what day it is.  Today I’m supposed to do lunch with one of my best friends – a half-posh-whole-trendy lunch spot with perhaps a glass of wine and a roll of sushi, lots of fun and fashionable people.  I look down and take it all in:

  1. Cracked brown toe-nail polish (it was more of a taupe three weeks ago… no? Not good enough?),
  2. Clashing black patent flat sandals,
  3. New York & Co. gray slacks that would look great if they weren’t paired with…
  4. Red company polo shirt a shade faded and clashing more than the shoes with the cracked brown polish,
  5. No belt, and
  6. Heels that could grate cheese.

I don’t need to look up to remember that

  1. I have no makeup on,
  2. Eyebrows could use some painful tweezer time, and
  3. Curly mop hasn’t seen a blowdryer in months.

I’ve forgotten to Fight the Frump.

No, I’m not a Kardashian-following fashionista and have no desire to join the Plastic Pin-head Population.  But there are miles and miles of good real estate between Bimbo and Hobo.  And today I’m looking at a lunch that belongs on one side and looking like a bag lady that belongs on the other.  (Isn’t it amazing how three perfectly good items of clothing can go so badly wrong together?)

It doesn’t feel good, does it ladies?  Don’t pretend you don’t know – every one of us has done this.

Time for a kick up my own bum to get me out of the Raiments of Droll.  Here is how I plan to do it.

  1. Go for a run after work and open the pores.  Perhaps scare a few fat cells off at the same time.
  2. Do my own nails, rub my own heels, shave whatever needs disappearing and and buff back in some self-respect.
  3. Choose tonight, the night before tomorrow so I have no rushing excuses, something much more sassy from the professional side of the closet.
  4. Punish self by setting alarm 1/2 hour earlier to make time for makeup.
  5. Sexy underwear.
  6. Stilletos.
  7. The jewellry and perfume I usually save for special occasions.

Fighting like a champ.

Six Words That Built A Bridge

I am not in the business of holding grudges.  Probably because I’m not very good at it.  When it stops hurting I stop remembering it.  Mind you, some hurt stays fresh for a long time with no nurturing and wallowing.  Some earth-shattering hurts hurt forever.  I have yet to master the skill of how to forgive while I still hurt.  But once the hurt is gone I forget and it is over for me.  In the heat of the moment I explode like a firework.  But ask me two years later and I will have forgotten what the whole show was about.

Because I forget the hurt I sometimes forget the lesson and I will be open to a repeat-hurt later in life.  Which is why I don’t hold grudges, I burn bridges.

Now every psychologist in the world will say this is unhealthy.  I am by no means going to attempt to justify myself.  This is simply a statement of fact.  An explanation of what is.  I burn bridges and trust the decision of the self of my past rather than remind myself – the current self – of the hurt and re-live it all over again.

But things are changing…

I have a cousin, someone dear to me but very different from me in all but two respects.  Our anger is explosive and our bridges go up in flames.  Our differences have given rise to hurts and fights and misunderstandings and flames for years.  We have been bridgeless now going two years.  Family hurts are often the hardest to heal.

Yet she is mine and I am hers.  I have not chosen her – she was chosen for me.  The hot latin DNA that makes us who we are to each other is the exact same code that makes us flash like lightning.  The storm was magnificent.  No bridge survived.

Yesterday I sent her a message.  “Peace?”

She was not long at all to reply.  “…yea…life is too short…”

And with those six words a bridge was built.

© Brent Mclennon