Fun with Dick and Plain Jane

Plain Jane? 

Don't get me wrong, I have been called lots of things in my lifetime, and some of them not very flattering, but "plain" was never on the list. Lars wouldn't even call me plain, even to hurt my feelings. Even he knows it wouldn't ring true. (an insult has to convince you that it's true for it to really strike a nerve.)

I would like to be able to say that the comment didn't hurt my feelings, but it did. Not because I have any insecurities about being plain, though it did cast a brief, razor thin shred of doubt for a moment. Like maybe I'd had it all wrong for all these years and people regularly mistake me for a nun until I start swearing like a sailor or show up with my kids.

Part of me wants to laugh it off and make a mental note that of course Estelle has to throw stones. It is how she maintains her misguided sense of superiority over her children. Who cares if she showed up to the same event looking like she had been freshly mugged? 

Maybe it's Estelle's own insecurities talking. She can't see worth a damn, assumed I wasn't wearing any makeup because I didn't look like Tammy Faye Baker when I arrived, and was jealous because she couldn't leave the house without hours of spackling and painting to cover the self inflicted wounds she suffered when she hurled her drunken self onto the steps of Aunt Babs' house in an enraged stupor. 

Or maybe she's spending too much time in the Pageant Hair South, or has been doing nothing more than watching reality TV and thinks everyone walks around the grocery store with hair extensions and false eye-lashes and spray on tans and hot pink high shine lip gloss.

And even though in my heart of hearts, I know I am not plain, the comment stung. I know I am not plain because I know it. I simply know it. And if I were not my best self, I have a sister and a bunch of really fabulous girlfriends who would, as we primped to step out, make suggestions...like this eye makeup or this hair-do or why-don't-you-try-my-fabulous-whatever. Your girlfriends don't let you walk around looking like, well, Plain Jane. Hell, I even bought Kate an eyebrow grooming kit when we were in Arizona.  It's what girlfriends do. If I were doing it all wrong, I'd know it long before Estelle got a good look at me.

But just to be sure, I text my adorable gay friend James. Handsome, witty, always quick to give you a boost, and always brutally honest in a good way.

"I am so offended." Send

"My mother told my sister I've become a Plain Jane." Send.

My phone rings. James.

"Umm, hello. Plain Janes do not wear fabulous pink cowboy boots."

It was all I needed to hear.