Adequacy

This is how I look without makeup
And with no bra my ninnys sag down low
My hair ain’t never hung down to my shoulders
And it might not grow…shit, ya never know…
But I’m cleva, when I bust a rhyme
She's cleva, always on your mind
I'm cleva, and I really wanna grow
But why come, I’m the last to know?
--Erykah Badu

I really like me. There are things about me that give me cause to smile at myself. For example: I rarely wear makeup because I have fairly nice skin, despite the occasional nervous bumps; the 20 pounds that were donated by child-bearing, for the most part, were distributed to places where they look quite nice, and although I often describe myself as being “on the wrong side of thick,” I get more than my share of male attention; and, thanks to three years of braces, I have a beautiful, very contagious smile.

So all in all, I really am a doll.

However…

There are times when I come across a person who, for whatever reason, makes me feel as if my conditional cuteness is not quite good enough—like the quirky things about me, my idiosyncrasies, my uniquenesses, suddenly don’t seem so attractive.

A good example:
I was at Wal-Mart a few months back, you know, one of those SuperCenters that has the grocery store, pharmacy, dental practice and elementary school in it. It was a Saturday morning, about 7 AM, if that late in the day. I was making a quick run for some cleaning supplies and had planned to be in and out in a matter of minutes, so I didn’t bother too much with “my look.” (Besides, I was heading home to clean toilets which is hardly worth getting glamorous for) At any rate, I had just completed my transaction at the self-checkout lane, gathered my change and receipt, when this stylist at the facility’s Hair Design Studio, pushed past 3 people and stepped on a child’s foot just to get to me before I exited the store—to hand me a flyer. She made a big presentation, slightly embarrassing me, imploring that I take advantage of the coupon offer on the front, while she tilted her head to the side, looking at me not in the eye, but in my roots, with perplexion, as if to say… "Chile, what nested in your head last night, and when is it planning to fly away?…” LOL. In that instant, I felt the need to justify my appearance with a ‘see-what-had-happened-was’ story. Instead, I smiled, accepted the flyer and headed to my car wishing I had worn a hat.

Another time my sister and I were watching What Not To Wear when she says…
“Hey, I should refer you to that show so you can get a new wardrobe…”
I was thinking, “Yes! I could use a $5,000 New York shopping spree,” already planning the tacky outfit combinations I would have to create to get me consideration on the show, when my sister continued by saying…
“…because those pants you’re wearing are UG-LY!”
She then proceeds to breakdown my entire wardrobe piece by piece until the only article of clothing approved by her standards was a shirt she got me for Christmas.
Damn, Shelly, don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think. Sheesh!

And then there was yesterday…

Now before I proceed, please understand that I’m not the type who goes crazy over meeting a celebrity. Don’t get me wrong—I sometimes get a case of nerves. Like when I met Nikki Giovanni…she sat down beside me and it took me about 5 minutes before I got the nerve to say hello (I just smiled at her with this potential-stalker look in my eyes). But then the conversation became very easy and I asked her about her classes and her works and it was all-good. I met 112 at a basketball game when I was in high school and despite the urge, I kept my panties to myself, walked by casually saying only, “it was nice meeting you,” instead of “Please sing to me until I melt!”

Okay, so maybe I do go A LITTLE crazy---but usually it’s only in my head.

That is until yesterday.

I met someone who I’ve been dying to meet quite possibly all of my life. I had only seen pictures before then, but in real life he was one hundred times more gorgeous. Like drop-dead, throw-your-panties-on-stage, melt-at-the-sight-of-you gorgeous. And he was perfect. So perfect, that it made me feel totally not worthy of the honor. But I played it cool, though…for about 5 minutes! Within an hour, I had forgotten where I lived, the basics of the English language, how to cook (and I can throw DOWN!) and what it meant to “be cool.” I was dropping shit, …knocking shit over,…tripping over shit,…chocking on shit,…ROTFLMAO! (you had to be there) I was a mess. A gaddamn mess.

After the morning monstrosity that was I was put to rest, I had time to reflect on my behavior. At first I wanted to just call and apologize for EVERYTHING!, because I was certain that the reason I so incredibly embarrassed myself was that I had a big case of the jitters. And then reality set in and I had to be honest with myself and admit…
“No honey…that was the real you…in all your shining glory.”
And I realized that by apologizing I would have to ask forgiveness for being myself. And that ain’t ever gonna happen. Trust. The fact that I am a klutz, and a geek, and a priss, is what makes me me. And I like me.

So while it would have been nice if I could have used that Wal-Mart coupon for a deep conditioner and a trim on Friday night, and if Clinton and Stacy could have rescued me from wardrobe purgatory, and if my manners were that of a princess and my allure that of a goddess—what I really wish is that I had not been so embarrassed or felt so insecure about not being perfect. I wish I had laughed at myself out loud (and I wish he hadn’t muffled so many chuckles because his laugh and smile were both amazing).

And I wish that all my nuttiness not be held against me.