Confidence Lost

 

I was a haggard mess on Sunday. I had been pruning and planting flowers and was covered in more dirt than this body is accustomed to. I had plans to shower before Deal’s soccer game when a neighbor popped over to tell us that his water was brown. Then I saw the city utility truck parked in front of my house. So much for my showering plan.

And it was time to go.

I was wearing a light blue running skirt and an old college T-shirt that would bare my midriff if I had reason to lift my arms over my head. I didn’t match, the bright orange letters of my alma mater garish next to the springtime hue of my skirt. I also made the mistake of gardening in a white shirt. Rookie mistake. Truth be told, what I do is not really considered “gardening.” There is nothing bucolic and relaxing about my method of haphazardly digging in red clay wincing at the sight of each worm worried that it’s really a snake and hurriedly plopping seedlings into the ground. In any case, I was digging in dirt and mulch, and my white shirt was tattered in the sleeves and streaked in brown bits of earth and green flecks of mowed grass.

But off I went to Deal’s soccer game.

I wore big sunglasses and looked like a Bollywood star in full make up for the sequel to Slumdog Millionaire. After the game I had to run a couple errands. Still no shower. Bird came with me, and I told him that a woman must have a lot of confidence to go out and face the world in the shape I was in. He did do a little eyebrow raise and peered at me head to toe wondering aloud if I had ever been so dirty. I refrained from catching a glimpse of myself in store windows so I had not truly digested the state I was in. But still, I was feeling pretty good about myself, patting myself on the back for venturing out without worries or fears of being mascara-less. My bubble was plenty full of air.

POP.

There she was.

In the aisle right next to me when I was showing Bird the finer points differentiating shallots from pearl onions.

Her back was taut with muscles, and her tush tight but round in those Lululemon yoga pants. I swear, their slogan should be “Lululemon does a booty good.” Her abs were flat with no signs of sucking in her stomach (I know this because she was smiling and having a conversation quite easily without turning the slightest shade of periwinkle.). Her long auburn tresses were in full natural curl with summer highlights already streaked in. Her hair looked like it belongs on the label of salon priced conditioner. She was makeup-less yet flawless. Her workout clothes were designer duds, and her gray pebble leather satchel was supple with handsome silver hardware, tasteful, not tacky. Her toes were pedicured in a summery shade of coral, and her lips seemed to be naturally glossed. She was casual, fit, neighborly, and had model perfect posture. Shoulders back, head held high, neck elongated, chest out. And did I mention the flat, tight abs?

I was slovenly. My shoulders drooped. I dragged my feet. In an instant, my confidence balloon deflated, leaving the rubber in the same wrinkled state as my brow.

Despite the cloud of confidence I sashayed in on, one glimpse of a beautiful woman whose image was one I could never match knocked me down with a blow I could never prepare for. I gave her that power and I’m not proud.