Insecurities I
There's this urge to tell him how I feel. I want to break out and say "I could love you if you could give me the chance."
Then I think rationally and say, 'well, but he doesn't want to give me the chance,' or 'it's the wrong type of relationship-there's no way he'd be interested.' The fighting in my mind makes me feel like I'm fifteen again.
Fifteen with braces, I think, and brown hair that I hate. I had too much of it, and it was too unruly. I didn't know how to take care of it then.
But I didn't need to know how to take care of it. Nobody would have gone out with me, even if I had asked. I was overweight, and I had pimples. I was gawky and awkward. I was everything he wouldn't have been.
He would have been cool-self assured and ready to take on the world. He's not changed at all.
I want to make the move, and tell him that I love when he buys those giant bouquets of pink roses, and he sets them on the table in the family room. I want to tell him that it feels like those are just for me, and how special I feel that he knows my favorite flowers.
The roses are probably just something that he saw and liked, or maybe he's buying them to cheer Sam up, because she always smiles when she passes them. Maybe they're her favorite too.
I've not changed. Twenty-something years and I still feel like that fifteen year old, living with her beautiful mother, and wanting to fit in. I had a crush then too, and he was a pretty amazing guy too.
But the crush then was a fantasy man. He was tall and had dark hair and eyes. He had an accent (although, I confess, it was British, not Italian) and he was brilliant in conversation. He was my creation of a Dick Clark/Frankie Avalon, with a few added perks. My guy loved me for me, despite everything. They wouldn't have. Dick and Frankie had beautiful women around them, and they would have stuck to their beach blanket babes.
Would Tony?
What would have happened if he knew me in those wretchedly awkward teen years?
But then I snap out of my reverie, and realize, he doesn't like me now that I have grown into my limbs, and lost all the weight. Now that I have discovered peroxide, and pimple cream. I learned how to pluck and I learned how to wear a dress.
But he wouldn't be interested in me. He's got beautiful, buxom women throwing themselves at him, and then there's me.
Why do I have to feel like I'm fifteen again?
There's this urge to tell him how I feel. I want to break out and say "I could love you if you could give me the chance."
Then I think rationally and say, 'well, but he doesn't want to give me the chance,' or 'it's the wrong type of relationship-there's no way he'd be interested.' The fighting in my mind makes me feel like I'm fifteen again.
Fifteen with braces, I think, and brown hair that I hate. I had too much of it, and it was too unruly. I didn't know how to take care of it then.
But I didn't need to know how to take care of it. Nobody would have gone out with me, even if I had asked. I was overweight, and I had pimples. I was gawky and awkward. I was everything he wouldn't have been.
He would have been cool-self assured and ready to take on the world. He's not changed at all.
I want to make the move, and tell him that I love when he buys those giant bouquets of pink roses, and he sets them on the table in the family room. I want to tell him that it feels like those are just for me, and how special I feel that he knows my favorite flowers.
The roses are probably just something that he saw and liked, or maybe he's buying them to cheer Sam up, because she always smiles when she passes them. Maybe they're her favorite too.
I've not changed. Twenty-something years and I still feel like that fifteen year old, living with her beautiful mother, and wanting to fit in. I had a crush then too, and he was a pretty amazing guy too.
But the crush then was a fantasy man. He was tall and had dark hair and eyes. He had an accent (although, I confess, it was British, not Italian) and he was brilliant in conversation. He was my creation of a Dick Clark/Frankie Avalon, with a few added perks. My guy loved me for me, despite everything. They wouldn't have. Dick and Frankie had beautiful women around them, and they would have stuck to their beach blanket babes.
Would Tony?
What would have happened if he knew me in those wretchedly awkward teen years?
But then I snap out of my reverie, and realize, he doesn't like me now that I have grown into my limbs, and lost all the weight. Now that I have discovered peroxide, and pimple cream. I learned how to pluck and I learned how to wear a dress.
But he wouldn't be interested in me. He's got beautiful, buxom women throwing themselves at him, and then there's me.
Why do I have to feel like I'm fifteen again?