July 01, 2004
So we're having Mexican with Marco. When the waiter arrives to take our orders, he tells me conversationally "You look just like this guy - I can't remember where I have seen him, but the hair, the face, everything - you look just like him, like you are his brother - er, sister."
I mention that I only have sisters, so we are no relation, this random guy and I. Scott tries to save face for me, asking the waiter jokingly, "Well this is a pretty guy, right?" But the waiter was suddenly uncomfortable, perhaps realizing the awkwardness of the moment. Maybe he didn't want to admit that the guy of whom he spoke was on the pretty side. Or that the guy wasn't particularly pretty, and therefore, neither was I.
I am no great beauty. I know this. My mother once said that I was plain, but as long as I took care of myself, I would look OK. (Thanks, Mom. I guess.) So I've never had the illusion of being able to coast through life on my looks - hence my descent into books and nerd-dom and a wiseass personality. Never mind the tremendous insecurity of wondering if I can ever be good enough.
But it was a passing conversation; I know ill will wasn't intended - it was just poorly expressed friendliness. We were hungry, the food was good, and we got to hang out with Marco. It was generally a good evening. Sure, I'm kind of embarrassed, and yes, my pride is a bit stung, but I couldn't not write about it. Otherwise how would you know the outrageous things people really say to each other, and think nothing of it?