tutu irrational

i am irrational. i know this. i wear it like a 30 year old might a big pink tutu - with a a sense of humor, a smidgen of embarassment, and a thimbleful of pride. it keeps me young, scares off the easily scare-able (who needs 'em?!), and makes my butt look smaller.

tee hee.

just when i think i might be growing up, ready to shed my irrational pink-tulle nature and slip into something practical like gray flannel, something like this happens:

he was a flyer guy. you know, the ones that stand on the street corners and shove flyers into your hand? if you live in a big city, you know what i mean.

when i first moved to new york, i politely took them when they were offered to me. you just do that when you're in the winn-dixie parking lot of a small south georgia town because it's usually some sweet young girl scout advertising cookie sales (don't want to miss that!) or a coupon for 2 for 1 entrance into the 4-H fair. here? not so much. after 2 or 3 years of coming home with bags of technicolor flyers advertising counterfeit VERSACHI (sic) suits and HOW TO LOSE 40 POUNDS IN 2 DAYS, i finally learned that the trick is to keep your eyes forward. do not even look him in the eye. pretend, and this is sad, that HE DOES NOT EXIST.

anyhoo...i'm walking down the street, heading back to work after a little lunchtime jaunt to sephora (i leave emptyhanded. i cannot afford $25 blush, i don't care how bonny it makes me look), when he tries to shove a flyer from a local pizza joint into my hand. i ignore him. when i don't take the flyer, he counters with, "hey lady, ya gotta eat!" i giggle. c'mon, that was clever! they are usually not clever, just rude. the giggle only encourages him and he says, "and you eat well, don't you?"

WHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?

ARE YOU SAYING I'M FAT?!?!

my adrenaline kicked in, i beat him to a pulp with my jansport backpack, tossed his flyers into the air, tap-danced on his face, then shuffled away, as his flyers fluttered down upon Times Square like a flurry of white and blue pigeons.

no, not really. i didn't have my tap shoes with me.

seriously though, that's what went through my mind:

"oh my god, is he saying i'm fat?"

nutso.

wackjob.

one squirt of cream short of a twinkie.

first of all, no, that's not what he said. secondly, if he had...WHO CARES?! he is Flyer Man. (not to belittle Flyer Man. he holds a valuable place in this world. many people will find pizza-nirvana at the corner deli because of him, but to attach my self-worth to a comment like that is, well, irrational.)

i find i do crap like this on the good days. days when i (gasp!) actually like myself. days when i'm happy with the way my body moves through the breeze. days when the redwood tree in our backyard provides just enough shade to keep me cool and just enough sunlight to keep me warm. when the coffee is just right. the when the run is easy. when the jeans fit just fine. when i look in the mirror and say to the chick in the mirror, "hey, not bad!"

so, why do i do this to myself?

because, silly girl, after all these years of living with it, dysfunction feels comfortable, and function feels...well...funky. it's like dating "the nice guy" after dating "the bad boys" for years. going bra-less after strapping your bodacious bellas into a braziere since you were 11. it just feels weeeeiiiiirrrrrd.

i'm a talented girl. i can take a compliment, perform an impressive feat of mental origami, and tada! it's not a compliment, but a negative comment on my value in this world as a human bean. it's quite remarkable really. i'm working on learning to accept them. say, "thank you" graciously like my mother taught me. roll out the welcome mat and make them tea. plant them in the soil of my soul and watch 'em grow into gardens of self-looooove. i even started a compliment journal to record them in, but the trick is...ya gotta read 'em. ya gotta say 'em out loud. ya gotta sing 'em. ya gotta emblazon them across t-shirts in rhinestones. ya gotta believe 'em. ya gotta live 'em. cuz when you live 'em it won't matter what Flyer Man says, or your dad says, or your ex-boyfriend says, or the girl at the make-up counter says b/c what's true is you, sistah.

but it does take practice. and practice does not make perfect, it just makes it...better.

so, here's my old college try:

what's true is i was having a great day and what Flyer Man probably meant was, "wow, there's a healthy, strong woman who does yoga. she's got rosy cheeks and a spring in her step. she must take good care of herself."

gosh, i feel bad about the beating.

tomorrow, i think i'll have pizza for lunch. i know this great place on the corner...