Wednesday, December 26, 2007
I feel like a used coffee table at a second rate thrift
store selling for fifty cents just so they can get rid of it sometimes. People
don't buy it as is to use it. They buy it to fix it up to their standards. Sand
it, change the legs, oil it, and varnish it. Why can't it be left alone and
cherished for every ding, scratch, and morph in the wood?
Lauren, don't do this. Lauren, don't do that. Don't act that
way in front of company! How dare you be yourself in public, don't you know
that people can hear those burps and curse words? Put on that smile and charm
and cutesy fake giggle and go blend in with the rest of them…. [If this is
being read aloud, insert awkward cough here, please.] Am I just being stubborn,
or does it seem like people are trying to mold me into what they think I should
be like? Why can't you accept me for my faults, and love me that much more
because of them? So what if I didn't feel like taking the time to wash, blow
dry, and straighten my hair today? So what if my fingernail polish is chipped?
So what if I get a little testy when I drive? So what if I'd rather sit in a
corner and read my book than mingle with people I don't know? Is the world
going to come crashing down if today I am just me? With my dirty hair, chipped
polish, road rage, loner and all. I've found people who claim to love all my
"little quirks." [Whether that refers to my stature or what, is yet
to be seen.] Crooked teeth, snorting, pants constantly falling down, sasquatch
toes…the list could go on for longer than I'm willing to share. Well that might
be damn well close to the truth. But I'm getting the sneaking suspicion that
it's a façade. You might love my trucker's mouth, but when it's aimed at you it
becomes unladylike. Surely you can think it's endearing that my nail polish is
chipped, even bordering adorable, but when we're going to a family function, it
becomes ugly. I'm not going to claim supermodel status, but for fuck's sake I'm
a size 0. So if my pants are constantly falling down and I'm constantly pulling
them up, get over it. If I flip off the old lady driving to her bridge game
because she's going 35 on highway 16, get the hell over it. If I don't feel
like telling you every little secret that runs through my mind, get over it. If
I'm horrible at videogames and would rather eat a rare bloody steak with my
bare hands than ever play them, get the fuck over it. If I smell like smoke and
it bothers you, get over it. If I laugh at something so mind numbingly childish
that I snort like a farm raised pig and almost pee my pants…Get. Over. It.
I've told everyone I meet from the beginning: This is
Lauren. She comes as is, with dents and scratches and a little beat up from the
bumps in the road on her way here, but she's sturdy and more than worth any
price you could pay. So don't try and sand me or oil me or varnish me. I come
as is. If you want the pretense of something more, go to Ikea next time.
