Red (Does Not) Become(s) Her

I rarely wear red, but one of my favorite shirts is red. And I'm wearing red right now. Nobody's ever made a comment about the fact that on a blue moon, I wear red. Apparently, nobody now has a name. And let's call him Burns.

He says I don't look good in red. Nobody (aside from Leah, who thinks it's her God-given right as my childhood friend) ever tells me not to wear stuff. And now Burns, who I've only known for about a month, tells me never to wear red because "it's not your color."

I can take criticism as much as the next person - okay, wrong phrase. I can take criticism - constructive or otherwise. I'm not a people-pleaser. I wear whatever I like (mostly whatever I can grab from my closet) and to hell with how I look. I don't put emphasis on appearance because I'm intelligent enough to transcend all that. (WHOOOSH!!!)

But I'm also smart enough to know that most people look at the package instead of what's inside. I'm also smart enough to know that most people don't even bother opening the package.

But I'm a UPian enough (with a medal to boot!) to not care what other people think and go on with what I do so long as it doesn't hurt other people. If wearing red hurts Burns' fashion sense - tough luck. I never changed my outfit even if someone points out that I look as if I have plans to live with hobos. And just to thumb my nose at Burns - I appreciate all the ahem criticism - I'm going to go buy the most garish looking red I can find. And I'm going to wear it on Friday.

The Attack of the Killer Conscience

I'm getting an ulcer... I never thought I'd be the type of person whose intestines shape themselves into a coil at the thought of ever failing (or disappointing) someone. Let's not involve my parents here. Don't get me wrong: I have no qualms whatsoever making fun of strangers. I even make fun of my friends. (Case in point: one of them has been a subject in this blog) It's one of my evil past times.

But now that I'm employed to convert this evil past time into something productive, it's giving me ulcers. My hands would start shaking at the thought of failing someone. Listening to classical music doesn't help - I think it has largely aggravated my nerves.

Does this mean that I actually have a conscience? Well, I guess I've always had one. I'm not like my friend John who calls himself "Ruthless" all the while letting us, his childhood friends, boss him around. Let's not talk about John yet since he's busy trying to hide his pseudo-romantic life from us (Good luck. We know where the girl lives.)

Yes, I do have a conscience. I'm vulnerable to guilt trips (especially from my parents) and have so far been lucky that none of my friends have deemed to use this weakness against me. The trouble with this conscience thing is that it pops up when you least expect it and when you least need it.

For example, I just found out that I auto-zeroed someone who just miscarried and will be filing a maternity leave. Can you still say CONSCIENCE? Sigh. It's not just a Safeguard commercial. It's that pesky indefinable feeling you have inside of you that makes you uncomfortable. And yes, gives you ulcer.

Wait, ulcer kills, right? That's it. My conscience is killing me.