I haven't done a confession in a couple of weeks so let's get to it.
The question of the day is:
What do you care about more than you should?
Miss America answer:
I care so much about people that all suffering breaks my heart and makes it difficult to focus on my other incredible accomplishments. I wish I could care a little less, but I just can't.
I care way more I should. And I know it. I know better.
I obsess over every little accessory in my home, wondering if it's balanced, if it projects the right tone, if I'm setting the right ambiance and a bunch of other kitschy little words that mean I just want it to look good.
And then there is the pride and vanity of worrying about how I look. Whether I project the right tone. So long as you are clean and groomed, it shouldn't matter, right?
Then why does it?
Why does it matter that I find the right drape of shirt to hide my love handles or the right hairdo to hide my thin spots or the right necklace to pull attention away from areas I hate to a safe spot like my neck. (Hard for a neck to go too wrong on a thirty year old)
I'm pretty sure that everyone knows I have love handles or thin spots or problem areas. I'm pretty sure this is not coming as a shock to anyone. Do I really think Naughty Monkey four inch heels are going to hide it?
I really don't.
But I want to give people something pretty to look at. So I make sure the necklace is beautiful or the throw pillow is perfection.
And none of it matters.
The second I see the pictures of people standing next to the rubble that was their living room or a picture of my friend battling cancer rejoicing that her head is starting to sprout a fine fuzz, I know it doesn't matter.
So why is it, ladies, that when someone tells us we look pretty it sticks with us so long or makes us feel so good?
I tell the Artist that I would trade all his compliments about my mothering, cleaning, cooking, life talents and virtues for an occasional, "You're pretty."
I think so.
You have no idea.