The Complaints of a Cinderella

I felt pretty once. There was this one time when I got all dressed up and I wore my blue dress shaped like an umbrella and I counted the number of people that told me I was beautiful. Four. It was exactly four over the course of the whole evening. But in the morning, I knew they would count me very pedestrian, which is exactly why I never went home with them. Well, that and the fact that they never asked me.

Most of my life, I felt sorry for myself. Not sorry for things I had done but rather regrets that I held right here, in the deep of my gut. Missed opportunities were apparently even more important than seized ones and there were countless examples of my failure to notice that at a younger age.

Confidence is a tricky thing. When you don't have it, you want it. Intensely. Badly. More than most, if not all things in your life. And when you finally get it, you don't understand it. And somewhere in there, you worry that you are falsely humble and you find a whole other can of worms to invalidate your existence.

And it's all because of this fucking blue dress. I think I'll burn it. Somehow I think that might teach me how to smile with my crow's feet again.

I think.