FIDM-approved Face

There is a reason the word boycott has boy in it. I'm just saying'...

Several weeks ago, when I was out with one, he told me about buying this couch from a hot FIDM girl who seemed minutes away from filming a porn. It's amazing how quickly I went from feeling good about myself to feeling gross. I got lost in my ego, in my visceral reaction to what he was saying, instead of calling him out on it. Thus I entered this date like I'd begun most of ours, with a hefty dose of insecurity and shame, like the time he said he saw Natalie Portman at Urth Caffe. "Her skin's like porcelain." Okay, I get it. Mine isn't. Mine is tan and misbehaves consistently. It glows, though, and has no wrinkles. Give credit where it's due, meanie. Why didn't you invite her to the movies? Why bother with me?

So yeah. The truth's out. Sometimes I am not happy about how I look. Sometimes I want to trade flesh suits with starlets who are constantly fussed over by all brands of aestheticians.

There is absolutely nothing attractive about my self-doubt, and looking for external validation is beyond lame, but oftentimes that which you are seeking finds you in quite extraordinary ways--arriving in perfect dialogue with recent experience.

Before the show on the 11th, I was sitting in the car, half-dead, trying to pep myself up by playing "Breakin' Up" by Rilo Kiley in my head, when a stylish gal approached.

"How tall are you? I know it's a weird question, but..."

"4'11."

"Oh."

"No," I laughed. "It was a joke. I'm not much taller, though. 5'1, the nurse measured me last month, but she wasn't very convincing. I've always thought I was 5'1 1/2."

"Oh, ok. I hope you don't think I'm weird. I was just asking because I go to FIDM, and I was looking at you, and you have the perfect face for fashion. You're really pretty but not in a Hollywood way, you know? I love your eyes. Great eyes. But I guess the height wouldn't work..."

"Yeah, not even with the help of Christian Louboutin," I mourned, holding up my beautiful little doll shoe.

"I want to draw your face, though. I'm memorizing it, and I'm gonna draw it once I sit down."

Contrasting FIDM girl moments. Neat. So maybe my face isn't a waste after all, but you know what is? Letting some comment, however innocent, bring up decades worth of pain over not being good enough.

I've been writing a lot and keeping to myself. This is a pic of me at the studio. I was absorbing an article about release and retreat. It inspired me to make a formal departure from my mess, which is bigger than this body or that boy. I need to get over my horrible childhood. I need to clean up. Now. I'm in Oahu, purging myself of this disappointing life situation, and it's not easy. That said, I have a lot going for me. Quite happily, I find myself directly across the street from the Erewhon of Kailua, Down to Earth, a vegetarian market. Smoothies, juice, salad. Bag piled high with Bodhi Tree books. Hibiscus in my hair. Grass green bikini. White sand. Clear warm water. A group of spirited teen boys clapping and cheering when the waves splash against my ever-deepening bronze (yeah, that really happened.) Perhaps paradise can coax the tears, still flowing, from this FIDM-approved face.