It's 9pm,* as I write this in some ridiculously groovy little cafe, Outpost. The White Album is on the stereo, playing (not too) loud and clear. Perhaps it is the presence of The Beatles that is making me think the extremely petite Asian waitress looks like Yoko Ono--either that or the little black romper she is wearing, with its trapeze act of black straps criss-crossing her back, and the enormous glasses she is wearing, which dwarf her face, the lenses like upside-down teardrops. Just now, in walked a girl who very much resembles another rock star--Patti Smith--right down to her off-the-shoulder white T-shirt and black bra and ripped jeans and scrawny body. Sitting at the window table is a woman with an enormous beehive of dreadlocks pinned on the top of her head, in black suede boots that seem to go right up to her rear end; her companion is a man who, like she is, is wearing nothing but black (except for his round Waldo glasses). He looks like a younger version of the infamous New York gossip columnist Michael Musto.
People seem to grumble a lot, lately, that Manhattan has lost its edge ... but a place like this makes me think that the edge isn't lost; it just moved to Brooklyn.
Of course, edge often comes with an opportunity cost, and I fear the one I will incur tonight is insect-ile: I'm worried I may get bedbugs from this ancient cozy chair I'm sitting in.
But I digress.
I came here tonight in part to console myself ... because my friend Daisy went off to a party to which I was not invited! Despite the fact that I know the host!
Now it's true, admittedly, that I barely know her. And Daisy knows her much better; used to work with her. ... But ... still! Some other folks I know were also invited. And despite the fact that Daisy thinks I'm being downright ridiculous, I feel slighted. My pride is wounded.
What is it about me that the party host doesn't like? Am I not successful enough? Not cool enough? Not pretty enough?
Daisy told me I should, more or less, just SHUT UP and GO TO THE PARTY ANYWAY. She said she wouldn't be surprised if I'd been invited but that the evite had simply never arrived in my inbox, captured along the way by spam monsters. And she was sure, regardless, that the host had not intentionally NOT invited me, and that she surely wouldn't be displeased if I showed up.
But I just do not have the confidence to believe Daisy ... or to believe IN myself, not after the ego blow of not being invited.
As I think you guys have probably noticed, confidence is something I occasionally have ... and occasionally don't. It's hard for me to hold on to. (One of my best friends once told me: "You have confidence--but it's about as sturdy as a paper boat. One strong wind is all it takes to knock it down.")
This is a problem, of course, when it comes to flirting.
So guys, one of the other things I'm going to try to do more of, as we continue to go forward this year, is to talk about ways I'm trying to overcome this low self-esteem--and to also try to find some experts to give us some tips on how to conquer it.
But hey, you know what? Maybe tonight I did figure out at least one thing. Doing something nice for yourself really does help; by treating yourself like you deserve to be treated well, you feel better. Tonight, I'd been thinking I would just stay put at home--though I was feeling terribly lonely--because I have plenty of work to do. And really, staying home would be a way of punishing myself: for not being successful enough (or whatever it was) to be invited to the party.
But instead of forcing myself to work in my lonesome apartment, I put on some make-up, my favorite headband, a cute outfit, and ventured out to be among the beautiful humans. I've been smiling at everyone, just because they're all so Brooklyn-fabulous, and they've been smiling back at me ... and I feel better already.
*I'm going to wait till the morning to post it, though!