"Does this make my butt look big?"
Uh...yeah, I thought, but what I said was, "Those aren't great."
She was insulted. Cheryl assured her they were perfect, but quietly agreed they looked pretty bad when Michelle huffed off into the dressing room. "Just let her get them," she whispered, "She'll be happy." Michelle bought the jeans and never spoke to me again.
I still don't get it, and I'm still not fluent in Girl.
I have a different understanding of what friendship means. I expect my friends to tell me about the spinach in my teeth, the skirt tucked into my pantyhose, the shirt that flops open too much when I bend over. I like avoiding the awful and sudden realization that I've looked bad and no one told me. I'd rather know. I'll go and change.
These same friends will tell me when I'm behaving badly. Trust me, I want to know. I want to be checked. They tell me when I"m getting petty, when my attitude is hiked into my pride and exposing my asinine side to the world. That's what friends are for.
Real ones anyway. They'll let you know when you're needing adjustments. Thanks, girls.
|Not liking the skirt on this one, Venus. Just FYI...|