I'm pissed off at other people, and pissed off at myself.
If there is one (non-physical) thing I hate about myself, it is that I can't tell people NO, can't tell people when something is none of their business, can't stop feeling guilty for even wanting to do such things.
This week has been...bad. I usually don't even know the people who put me in such a position. I need to learn to deal with it in a different way.
The most recent example:
Yesterday, I went to Sephora in the nearest mall. I bought a bag of stuff and walked out.
Usually, I pull out my phone and call someone (or pretend to) so I can avoid those *#$&#(@_@ing @)(#*$()*$#holes at the kiosks (I apologize if this is or ever was your job. For being a bitch, and for the fact that this was your job.) I absolutely hate when people I don't know and have not asked/given permission to touch me, put something on me, or get into my personal space. HATE IT. This is not a new friend, an old friend, a relative, a fitness professional, a chiropractor...this is a stranger, usually coming at me at warp speed with some shitty, cheap, odoriffic lotion or ugly, garish, nasty makeup.
Yesterday was no exception. I didn't do the phone trick because I was balancing a Sephora bag in one hand and trying to put my jacket back on.
A girl comes running toward me. "Let me see your worst nail!" she says. ("Here, see my little pinky toe. The nail constantly peels off from too much activity in running shoes, and I just left the gym...ENJOY!!!')
As she says this, she is moistening a cotton ball with something that looks like polish remover. WTF??? I don't want my damn nail buffed, and I don't want you to put some shitty lotion with god-knows-what in it (that will likely make my arm red and swollen and itchy for a few hours) on my hand. I know you say it smells 'like the ocean' but to me it smells exactly like Glade air freshener, which makes me want to hork all over.
Besides, I just got my nails done on Monday.
I tell her this. By this time she has a hold of my hand and is hungrily eyeing my pinky nail.
"It's clear!" she says.
(NO IT IS NOT. IT IS LIGHT PINK. JUST BECAUSE IT ISN'T GARISH GAMBLING GRANNY FUSCHIA LIKE YOUR 3-INCH TALONS DOES NOT MEAN IT ISN'T A COLOR.)
"No, trust me, it's light pink," I say.
"No one will notice. And how much can it cost to go back and get it fixed?"
(THAT IS NONE OF YOUR &#*$&#ING BUSINESS. I DON'T HAVE THE TIME, AND REALLY SHOULDN'T HAVE TO. THANKS VERY MUCH.)
"I'll notice. I don't have another appointment until next Friday."
"Can't you fix it yourself?"
"No, I didn't buy this color because I was in a rush. Look, I come here all the time."
"It will look better after I do this."
(REALLY? WELL, NOW YOU HAVE HARRASSED ME AND INSULTED ME. YOU NEED TO WORK ON SALES SKILLS, SWEETIE.)
"I have to go, RIGHT NOW, I'm late for something."
She is still holding my hand, but ROLLS HER EYES at this point and lets go.
Oh, man. See, it really doesn't matter if my manicure was $100 or $15, or if I was a damn manicurist and did it myself. That is the kind of thing that really makes me mad...at myself. (The eye roll...well, if I didn't feel like an old biddy for reporting her to someone higher up, and if I felt like they would even care, I would have. But I didn't. When I had jobs at 18, I hated those bitchy, well-dressed "older" women...you know, those over 25. God.)
I should have told her "no" and yanked my hand away and kept walking. Instead, I usually feel the need to either become passive-aggressive or feel the need to make excuses for myself. I hate that. HATE IT. I mean, why?
At least I saved my nail. I just found my ideal nail girl: cheap, close, and willing to listen. Does not think I am a freak for asking her to buff, polish, done. No scrubs, no smelly lotions, no problems for me. Think I am going to let a kiosk worker with a buffer and some oily, salty scrub and some reeking lotion ruin my nails, now that they finally look more like the nails of a 29-year old and not a 12-year old? NO.
But yeah. Need to find a better way to deal with stupid things like that. Because the whole week/day then came back to ruin my shopping buzz and I called my husband crying--worried about the dog, mad about people, mad at myself for not sticking up to Miss Hand Grabber.
Stupid, stupid me.
Ah, the secret boyfriend. So secret he doesn’t even know about it. Is it cheating if you have a real boyfriend and a secret boyfriend at the same time? ...