Are You There, God? It’s Me, Victor, Contacting You Regarding Margaret
So, God, I am not sure if you are still a subscriber to reading my blogs. I am sure you are on board with all the fascinating Web 2.0 social networking media, but whether you have time to read every posting in-depth is a mystery. You are omnipotent; therefore, I would imagine you have computing powers greater than the big brothers’ abilities to scan for key phrases and imminent threats.
Well anyway, I was out the other night at the local bar (then again, you already knew that …duh) where I met up with Margaret (Judy’s friend Margaret) … I know I haven’t spoken with her in years since that little incident back in the fourth grade, which was nothing.
As you know, I’ve been listening, consoling, and counseling a fair bit as I continue on my journey to a utopian nirvana. I know you do a really good job in most cases, but Margaret and others sometimes seek the solstice they need in weekly sessions. Sometimes, out-of-office calls over a pint or two of liquid encouragement. Which, last I checked, doesn’t violate any of your rules, the ones you like to refer to as “commandments.” Sometimes, I come close to breaking the one about coveting thy neighbor, but we will save that for another day; today, it’s all about Margaret.
So Margaret has had personal issues with her outward appearance since her pre-puberty years. If you recall, her friend Judy did a good job of coaxing her through those awkward teenage years. She never really got past some of those issues. Unfortunately, in today’s society, there is an abundance of self-inflicted pressures to be the “perfect specimen” … I know it’s shallow, but Margaret feels insecure about herself.
Breast implants (34Ds to be more specific), liposuction, braces, a tummy tuck, and six tattoos later, she is still unhappy. I’ve tried to reassure her that beauty comes from within, and she says that’s rubbish; she insists that she needs more work. As she correlates (in illogical jibberish) “I am not pretty. How can I expect to be married by 35 with two lovely children, but here as I sit being single with no definitive prospects on the horizon? I am destined to die alone”.
God, this is where I need your help. I’ve reassured Margaret at length, but she can’t seem to get past this thing we call the “Jersey Girl” complex. Sure, it happens in other states, but the social pressure on self-peer media in Jersey has a stronger hold than anywhere else. How do we let Margaret know everything is fine and any man would be thrilled to fulfill her dreams and desires if only she would step down from that pedestal she put herself on?