So I am a girly girl. I love make up. I have a vast collection of saucy high heels, I love a pointy boot and I wear perfume.
I have impeccable manners, wear lipstick like a champ and have a hair dryer AND a diffuser. I paint my nails (hands and toes, thankyouverymuch) with OPI. I love MAC. I am a soprano and I use lotion like a madwoman, I love sparkly things. Butterflies. Fairies.
This is all in direct contrast to my gut, which seems to belong to a 60 year old trucker, named Bud. When I get nervous, I get a rolling, bubbly popping thing that starts in my stomach and usually comes up in the form of an especially meaty and impressive burp. Now, will admit that Bud is truly in line with my trucker mouth, and what The Boy refers to as my trucker ass…which well we will just leave for another post. But, I find this nervous blip somewhat in contrast to the carefully cultivated (re:showered) persona I attempt to portray.
Today I was talking to someone who has a tendency to intimidate me. I was attempting to make my point in a succinct, articulate manner when I felt my stomach lurch. He kept talking as I successfully swallowed down three unseemly belches. I squeezed in my points as I could and stood to grab a file, when Bud made his appearance. Oh yes, mid-sentence. A long, angry, double cheeseburger of a belch. At least 43 syllables long.
He stared at me, mouth agape.
I just. Kept. Talking. Like nothing happened, like the devil had not just dropped into the room via my esophagus. Like I had not just made a total trucker out of myself. Then I spun on my dainty little high heels and strode out of the room.
Clearly this is the universe’s way of helping me achieve balance.