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"Now
Serving Humble Pie"
Recently my dear friend David pointed out to me that I tend to brush off
compliments. When a compliment is given, I tend to suddenly become this shy
creature, stuttering and stammering for words. I've mastered the ability to
change a subject faster than any cowboy could draw a gun. Yet, after our
conversation, I told myself I would make myself more aware of compliments
and try to accept them without finding something negative about myself to
point out to the kind person. No more avoiding when a simple smile and a
"thank you" would suffice. This little journey of self reflection started
at work the following morning.
When I
told David that I received compliments at work, I was thinking more of the
basic compliments… "Way to handle that table of drunks, Angela", or "You're
the only one who seems to understand the menu." General, yes, and I am fine
with those. I nod and smile. I wanted to be more aware of the less basic
ones… the ones that are more personal. I didn't expect to tackle the "Oh my
God, you are the most gorgeous woman alive! Let me drink your bathwater!"
compliment, but… okay, I lost my train of thought there. That creeped me
out.
Anyway… I arrived at work when I was supposed to that Saturday morning and
made my way to the kitchen to see if any of the three girls opening needed
any help. This is nothing I have to do, mind you. I can take my tea and go
sit and chit chat with the others for 15 minutes, but this day I was feeling
generous. The "openers", as they're called, arrive 45 minutes before me… or
are supposed to. Two were there just gossiping, two sorority sisters
catching up on who's sleeping with whom while the third was a no show. My
boss saw me and smiled and paid me the compliment of "You're the only one
who makes it here on time on a Saturday morning, Angela."
I
remember my conversation with David, but for some reason, I cannot just
accept this compliment. Truly, isn't the boss saying, "Since you have no
Friday night social life, you can get up without a hang over and come in to
help us out."? I shrug it off to me being the emotional female I am,
subject to reading into everything and begin to help the silly saps trying
to open the kitchen to start the day. I find myself cutting lemons and
growling a bit under my breath.
After
a good ten minutes I'm frustrated. I have asked the same girl three times
to start making the iced tea because guests are arriving. She's giggling at
a fry cook, spinning a tress of hair about a finger and my voice is just not
reaching her daft ears. The more she turns that hair like a crank shaft,
the more intelligently challenged she becomes. Finally, being her trainer
and all, driven a bit on power and lack of caffeine, I tap her shoulder,
wave a hello and now demand that she get her lazy arse to work. She smiles,
nods and I think I've made head way when she says simply "When you're upset,
you have this Marilyn Monroe look about you. Kinda… glowy."
I
blink, stammer a bit, and blink again. I mean, truly, what the devil can
that possibly mean and what in ten hells does it have to do with making iced
tea?
David,
good goddess, I'm trying.
I
start taking lunch orders, pouring soft drinks and pre-bussing tables and
it's not too long later that a guest remarks on how pretty my nails look.
Ahh, finally, something I can react to. I spent hours and money on this
French manicure and it's taken notice! This will be my first lesson and my
Yoda will be proud when I tell him I've passed the test… but wait… she
continues. "Some people look like white trash with nails like that, but you
wear them so classy." I set down her steak dinner, shove my hands in my
apron pockets, bid her a good dining experience and make my way to the
waitress station. I spend a good five minutes just restocking catsup
bottles, trying to find the mantra I woke up with.
Did
Marilyn Monroe ever have this problem when she was upset? Did the Kennedy's
find her saloned nails classy, or Jerry Springeresque? Yeah, it's a word.
I suddenly want to greet the next table with a breathy rendition of "Happy
Birthday, Mr. President" then slam an empty can of Old Milwaukee on my
forehead.
I'm
leaning on the waitress station at this time, and must have that furrowed
look on my face, for a co-worker and friend walks up and wants to know
what's bothering me.
"Kylee,"
I ask. "Do I look like a trailer park Marilyn Monroe when I'm mad?"
I'm
not fishing for a compliment, mind you, just hoping to be able to sleep
peacefully without the nagging image of me, dress billowing above a subway
grate while my five illegitimate kids are hustling passerbys for cigarettes
and lottery tickets.
"Actually," she says, "I don't know what you've been smoking, but when
you're mad your eyes get this crazy electric blue color. It's a great alarm
system for all of us who know you. Kinda cool, really."
It was
David the evening before that had complimented my eyes and I had changed the
subject. My journey of self improvement was beginning to take shape and my
self esteem was taking a much needed gasp for air. I smile. I take her
hand and give it a good buddy squeeze. This was a compliment worth taking
notice. Crazy electric blue eyes. I could think of many who would love to
have crazy electric blue eyes. Marilyn herself didn't have crazy electric
blue eyes to my knowledge so HA on her… infinity!!
Oh
wait… she said "crazy". Did she mean "crazy" like what a Latin singer sings
of? The kind of crazy that makes men go weak in the knees and wail of love
beneath their balcony? Or did she mean "crazy" like I'd start bringing
invisible friends with me to luncheon dates and pour them glasses of
margaritas, paranoid that my dental fillings were broadcasting my thoughts
into outerspace? Could she have meant "crazy" as in "crazy like a fox" and
I was a cunning person, capable of outwitting those who anger me? Or
"crazy" like the neighbor's dog wants me to kill smoochers on Lover's Lane?
Good God almighty! Do I need a modeling agent or a psychiatrist? Why is
self improvement the devil?!
Deep
breath now… and hold.
David,
I'll try again tomorrow. |
