Two steps backwards

It's coming. I can feel it.

In other news. Book club tonight. I like everyone saving one individual. She's wrecking it for me. I don't understand how someone in their 70's could have made it through life without ever checking their ego at the door. Granted, I have a blog and there's really not much more narcissistic than that, but when I go to book club I don't interrupt. I don't pretend to be an authority on anything. I just want to talk about the book and experience other peoples' perceptions of said book.

Case in point. One of the book club questions related to ridiculous things we might have done in order to beautify ourselves. A couple of us (me included) chirped up that we'd had some rather abysmal perms. This woman went on to say (roughly) "I worked at Woodwards and I was the most attractive person there. So I was approached by some people that wanted me to be the model for a Noxzema ad". This came after we had discussed high school experiences (if you know me, which you don't, you know mine were less than stellar). She said (roughly) "everyone loved everyone when I was in high school. I had a great time. Though I guess it was easy because I was one of the most popular ones. I was the homecoming queen!".

Do I have latent issues relating to my experience in high school? Yes. Do I have self-image issues? Yes. Can I be unbelievably egotistical? Yes. Do I cut people off, direct attention at myself and interject self-serving stories into a situation that requires group participation? No.

I can't believe I'm even writing about this given other scenarios that are currently unfurling.

I have a blessed life. This is obviously evidenced by the fact that the thing that is upsetting to me currently relates to book club. I mean, jesus.

Anyways. The Help. A good (not great) read. Possibly more relevant because I think it's important to continue to bring shameful things of days yore to the forefront; in this case it's racism in the South in the early 60s.

My grandmother worked at Woodwards decades ago. She died when I was 13 or 14. She sailed the world on the Alphora with my grandfather and knitted me clothes for my Cabbagepatch Kid. After she died my father called me into the den for this random, rambling conversation during which he broke down and cried. It was the only time I ever saw him cry in my life. The curtains in the den had jousting knights on them.