Cold Italian Pizza

Cold Italian Pizza

Rachel Butera

I'm a believer

I figured my first blog should start on a sour note. That's so me. Real quick:

 

I strolled to the farmer's market today looking shoddy. I was wearing an old dress I've had for years that seems like a rag to me. My new haircut has already lost its appeal for me and last night's makeup was clinging to the bags under my eyes.

 

Yet, as I was getting a charcoal-roasted $2.50 cup of coffee, a sweet, young girl who looked like Maeby Bluth said, "That's a lovely dress you're wearing," and then she asked me if I was an actress. I was embarrassed to say yes, not because I think acting is silly (I do). But because I thought if I say yes she'll think, "Yeah right, she's not pretty enough to be an actress--she's fat! Who would put her in anything? Just another one out here thinking she's an actress." 

 

So I nodded reluctantly and said, "Well, mostly voiceover, but yeah."

 

And she said, "I can see how you would be an actress--you're very beautiful." I demurely said thank you, looked away and shook my head with an eye roll. And with such a pure heart, this girl looked at me and said, "Why would you shake your head at that?" I replied, "Because it's a crazy thing to hear." 

 

And I instantly recongnized that I'm still doing this to myself. Believing what I heard in the past, past, past. This past that doesn't even exist. I'm still believing all that shit, here, among the zucchini and beets and feta dip. 

I would never look at this girl and think actress or very beautiful or lovely dress. 

 

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