We are well into it my friends. Another new year full of giddy expectations and solemn vows that this year, this one, will be better than the last. I didn’t torture myself by actually writing out my resolutions because um, hello-that’s what this blog is for. Despite the procrastination, I’m still focused on getting my pretty girl discount and all that it entails.
But I have decided something crucial. My old self is gonna
have to go. And I say this with love but she just wasn’t working out and I
really feel I can do so much better.
Don’t fear. It’s not going to be a brutal ‘Downton Abbey’
type death. Nobody is giving birth and then dying hours later. Sidenote: Why
did Lady Sybil have to go? Why Why Why? I mean screw Lady Mary, Matthew was
lovely but he can be replaced. Given time, Mary would have grown bored of his
simple, stable self anyway. Just how many more times could he gaze at her lovingly
and say, “Do you realize how terribly, terribly happy you’ve made me? But Lady
Sybil? After all she went through to get her hot Irish Chauffeur hubby and then
she dies? Ugh, it’s so unfair. Julian Fellowes, I am so angry with you right
now. You better be bringing something AMA-ZING to Season 4 to make up for all
this death.
Um, yeah…I’m just slightly obsessed with this show.
Anyhow…back to me in 2013. I’m simply killing my old self off and then
giving birth at the same time. Because what I realized is that it’s not enough
to just ACT like I want a pretty girl discount, I have to act like I already
have it. Like I’m already a pretty girl. Once I do that, then people
will start treating me the way I treat myself. I can’t just change my body, my
clothes and my hair (although that’s all clearly important as well) I have to
change the way I think, my true self. How’s that for some Oprahmetaphysical
mind melt stuff?
Because I’ve come to the shocking conclusion that it’s the way
I think that’s the real problem. Example: During my college years I had a wild,
exciting life. Or at least I imagined it was. I was a drama student so exaggerating
the truth was like breathing oxygen…it was vital to my survival. It’s safe to
safe you should just go with me on this one and pretend I was utterly fabulous
in my black beret and Doc Martens chain smoking Marlboro Lights while I
contemplated the true meaning of life and quoted Oscar Wilde out on the quad in
between classes.
Anyway, there I was fabulously hanging out at a theatre
festival in Scotland one summer with a boyfriend/fellow actor whom I adored,
when we came across one of those cut out photo ops. You know the kind, with
different types of people’s bodies you stick your own head in. Super fun,
right?
So, boyfriend and I saunter over and stick our heads in. He
picks a muscleman. Classic. Charming. Funny. Kinda like him. I had my pick of
everything else. And what do you think my beautiful 2o year old self picked?
That’s right. An old, obese fish woman. Her body looked about 300 lbs. and her
age? About 60. WTF??? Why would I do that when I could have been anybody else? Like
the sexy blonde bombshell or the glamorous starlet? Why did I think that the
hideous heifer was me? I was fabulous right? Wrong!
I thought I was old and ugly. Worthless. Totally un-fab. Because
my head is sick. Because I’ve been carefully taught to not think too much of
myself lest I get a big head. (Thank you hard working Scots-Irish Protestant
background) So instead, I think less of myself and get…nothing. Or maybe not
nothing but definitely less than I deserved.
Its like, have you ever seen an ugly rich girl? No, no you
haven’t because they don’t exist. It doesn’t matter if her teeth are jacked,
her skin is pitted, her hair is limp and she’s extra chunky. She’s rich. She’s
been treated special her whole life. She’s been told she’s pretty even when she
so clearly is not. Favorite example of this? Lena Dunham. Not to take away from
her talent or what she’s accomplished but seriously? You are not a pretty girl
Lena and nobody wants to see you naked. All. The. Time. But this is a girl who
was told she was special, was told she was pretty and so she acts like she’s
great. And guess what? It worked! Now the world is reflecting that reality back
to her and so I guess, in a way it has become real. In spite of all evidence to
the contrary, it’s real.
So, yeah, I had a little ceremony, killed my old self off and
have stolen a new identity. The pretty girl version of me. The one that really
is fabulous. Not just in my imaginings but for real. I'm treating myself like I am Lady Mary Crawley and the world is a glittering jewel that lies at my feet created solely for my own pleasure and comfort.
Hello!
Hello!
My name is Lady Lydia O’Neil and I’m a pretty girl.
This is the real me.
It’s nice to meet you.
