I have a small cut on my right cheek due to a shaving accident yesterday morning that I may let affect my entire weekend.
While it represents the worst cut of my shaving career, in the grand scheme of wounds, it’s not exactly a conversation piece.
Might be a centimeter wide. Like this freaking guy. Whatever.
It took me 90 minutes to stop the bleeding yesterday. I actually came in late to work because of it. At least three co-workers gave me shit about it.
However, when I look in the mirror, it’s the only thing I see. Like when you have a large blemish. Or a small coffee stain on your shirt.
My brain is savvy enough to understand that most people aren’t really paying attention to it. But it’s not savvy enough to not care.
When God was handing out I-don’t-give-a-fuck genes, He gave my share to someone else. Someone who is probably living in Turks and Caicos earning 20 percent on self-made millions and drinking fine tequila every day like a boss. Or my wife’s boyfriend. One of the two.
The Thought Process
I totally care about shit like this. All the time.
I’m not Men’s Health-cover hard bodied like I want to be. So I talk about being fat, even though I’m not really fat.
I’m not 6’2” like I want to be. So I talk about being short, even though I’m not THAT short.
My house isn’t 5,000 square feet with an in-ground pool and theater room like what I want to live in. So I talk about it being old, humble and shitty, even though it really is a decent and pleasant home.
My car isn’t a fully restored and resto-modded 1961 Chevy Impala like I want to drive. So I talk about how shitty my Pontiac Grand Prix is, even though there’s plenty of shittier cars on the road.
When I’m embarrassed about something, I call attention to it. I want everyone to know that I know I have some personal defect, or that some room in my house is cluttered, or that my grass needs mowed, or that my car needs washed. I want everyone to know that I’m not oblivious. That I’m totally self-aware. As if it’s going to excuse the thing I’m embarrassed about, when every wise person knows you should either NOT be embarrassed, or fix whatever condition is embarrassing you.
The Decision
So, as many of you know, I’m trying to get back in the game. I’m dating and look forward to new opportunities to meet women as they arise.
Tonight was supposed to be another great opportunity. We have an Italian Festival in the town I live in. It will be going on all weekend. That means the downtown bars will be packed. And since my son is with his mom, this is exactly the type of situation I’ve been trying to take advantage of.
Additionally, I promised you more courage—that I would introduce myself to strangers when I want to meet them and trust that rejection won’t be as bad as my mind predicts it will be, and being conscious of the fact that the rewards of being bold could be great.
But I have this damn cut on my face. It’s not like I got it taking out some ninja assassin. I cut it shaving. Like an asshole.
How can I act confident and be myself when I don’t feel confident?
“Hi, I’m Matt. Sorry about this big cut on my face. For the purposes of this conversation, try to imagine me cut-free like I am most of the time. Thanks. Oh, and also pretend I’m not a total freaking spaz,” is what I’d want to say.
Because of a one-centimeter-length cut on my cheek, I may skip going out and having fun tonight with friends and girls I might want to meet.
What if my friends ask why I’m staying home? Do I tell them the truth? Or do I make something up?
Despite my strong desire to always be honest, this falls within the realm of “little white lies.”
And I don’t really have a problem with little white lies because they’re the ones you tell when you don’t want to hurt people’s feelings. So, I do that sometimes.
A girl I know said staying home because of this cut is stupid. That I should go out and make up a rad story about how I got it.
“Make up a total badass story about the gash,” she said. “GO OUT. Nothing happens to those who choose to stay in. The Domino’s delivery girl will not be the woman of your dreams.”
- I don’t want to lie about the gash. That wouldn’t be a white lie. That would be a regular lie.
- I would never order Domino’s. I’m kind of a food snob. Even with pizza.
I’m not sure what the right play is here.
Go out with the cut and feel self conscious all night until I drink enough to not care?
Or stay in and use some early morning responsibilities tomorrow as a cover for my chicken-shit decision?
Jury’s still out.
Hi. My name’s Matt. Nice to meet you. I make bad decisions.
Matt- Just own it! The best way to make yourself confident is to “Fake it till you Make it.” If anyone asks, just own it and brush it off. “Just a shaving snafu, I’ll live.” By the end of the night, you might actually believe it!
I’m not convinced I can con myself, ma’am. But I am forgetful. Perhaps if I consume several adult beverages, I’ll just sort of… forget! Seems worth a try. Thank you so much for reading.
Dude I hope you went out! If not, go out tonight! If someone asks you what happened to your face, ask them what happened to theirs, and walk away. She will probably come over with a shot because you were a dick! Single girls dig that, remember???
I did go out and had a great time. I paid for it a little this morning, which I’ll be writing about here momentarily. I even got two compliments on my appearance. Maybe it really DOES look like Bruce Lee’s!
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Be real. Be you. A kind person will notice and not comment, because she knows how it happened – unless you have inch-long fingernails and were scratching an itch on your face. Kidding aside, wish you were older.
I had my hand broken a year ago (I was assaulted). Only a month later, I found myself on a date, thinking what the h— was I thinking? I look like a fool with my hand in a cast. Like a dope. It was my right hand, so I couldn’t do much. We were at a restaurant and I was struggling to eat with a fork. And the date was gorgeous. Well, I told her I broke my hand doing martial arts. 🙂 We’re engaged today.