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Crises and cracked mirrors
I arrived at work at my usual late hour this morning and was set upon by crises. At the moment I have enough airspace to write this, but it won't last - I am only waiting for data so that I can go back to juggling again.
I am not a bad juggler, of tasks that is, and I actually function pretty well under stress - as I reminded myself a few minutes ago as I cradled the phone with my shoulder, took notes with one hand, and typed an instant-message about my other crisis with my other hand.
But I am in denial, and the denial is deliberate; I encourage it. Because I firmly believe that once the world knows you can keep your head while others about you are losing theirs, you will be given plenty of opportunities to prove it. And I don't like going into emergency mode unless I think it's an emergency.
Nothing worse than being handed someone else's crisis. Or, as the bumper sticker says: A crisis on your part does not necessarily constitute an emergency on mine.
Meanwhile, I had yet another try at the H story last night and it didn't work, I'm not done planning out the rewrite of the Aedie novel and it's rough going, I am having lunch tomorrow with an Aether friend I've never met and for once I am nervous about it, and tonight I have a lovely evening of moving Marc's belongings across town to look forward to. (No offense meant to Marc - I did volunteer, after all.)
So perhaps you'll pardon me if I indulge in a little intramural commentary for the rest of this entry. I need the relief.
This begins here. Read it first.
Now, it is a matter of public record that Beth does not like it when her readers feel that they are somehow entitled to comment on her private life, mental state, and other affairs ... so I don't. (I myself welcome all manner of personal comments, but I don't promise I won't sometimes ignore them, which I think is a fair compromise.)
Therefore I am not at liberty to say that I believe Beth "suffers from the most curious misapprehensions about her appearance," as the Beast says at the end of Robin McKinley's Beauty.
Suffice to say that I've seen pictures of Beth, and while she may not be a supermodel - who the heck is? - she's not unattractive either. Far from it. I'm sure that sometimes she doesn't bother with the upkeep, and we can all make ourselves look like we've gone to seed if we want to ... but I didn't get the impression that Beth was ugly or even particularly plain.
I seem to be going through a run of this the last few days - another correspondent sent me a picture after giving me some personal descriptions that let me to believe she was going to be absolutely horrid-looking ... and she is in fact as cute as a button.
Given my own mirror, crack'd from side to side as the poem says, I am probably not in a position to comment on other people getting their self-images wrong, but goodness, I was hoping I was the only deluded person!
Which brings us to Molly. I happen to think Molly is quite aesthetically pleasing. I have told her so. I have also told Nonelvis so - I am obligated to do so by good grace - and Nonelvis agrees with me. In fact, a lot of people seem to agree with me.
But do I believe Molly is tragically hip? No. Not after seeing her in her plaid pants. (Now she will come after me with a fork and kill me.) Sure, she had a nifty handbag at the gathering ... on the other hand I had, at the same gathering, a shiny blue metallic Judy Jetson-looking bag I think is really excellent, and did anyone comment on that? No, of course not. Molly had hers on the table, and mine was on the floor :)
I'm half-teasing. Molly is hip and she is erudite and she has a much better sense of style than I do (I can manage to make sure my clothes and my earrings match, on good days) ... but she does not strike me as the image of glamour, and I believe she would laugh to hear assertions of glamour applied to her. Molly's style is utterly different.
What Molly mostly has is ruthless individuality. I cultivate that myself, and I'm getting better at it, but I'm not at her level yet. See, Molly has no fear of anything, as far as I can tell. That kind of fearlessness is difficult to come by.
I want to make it clear that I am not slighting anyone else at the gathering either. I thought everyone there was absolutely wonderful and charming - well, perhaps a little shy but that's to be expected. Were any of us fashion plates? Negative. Were any of us saints? Nuh-uh. Did we all turn out to be real live people? You bet.
And just to show that you never can tell: You want to know who struck me as being Most Likely To Be Glamorous in the room?
Ms. Sara "I look like a soccer mom" Astruc, that's who. So there.
© Columbine
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