Everywhere I go, I notice other women

Younger, firmer; exotic and talented in ways I never was. So when I woke up with myself this morning, just like every other morning, I felt disappointed and a little annoyed. Flirting with myself in the bathroom mirror, planning the day over coffee--the routine that had seemed so comforting was now simply tedious. Why must I be so predictable? Why must I chew so unattractively? And why was my dress so short? Didn't I realize how ridiculous I was?

These feelings: unworthy, I know, and unfair. To be honest, I thought I'd end up with someone better than me: smarter, maybe, or better-looking. Less ordinary. Can you blame me for feeling dissatisfied? Don't we all want the best out of life? You probably think I'm terrible but I won't lie to make you like me. I have never been the sort to settle for safe lies.

If I were another woman, things would be different. I'd be free to feel the passion I'd always dreamed I'd feel. I'd race home to be with me and lose myself for hours, gazing into my own eyes. She would be a better me and I'd be better yet for trying to live up to her. Together, we could touch Paradise.

But what if I'm wrong? The last time I broke up with myself, I missed me. The others didn't know how to reach me the way I did and they didn't get my jokes. They didn't even know I was joking--they just thought I was weird or dumb or awkward. They were plastic and didn't appreciate my difficult charm. What if I couldn't get over myself? I'd be heartbroken and foolish and then what?

And what if this is all there is? And there is no escape from disappointment? And there is only an endless succession of choices and compromises and consequences? I can't live with me, but I can't live without me, either.

Leave that young thing alone. I could never love anyone more than myself, anyway.