Pretty is as pretty does

Critical. Judgy. Fault-finding. Catty. All of these things are less than attractive parts of my personality. I see it. I know it. That’s why I’m giving it all up for Lent this year.

Mama always said “pretty is as pretty does,” and since these are not very pretty traits, I’m kicking them to the curb…at least for the next 40 days. If I have to bite my tongue in half, I’m going to be positive, complementary, and sunny. I’m going to be pretty. But first I’ve got a few things to get off my chest.

And before you bust out your Lenten rule book on me, I wrote this post before Lent. I’m just posting it today. You go be pretty now, too. Here we go:

I will absolutely judge you for wearing exer-casual clothes, ath-relax wear, whatever it’s called. You know what I’m talking about. Those tight black leggings that you wear to the Pig so everyone can look at the twofers through your thigh gap and admire how dedicated to the gym you are. Here’s the thing — I don’t want to see every curve, contour, and dimple in your derriere. You wouldn’t wear your Spanx to the Pig, would you? News flash! You might as well be.

For the love of all that is holy, please stop “doing” your food. No no no, you are not going to “do” the barbecue pork plate. You are going to “have” it or “order” it, and then you’re going to eat it the hell up!  Doing your food makes you sound like a bougie, wanna-be Food Network star. “I’ll do the Wagu beef filet, and then I’ll do the chard essence on ciabatta with chanterelle fluff.” Just writing this makes me want to hit you upside the head with a ham bone.

Using “myself” instead of “me” doesn’t make you sound smarter. Nor does the use of “I” when it should be “me.” There’s nothing wrong with “me,” and there’s nothing wrong with me (I know what you’re thinking as I rave on). “Me” may be a little word, but it’s a good word. And being correct is what makes you sound smart.

Leave your dog at home. I don’t know why you think you should bring Bowser everywhere you go from the crowded farmers market to the brewery where you “do” the Gose. Personally, I don’t want to fight my way to the peach truck through a net of crossed up leashes tangled around dogs that are so big they can practically look me in the eye. Not to mention the fact that the smell of dog interferes with the bouquet of my Belgian stout. Plus, I don’t want to be sniffed, licked, or slobbered on unless I ask for it.

I don’t care if you drive the biggest, shiniest Lexus you can get or the most beat-up old junker on the road, park the damn thing between the stripes. Not over them. Not beside them. Not around them. In between them. And if you get out of your car/truck/SUV and see that you’ve missed the mark, get back in and try again. You probably leave the buggy in the middle of the parking lot too. You know who you are.

Whew! Now I feel better. But Lord help me, it’s going to be a long 40 days.