Mark Twain once said: “I can live for two months on a good compliment.“
Maybe he could live a paltry two months on a compliment, but I can live off one for eons.
If you once told me something awesome about myself, I still remember it. No lie. In a world where a gal’s self-esteem can be trampled over and over again (thank you women’s magazines for showing me heroic chic is the only way to look), a good compliment is a renewable feast.
The other day, I was picking up something at the pharmacy (the stuff that makes my tummy NOT feel like a barrel of burning monkeys but can cause bone loss, goody) and was told I have a lovely complexion.
The reason why I’ll remember that compliment?
Because I was sweaty and tomato red from the heat (yes, if it’s 25 degrees and over, I look like a beefsteak tomato).
Mmmmm, steak.
Truth of the matter is, I don’t really do much about my complexion except scour the grease off every now and then. In the winter, I put on some moisturizer so my skin doesn’t flake off into a million little pieces.
Other than that, I avoid the sun like the plague, don’t smoke, don’t drink, and probably consume more than enough fat to keep my skin plump until I’m 107.
Oh yeah, and I sleep lots too (read: no kids yet).
I was once told I looked like Kate Winslet. I remember that compliment well. It was 1999 and I had red hair at the time. I really don’t look like Kate Winslet (unless you count the round face) but I will take the compliment and run. (Well, walk at a moderate pace.)
Another time, an ex said I look like Julianne Moore. I really don’t though we do share a name in common. I must have had red hair at the time too.
FYI, I really don’t think I look like any celebrity. Mostly because celebrities are never over 130 pounds. But it could be worse: I could be told I look like Carrot Top.
It’s odd how a gal remembers the compliments about her complexion or hair. I have a few lovely ones in writing about my writing. I really like those. In fact, I think they are a little more flowery than I deserve, but I’m keeping them. I may even frame them.
The interesting things is, do you think with the advent of Facebook, we’re becoming immune to comments? I could probably post a photo of me looking like a beefsteak tomato and someone would like it, if only because they think my head is about to explode into ketchup.
I’m sure I’ve had a lot of awesome compliments online. And I really like them. Any compliment is a good compliment.
But are they as memorable as a random comment in person?
I think not.
So the moral of this story is, I’m probably never going to get any compliments on Facebook ever again.
Don’t hate me because of my complexion. Hate me because I can grow mean chives.
