Sometimes vanity is the only thing keeping me going

I am seriously lacking in pride. However, for better or worse, I have an abundance of vanity. Vanity dictates a LOT of my behavior, and is frequently the reason I keep a lid on my crazy. I used to smugly believe that I wasn’t one of those psycho girls that causes public scenes. False. I definitely have a strong dose of psycho in me. I just refuse to expose myself to others’ contempt, ridicule and judgment. I have the appearance of (mostly) keeping my shit together. But on the inside? Its a hot mess.


Because I am a masochist, I did a two hour class of kizomba (sexy dancing) last night as part my quest to integrate my sexual/sensual side into my identity. I hated it. It didn’t help that Beaut was there (yes, yes, we still talk – I don’t even want to discuss how much of an idiot I am. I can’t exactly blame him for contributing to my depressive symptoms when I continue to hang out with him, now can I?) and a) he never used to call me sexy/beautiful and b) he gets the giggles when he sees my white-girl-trying-to-dance moves. He claims he was teasing me – that is what friends do, yeah? I wanted to punch him in the mouth, because FUCK OFF, he knows how hard this is for me, so he can take his giggles and jump out of a window with them. Being surrounded by all these girls, all shapes and sizes, moving their hips seductively, while I felt about as sensual as a tree trunk, did not help my mood. Seeing all those girls drape themselves over Beaut, to his obvious enjoyment? I wanted to take their faces and bash them into the floor while he watched, and then give him a little sweet peck on the cheek.

Did I make a scene? No – I smiled charmingly at all my dance partners and concentrated on learning the steps. Did I exhibit any violent tendencies? No, of course not. I fought my brain for two hours, happily said goodbye to all my new dance friends, went home, gave myself a high-five for trying to work through my insecurities, and then cried myself to sleep.

I told myself last night that I’d never do kizomba again. Now, I think instead I will continue to do kizomba, until such a point as I master being sexy, as a weapon, and then I will dance with Beaut, give him a boner in class, and point and laugh. Loudly. Because that is what friends do, yeah? It’s just gentle teasing.

ANYHOW.

This morning, I woke up feeling hungover from these miserable insecurities of being an undesirable female blob. I didn’t want to go to work. Instead, I put on a skirt that my mother bought for me when I was 16 (16 years ago!!!), and that still fits. How many women in their thirties can say the same thing about their wardrobe? That’s right. I might be as sensual as a tree trunk, but my body is pretty damn good – good enough that I know MANY girls and women wouldn’t mind ONE BIT looking like me. That’s the only thing stopping me from hysterics right now. I might despise myself, but my vanity is soothed by the knowledge that others admire/envy me. Because I am clearly a kind, generous, soul. WHATEVER. At least I am at work.

#survivingmeltdownsoneskirtatatime

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