(This one is for you - my New Single Friends. Those two guys you've both been lusting after are all kinds of c*cksuckers.)
There's something about rejection that affects a girl's self-esteem. Particularly when you've been rejected by a middle-aged dop-artist, the circumference of whose stomach is larger than my own once-pregnant belly. We start to feel worthless, ugly, overweight. As though we are not pretty enough to deserve love in any form.
It's all bullshit, of course. But we really (I'm convinced of it) actually see ourselves, when we deign to look at ourselves in the mirror, as much larger, much uglier creatures who, because of their physical nature, should never set foot out of the house without a paper bag over their heads. (I have actually worn a balaclaver on one occasion this summer. In Durban!)
I've been feeling a lot like this lately. I've taken to wearing loads of black, and litres of make-up because, well, I just haven't felt that good about myself. I know The Daughter loves me. And I know that there are loads of other people who actually value my company and enjoy spending their free time with me. But I've felt all kinds of guff.
(To be entirely honest, nothing makes a girl feel as good about herself as having someone whom she adores being hopelessly in love with her. She glows - well, The Pant does anyway. And it's not that I've been so down that I've avoided outtings. Really. I just haven't felt my super rad self.)
And so, on Friday afternoon as part of my Lent, I delivered myself to the weigh-in lady at Curves. (On the subject, I have to tell you that the reason I am going to Curves and not some other gym, is the fact that it works. Quicker than a very quick thing. And, sure, I'll miss much pervature opportunity. But it only takes 30 minutes which will allow me more time to spend on my favourite hobbie of all time - lying down.) I had packed a bag, ready for my First Work Out (which, by the way, they actually abbreviate to FWO). But when I reached the gym, the lady (old, skinny and wrinkly - not the best advertisement) spent her time rather poking and prodding and measuring and writing down and comparing my measurements. And I got the shock of my life. I'd, as I've said, been feeling a whole bunch of siff. And so when she told me that my body fitted into the "Superior" category, I nearly open-mouth kissed her. Really. I think she may be the hottest gym instructor I've ever had.
She then set up goals for me - a total of 25.8 cm to lose. And as she furiously began writing down these numbers, I smiled a little. I smiled because, actually, I'm a bit of alright.
And so when I was out on Friday night, I felt all kinds of confident. And it's confidence that pays off. If I remember correctly (which I'm sure I do), I had the offerings of some very nubile men. Sure, I'm not looking for any nubile man right now (Down With Love for at least 2 more months) - but the truth is, they were all over me like wet spaghetti. And no one even paid them. At least I don't think so. Single Girls, do you have anything you want to share with me.
I'm going to gym today, because I like feeling kiff. And because I'm better than that lack of self-esteem I felt. Whether we are overweight or not, we are all kinds of alright. Whether those middle-aged tubby beer-swigging men think so or not. I am. We all are.
And I've got the missed calls to prove it.