Everybody has a fatal flaw, a trait making them appear horrifically ugly, and that will one day destroy their existence. Some people are too accommodating, taking on too much for others. Some are too obsessed with themselves. Others are homeless. My major downfall is I am too honest.
I'm sort of like a modern day martyr - I am persecuted for being a genuine person who spreads truth to others. I fear one day I will be burnt or thrown into a rat-infested dungeon for having a big mouth and an even bigger ego.
I am constantly saying things like: Bikini's aren't your thing. Try the tankini, "" ""Your boyfriend doesn't care about you,"" or ""Sorry, I can't be friends with you because you wear Crocs.""
I don't know if you noticed this, but these powerful messages are similar to several passages in the Bible. (Corinthians 13:4:16-19 - ""And the garments hugged her corpulent bodice. If thy doest not wear clothes that flatter thee, I shall smite thine fat ass. So sayth the Lord."") And because of this I am confident my words have depth, meaning and guide people to higher truths... or to better clothing stores.
As a little Catholic schoolgirl, teachers preached telling the truth. Every day nuns and poorly dressed pre-school assistants hoped to safeguard my class against the deadly perils of growing up by teaching rhyming adages: ""An apple a day keeps the doctor away,"" or ""Honesty is the best policy.""
While I take this to heart, completely disregard the old saying ""if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all."" I try to avoid hurting others, but what if I am asked, even provoked into saying something mean? And what if it's true?
When a friend asks for my opinion, I am going to give it to her straight. When someone close asks for truth, it's a moral duty to give her what she asked for. However, I tend to tread in deep water when my friends ask me about their clothing choices. My honesty, coupled with thinking I am a highly regarded fashionista, only spells trouble.
""Hey Ash, does this make me look fat?"" My friend asked me one day, as we were drinking beer, listening to poorly produced pop music from 1997 and getting ready to go out and consume thousands of calories.
My eyes darted right to the rolls spilling out of her seemingly painted on blue jeans. Good thing we're drinking Miller Lite, I mutter.
""Fat is not a good look for you,"" I said. ""Why don't you try something that doesn't hug every inch of your muffin top? I've got a maternity shirt you can borrow.""
Some might think this sort of response is reckless, rude and hurtful, but I feel like I am saving normal people from making grave, grave mistakes that could haunt them for the rest of their lives. Especially with the permanence of pictures.
""Screw you. And, by the way bitch, you need more bronzer. You look more translucent than normal,"" my friend dished back. ""I might be able see your insides if you weren't wearing that horrific dress.""
And I appreciated it. I had just saved her from looking like a stuffed sausage slut, the Pillsbury Doughboy's girlfriend and Britney Spears at the VMAs all at once. I was glad she reminded me of my special skin condition, the one that comes with being a red head. And I knew the dress was cute - she was doing that thing where you tell someone their outfit is ugly because you know yours doesn't compare. Not that I've ever done that. Honestly.
This type of truth is the Gatorade that keeps a friendship real and refreshing. I wish everyone said what they meant; it would just make things easier. There would be less drama and more thoughtful clothing purchases. Yes, when the truth isn't pretty, it stings. But it makes compliments that much more authentic. When I say I like something, I always mean it. Except haircuts. You always have to tell a person their new hairstyle looks good. It's in the Bible.
E-mail Ashley at aaspencer@wisc.edu._
