The last time that it made a really big difference was early January.
I met a bunch of college friends at one of our favorite watering holes since we were all in town. Eric gave me a giant hug, put me down and exclaimed that I looked stunning… “positively glowing.” Granted, he followed that with a, “you’re not pregnant are you?!” . When I said no, he took my left hand to see if there was a shiny ring on it instead.
This was when my brother had been diagnosed… his treatment had started but failed and no match had been found. I was depressed, exhausted and ragged. I had been told I looked it over and over. Being complimented was a complete 180; it fell on me like soothing balm.
The fact that Chris, Tyler, and Nick later went on to enthusiastically inform those that hadn’t been present that I looked “sexy as all fuck” (the inebriated are rarely word smiths) in a”slammin” red dress at the New Years Party was icing on the cake.
Being told I’m gorgeous, stunning, ravishing.
I tend to prefer compliments to my abilities or character since those are earned. Still, when my aesthetic qualities are stuck in the sea of “nice, adorable, cute, pretty” or at most “beautiful,” it is highly appreciated and satisfying for someone to search their lexicon for gems such as those ^. Which, I guess, is why a guiltier pleasure is returning to the memories as validation that my ability to pull it off isn’t imagined.
**compliments from strangers don’t apply