Yesterday, I was labeled an imperfect pretender. I was at the hair dresser when a cosmetician approached me and started talking about her products.
“Please call me when you are ready to get your next facial,” she said. “I have this great foundation that will cover all those little imperfections we both know you hate.”
I raised an eyebrow and wondered if that pitch had ever won the woman any costumers. “Thanks very much, but I don’t like facials.” I almost told her that I like all my little imperfections because they make me, and I kind of ADORE me. But I figured short and sweat would do better, so I simply said “and I don’t wear cover up make-up.”
“Foundation is not make-up honey.” She got really closed to me and whispered in my ear. “Don’t feel bad, sister. We all hate those tiny things that make us look less than perfect; trust me.”
“I don’t think I’m imperfect,” I said rather loudly. “I like my beauty marks, my hereditary moles and everything else on my face. I might not worship my oily skin or the pimples that sneak up on me every now and then, but I don’t mind dealing with them when I have to. I like myself; trust me.” I almost left it there, but you know your witchy woman. “I think it’s horrible that you try to make people feel bad about themselves just so you can sell your stuff. It won’t work with me. I like me and your seller’s desperation won’t change that.” I looked away from her and was surprised by the intense silence, which is a rare occurrence in a busy Dominican hair salon.
“A pretender,” I heard her say to no one in particular, “gotta love them.”
Her sarcasm annoyed the crap out of me, to the point that I nearly walked up to her and told her some rather unfriendly words, but I didn’t. I just sat on my chair and plotted the bloodiest of deaths for a villain in one of my next stories, who coincidently enough would be a cosmetician.
I imagined a harpy feasting on the face of an annoying woman who wore perfect make-up. The woman tries to scream her pain, but the mythical beast rips out her tongue before she can utter a word. Then the cosmetician chokes on her own thick meaty blood and dies twitching on a dirty floor. Her soul leaves the carcass that used to be her body and she stares at the bloody mess, which used to be her, wondering if her end would have been different had she not gone around trying to abuse people’s self-esteem just to make a buck.
The fictitious killing relaxed me, so I was smiling like the happy Witch I am. Yes, my Wicked Darlings, my therapy is a bit unorthodox (or maybe not), but it works for me. When someone or something pisses me off I deal with it by writing, running or dancing until my mind returns to its natural blissful state. I’ve been criticized for that. Some have said that I just suppress my feelings, while others try being more generous and have suggested that I just lie to myself (fine, so that is not so generous). I disagree with both opinions. I’m just lucky, intelligent, and um… modest, I know *grins wickedly*.
I consider myself lucky because I can get rid of anger through visualization and that’s such a blessing. I’m intelligent because I’m capable of rationalizing that worrying about the things I can’t change is an absolute waste of time, so why do it? I thought that it was a common defense mechanism, but social interaction had taught me otherwise. And I’m modest because I’m perfect, but you already knew that (Stop laughing! That’s not polite).
Don’t get me wrong, I would walk to the moon and back, with a baby elephant on my shoulders and fire ants in my armpits, if I knew the sacrifice would change the lives of good people for the better. But when life provides me with no options, or I just fail to see them, I visualize my way into contentment or exercise until I’m too beat to feel upset about anything but my body aches. When both techniques fail to render the desired results, I light a candle and hope.
How do you deal with the things you can’t change?