Good grief, now I’m really nervous, for this gal I like so well knows the real me, sure, but it is the edited me. It is the me of intention. It is the me of On Purpose. It is the me that gets to backspace and rewrite and revise. Unscripted, tangible interactions don’t work like that. Terrific. I’m sure I’m going to be a giant disappointment. She’s going to wonder who the heck she’s been writing to for the last year. And she’ll wish that the face she’d matched with the blog was the turquoise image to the right and no more.
Darn it, my hair is a disaster. I’m in Utah to have it done for heaven’s sake, and it won’t be fixed before our lunch. It’s damaged from the stripping last time. And too light. This isn’t how I actually look! Never mind that my lunch date has seen photos of me on my blog. This is the real thing! And my eyebrows! They’re in desperate need of waxing and that’s not going to be handled until the day after we meet! So I couldn’t possibly meet this friend in worse shape that I’m in. I’m pallid. Currently fat. And oh, great—what should I wear?
Never mind—forget all about—the fact that she’s not pretentious and I suspect that all of the above doesn’t seem to matter to her.
In the end, I shrugged my shoulders in response to my hair and brows and color and skin and shape and wore the first thing I grabbed out of my suitcase, figuring that WYSIWYG was going to have to do, for I’ve never been adept at maintaining airs (though I can slip ‘em on like a pair of flip flops).
Well here we go, I thought, if this Rabid ends up seeing that she can’t possibly be the friend of someone so sloppy . . . Oh well, I’ll never have to see her again. I can just get on with getting over it.
But the nonchalance my Oh well was dressed in was a silly disguise, for I’ve come to value this relationship such that I’d mourn its demise. Some things just dress themselves in significance. This thing is one of those.
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