Friday night the Jeepster took me to dinner to celebrate the fairly good chance that he will be offered a plum new job. We went to my favorite local restaurant, Tapas Downtown, and it was pleasantly crowded. While we waited at the bar for a table a casual friend, whom I hadn't seen in the year or so since I quit working, came over to hug me and tell me how terrific I look and how I would definitely find a great job soon because, essentially, I'm too good to be true.
There is nothing like a compliment, or even better a thick layer of compliments, to bolster one's flagging self-confidence. Especially praise from an attractive, charming and very successful woman; why would I argue with that?
So when the hostess came to fetch us I was feeling buoyant and adorable and naturally she seated us a scant twenty inches from a man with whom I had a serious yearlong relationship, which he terminated because I was, as I recall, no fun. Hold the phone, didn't a very reliable source just tell me I was fabulous?
However, this was a celebration of sorts and I have at least a modicum of class, so I kept my mouth closed and my eyes averted while Dr Fun liplocked with his date, seated a mere twelve inches to my right. I am not making that up. They were kissing across the table. They were making the yummy sound. They probably got sauce on their shirts. I imagined spilling a diet Pepsi into his lap but my mother raised me better than that. Also I am cuter than Fun Date. And I would never make out in a restaurant.
I like to believe I know better but I suddenly I felt faded and shabby and acutely not fun. Of course I need to listen to actual people who prop me up and not the inner voices who chide me for growing out my gray hair; for gaining ten pounds; for failing at my job after eight years of success. But without a doubt, it's a journey with no clear destination in sight.
Seriously though: the yummy sound? I give up.