there, in the open.

i've not been feeling beautiful.

of late, i've not been feeling beautiful.

it has something to do with an out-of-sorts-in-my-own-skin issue.

you know the feeling, don't you? you must?

you don't? oh, lucky, lucky you.

and beauty is a funny thing--a fickle mistress, if you will. she has little to do with the knowing you're beautiful, and almost everything to do with feeling you are.

because all the evidence in the world could stockpile against you: men staring on the train, lovely guys in your own life who pull you close, push your hair behind your ear.

and objectively you understand. that others perceive you as such. as beautiful. and you're grateful for that. really. you know how lucky you are. but dammit, you just don't feel it. so there exists a discord, a disharmony.

and such is the disharmony that neither ryan gosling or portugal. the man's john gourley (ma {that's "my" with a funny accent} soup du jour) could walk right up, take you in their arms, whisper into your ear that they've never before scooped up a stranger, but they saw you and were overcome.

and it wouldn't make a lick of difference. not a lick.

(okay, well, maybe a lick. i mean, hello. ).

but you know what i mean, don't you? you gain three pounds and suddenly you're bigger than you've ever been (lie! but that's how it feels). and those three pounds signal dull skin and hair in need of a trim and you do all the right things and you take long baths to calm yourself, but you wake morning after morning (for a month, or some brief, but seemingly interminable amount of time) and you think, still? because you know, even before climbing out of bed, you know that you're not yet yourself again. you're you at your worst (lie! lie! but such is the pull of the mind).

last wednesday, was it wednesday? oh heck, it doesn't matter and if it does, well then i'm starting to tell stories like my father and that's the beginning of the end...okay. so. sometime last week i went out with my girlfriend, ashlea, after work. she was meeting up with her lovely boyfriend john and his friends. and i wasn't feeling beautiful and i wasn't dressed appropriately, but heck. that's life. and i know that often to come out of it, you have to head into it, whatever it is. so i waited for ashlea outside the C train at 50th street. i was speaking on the phone when another man approached the station, on his phone, and lingered there for a moment before heading down. 

and now, when i say this man rivaled the ryan gosling, john gourley level of ability-to-raise-my-blood-pressure, you'll have to believe me. his hair was a bit too long, blonde, and curling at the edges. he was like tom brady, but not so pretty. a new york hipster-grunge-tom-brady. oh, that doesn't sound good? oh no. believe me when i say it was. it was. good. 

so there we were, both on our phones, outside of the station. both poised to head downtown. and i gave him the eye. kind of. (usually when i think i've given a guy the eye, they don't get it). but i gave him my-version-of-the-eye and he looked for a minute and then continued on. and i felt really good about it. about the manner and length of his look's reciprocity. 

so as he moved to the steps to head into the mouth of the subway, i turned to give myself a metaphorical pat on the back, and happened to look down.

at my bra.

my exposed bra.

my oh-your-top-button-came-undone-so-your-bra-is-out bra. 

hmph. 

well. that's life. 

and it's worth a good laugh.

and turns out, nothing makes me feel so beautiful as a good laugh, especially when it's at myself. 

(photo credits unknown.

if you do know, pass the info my way.

they are not mine, do not belong to me.)