I’ve never radiated confidence. Not because I’m not self confident (okay … I’m really not, by the way), but just because I’m not the type of gal to radiate it. You know who and what I mean.
From college roommates to co-workers, I’ve known several girls/women throughout my life who epitomize the type of effortless confidence to which I refer. Always put-together, always classy, always scrubbed and coifed and perfect-postured and sure-footed. Generally well manicured, though I don’t really care about that part.
The rub is … they were all, at the same time, absolutely pleasant and nice and FUN and not the slightest bit snooty. Not even aware of their poise and grace. Just … enviable in their simply perfect nature.
I try to be one of those girls. And since my friends and family know I am not (my imperfections are charming, I’m sure…), the best place to fake this is the airport, in a sea of anonymity. Because I was always taught so (and because I’m either flying to a friend or family member or back to my boyfriend), I try to look nice when I’m flying. Makeup applied, hair blown dry, decent outfit. I carry my laptop, so I can work when I’m away, so I also look professional. My iPhone makes the walk through the terminal more bearable, and it makes me look hip and aloof.
Do I care what these anonymous fellow air travelers think of me? No, not really. But just once, I’d like someone, even that complete stranger at gate B-27, to think: “That’s one together woman. So classy. Check her out one time.”
And yet, my bumbling self betrays me. On my flight out to Cleveland [last Thursday], I summarily dropped my boarding pass in the (unflushed) toilet, so had to tell the middle-aged male gate attendant of my plight. (He printed a new one for me without asking to see the old one – score one for me).
Then, struggling to load my carry-on into the overhead bin, I spill Starbucks cider on my Gap pants. Oh, the trappings of yuppie-dom attacking me at every turn. Sigh. Not confident. Not perfectly pulled together. A big sloppy mess of urine and cider and humiliation.
Walking to the gate just six days later, bopping along with my carry-ons and my iPhone, I’m almost to my gate, shoulder and knee throbbing in pain after the long walk with too many pounds slung across my right shoulder.
A gentleman taps me (I couldn’t hear him calling out, you see, because I’m SO EFFING COOL with my white earbuds permanently attached). Turns out my boarding pass (damn that thing) has fallen out of my pants pocket. So disorganized and so sloppy.
So this is just me, I guess, try as I might to look the part of a successful yuppie woman (which I basically AM), and walk with pride. And that’s fine, but how do people become like my college roommates or my confident co-worker? Is it possible they feel like I do? Is it possible I give off their air and just don’t know it?
Mmm. Doubtful, but definitely something to think of. Every dog has its day, after all.