I’m sitting here at work (shh) in my college sweatshirt, tennis shoes, no makeup, untamed hair pulled back. I now have my own personal box of tissues (with lotion–ingenious concept, that one) sitting at my side and I’ve already gone through half the box. I have to be here to finish a project, but people in the office lean away from me as I radiate germs from every direction. I know they love me, but I. feel. ugly.

But then I realize I haven’t listened to a voicemail from yesterday and punch in the code. And there’s Fancy, telling me that she saw some picture of me, and the phrases “hot to trot” and “your makeup is perf'” are uttered, and suddenly I am not feeling so much like a fuzzy petri dish. Fancy has seen me at my worst– junior high, braces, frizzy hair, and high-water colored denim jeans (cringe). So my current rough-around-the-edges state can’t be nearly as horrifying. This makes me feel better and a little bit more like myself. I think I may go breathe on a co-worker.

Fancy, I love you and your Legally Blonde phraseology. Sometimes you work wonders on my mood and don’t even know it.
Just sayin’.

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