I have the sex appeal of toast. Dry, brittle toast that's been left on the plate because it just didn't look appealing anymore. After coming to such a realization my natural human instinct is to correct this dismal revelation, which usually results in putting on different clothes, taking a soothing bath, hair makeup, etc. After all that I look in the mirror and realize that now not only do I have the sex appeal of toast, but toast with smeared, congealed jelly that no one except the dog could possibly want.
Fine then, curtains on that tactic head for the comfort food. However here another pest awaits, the dreaded 'fat feeling.'� Eating comfort food will make me feel better until I realize that sooner or later that comfort food will be staring back at me in the mirror in the shape of my quadrupled thighs. Slamming of the cupboard door and a march to flop down on the couch are in order. All right self I say furiously and with conviction, time to have a serious heart to heart! Pull yourself out of this ridiculous slump and face the facts!
Brutally honest voice number one: You are not pretty. No one wants you. You are boring and insufferable, and a mute tells jokes better than you do.
I believe at this point all bodily efforts are focused towards keeping tears at bay.
Trying-to-be-calming-voice-says: none of that is really true.
Well . . . . . but if it is then is it my fault or does everyone else just ignore me but then isn't it my fault for letting everyone else ignore me? (trying-to-be-calming-voice-fails-miserably) I don't know!!!!! Beating of fists into pillow, tears freely flowing I say (out loud because that's good for a personal catharsis or so I've read) 'It's not true, and if it is, DAMN THEM ALL ANYWAY! I LIKE ME THE WAY I AM!!!'�
Moment of silence ' did it work? Did it really work?
Enter brutal mean voice again: Of course it didn't work you ninny, stuff like that only works on kids and forty year olds in Florida. You know what the problem is, it's you and you just don't want to face it.
Nice voice, always my champion in times of need: Is not.
Meanie voice: Is to.
Nice voice: Is not you big bully. Not everything is my fault, and some other people need to own up to the fact that it's their own stupid fault that makes me feel this way.
Meanie: How do they know it's their fault if all you do is sit in your boring old house on your boring old couch and feel sorry for yourself and don't tell anyone how you feel? HA! Get yourself out of that!
Nicey: ppptthhhbbbbtthh.
Meanie: Real mature.
Enter calm rational voice that I have hitherto been ignoring: Someones knocking on your door, why don't go you answer it?
So I jump off the couch wiping my tear stained cheeks and I hope: Could it be my friends surprising me with a lunch or a movie and cake? Is it the boyfriend coming to tell me that I am beautiful and he's a shmuck for not noticing this morning? Is it Ed McMan with a million dollars?
My hand is on the doorknob and it occurs to me: Could be the IRS, maybe the CIA and I have to go into the witness protection program, murders, aliens . . .
Get a grip.
Just the postman, who smiles and tips his hat.
Not the most thrilling surprise ever devised. Just a package from mom, with a gooshy letter and some spices she thinks I need, and oh ho! What's this! Sappy movie lodged in the bottom about love and loss and a bad hair day. Hurrah!!
Calm voice: Enjoy your bad day. Yes you're entitled, can't be sane all the time.
Is it all my fault? Am I too critical, am I too worried? Do I try so hard to find the truth I make it up and don't realize it?
Calm voice: Put in the movie and make popcorn, I'm hungry.
Thanks for the help.
Calm voice: Who says you need help?
Dormant Meanie voice: Everybody.
Calm voice: Ignore that. You don't need help. You need to get a bad day out of your system. So put in the movie and relax and don't think. It will get better.
How do you know?
Well, says calm voice, We have been having this conversation since you were thirteen.
Hmm.
Nice Voice: Everybody likes popcorn.
So I have the sex appeal of popcorn now?
Nice Voice: Well . . . why not?
Calm voice: Because technically that means you are about to eat yourself.
Shh. Movies starting. I like the idea of being popcorn. Maybe tomorrow I'll be something fantastic, like a Kumquat or a leek.
Nice voice: leeks are thin and healthy.
Mean voice (now slightly less mean) But Chocolate cake is sexy and to die for.
I actually have the mental faculties left to smile, and decide that tomorrow I'll wake up and for some mystic reason I'll think I look good and I'll get a lot accomplished and because I'll be all energetic I'll be able to tell people what I feel and we'll all have good long talks and the impossible will become possible!
Then again I could wake up with the flu.
Either way, this is how life's little battles are won.
And anyone with a mind as bizzare as mine certainly would not have the sex appeal of a piece of toast.

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