Two weeks ago I went to a networking meeting. I went in my standard work clothes attire, which is basically a suit consisting of a jacket, a pair of slacks, and a blouse. The pants were black as were my shoes, but my shirt was striped with green and gold and purple and my jacket was a very fine stripe of cream and green.
But this isn’t about my clothes.
What it’s about is that after the meeting, a young man came up to me and said that he didn’t mean to stare at me during our meeting but had to tell me that I was a beauty queen. He went on to tell me that everything about me from my hair, to my face, to my clothes, to my jewelry were altogether wonderful and that I was very beautiful.
My immediate response is really quite sad. Because my response was essentially that nobody in 55 years has ever said that to me. (My mother reminds me that she tells me that I’m beautiful but understands that it’s not quite the same.) I’ve certainly never had a man (that I can recall) ever speak so eloquently about me in that regard.
When a friend, who was standing there at the time, heard this she couldn’t believe it . So I told her that I was always the smart girl not the pretty girl.
In any case, I have been really quite thrilled with the idea that someone thought I was a beauty queen and beautiful and altogether stylin’.
It’s had me smiling ever since. It’s not enough to live on, but pretty damned close.