May 30, 1981… West Lake. Doubtful…thought (he) and I might break up. We just sat on the blanket in silence, and then I went over and picked a wild rose and brought it back. I showed it to him. "It has thorns," he said. "Some of the prettiest things have thorns," I replied. "I know." He squeezed my hand.
When summer came I felt the relief of having no obligations. Time was my own, logically, but I had to laugh at the thought. "Who are you fooling?" a voice cackled from somewhere. I mused for a second and then became annoyed. "You don't refuse him calls and dates, because you are afraid of hurting him, yet, when you are together, you display few loving qualities!"
By harboring such hostility, I was hurting both of us. I began to realize more damage was done through seeing him than if I would collect myself and entirely pull away from the relationship.
He did not want to let go, that was a given. I needed more time; that too was a given. In one last attempt to stress my needs, I asked him to grant me three days of complete solitude, during which time he would not call or visit; after some argument, he agreed.
Time was a gift, and the first and second days were marvelous. I was alone and it felt wonderful. The third day, however, brought duress via the mail; unable to let go, he sent me a letter. I was decidedly angry, considering the letter a breach of promise. After all I had not asked for much. Three days. It had not seemed an unfair request.
Disappointed, I folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. Some things in life seemed so impossible. It was ironic that, through various ways of caring, people could hurt each other so badly.
The following events changed my outlook on life toward the positive, which at the time meant an improved self-image. My parents had noted my lack of confidence and perceived it was a marked impediment. Without an agreeable opinion of oneself a person cannot hope to lead a full life; fear of failure precedes and echoes every step, eventually leading to emotional immobilization.
Out of exasperation for my warped self-image, Mom took matters into her hands and enrolled me in a charm class, acting upon the theory that a woman's confidence was directly related to her appearance. I objected, but Mom insisted that I go. Thus, with reluctant steps and an uneasy stomach, I drove to my first class.
Students were challenged to enhance unique features with which they were born. Rather than criticizing oneself, the emphasis was on improvement. This involved a thorough evaluation wherein one's traits were honestly viewed, after which a commentary was meticulously written for the instructor. Every student was given an individual make-up consultation, and as a weekly assignment, we were to come to class wearing make-up and proper attire. We learned the correct way to walk, sit and gesture, and were instructed concerning hair care, manicures, diets and exercise.
The most beneficial aspect of the class from my point of view was learning. . .or perhaps simply remembering. . . that no one was perfect. Moreover, vanity in carefully measured doses was not frivolous; beauty dealt more with the ability to project one's inner self than painting and displaying the surface characteristics. Though it may sound shallow, the compliments which I received in class by my instructor were the stimuli I needed to reinforce the image reflected in my mirror. For the first time in months, I felt good about who I was on the inside, even though I had to begin my "renovation" on the outside.