In my mind, I am taller.
My mental pictures owe a lot to Photoshop, apparently. I’m svelte, sophisticated and statuesque inside. The fact that no one in the history of time has ever thought the word “statuesque” in relation to someone like me is probably not shocking to those of you on the outside. To me, I’m left with confusion. Whenever I picture myself in hard-nosed negotiations, or accidentally coming upon an ex, I’m also much, much taller. I’m sure this isn’t unusual. I probably just associate tall people with authority, and when I want to seem authoritative, I picture myself as taller. I’m just trying to figure out why I’m so surprised to find out that I’m still 5’3″. No seriously, at least once a week I have a “that can’t be right” moment.
It doesn’t stop there. You should see me shop. I shop like a tall person. Imagine my consternation after buying the dress I saw on the six foot model (sporting a size zero no doubt) when my picture and her picture don’t vaguely resemble one another. Maybe it’s just because she had red hair?
In my mirror, I am fatter.
My mirror and I don’t understand each other. It’s not just that I see every flaw. It’s that the flaws seem to come as a shock to me from time to time. For instance, just now I walked past the mirrored hall closet (devilish invention) and exclaimed, “Holy Hell!” Not because I was having a religious vision, but because I just noticed exactly how lumpy I looked and that I had actually gone out wearing these clothes.
In my fantasies, I am desired.
I just heard a collective “Duh” from you people. I don’t mean those kinds of fantasies. I mean the kind of fantasies that involve people offering me jobs because they happened upon my blog, heard good things about me from someone respected, or just met me but were completely charmed. And… perhaps… in moments of weakness, I might want Clooney to approach me and say something along the lines of, “I’ve been trying to meet you for years, and speaking to you now has surpassed all of my wildest dreams.” But that’s really only when I’ve run out of chocolate. And Tuesdays.
In my real life, I have never pulled off jaunty.
As a teenager I envied Laura Holt and her seemingly endless supply of jaunty chapeaux. Naturally, I too wanted to exude the confidence that said, “That’s right—my hat is jaunty. Not only that, but I’m rockin’ this inimitable style that tells the world I am a force to be reckoned with.” Instead, dear friends, I envy you your “hatness” and continue to fall far short of perky.
In my delusions, I never have to get a 9 to 5 job again.