Confidence Lessons from Big Bob

As cocky and self-assured as I can sometimes be, I am, at times, a neurotic, self-critical, anxiety-ridden girl who has extreme bouts of insecurity further fed by fashion magazines and the media and all that other crap. I worry as much as (or a helluva lot more than) the next psycho regarding superficial BS like wrinkles, aging, weight, my career etc (see my posts about public meltdowns and braces).

But this weekend I had a lesson in confidence from the most unlikely of teachers. I was at Walmart* with my mother picking out a piece of furniture. It was heavy, and as we struggled to wheel it down the aisle towards checkout, Big Bob* blocked my path.

“You’re going to need some help with that,” he said, sauntering over with an easy smile. Everything about him, from that smile, to his mannerisms, to his stride suggested he was the MOFO King of the ‘Mart. Before I could answer, he said, “When you check out, ask for Bob.” He pointed to his name tag proudly, nodded and swept past me, an entourage of geeky coworkers in his wake.

But Bob was no Brad Pitt. His ego wasn’t the only thing large about him—he was packing at least 350 pounds. His hair, which might have been, at one time, a fro, was blow dried out into a wavy pompadour. The folds of his face threatened to ingest a pair of square-framed glasses. His red Walmart shirt looked like a family sized tent.

At checkout we asked for Bob, but he was busy talking to his groupies. As my mother went to pull the car up to the door, I tried, unsuccessfully, to navigate the shopping cart onto the slanted sidewalk, where it struggled to break free from my birdy arms and wreak havoc on the parking lot.

“Allow me,” I suddenly heard in a Barry White voice. I turned, and there was Bob, gently taking over the carriage with his mammoth arms. “I think,” he said, raising one eyebrow,” I can hold this just a LITTLE BIT better than you.”

I felt tongue tied and mumbled a dorky “yeah.”

“It’s OK,” he said, chuckling. “It probably helps that I’m a huge, massive MONSTER.” He guffawed a loud smoker’s laugh and my eyes widened.

“Man,” he continued, sniffing the air. “What’s that smell? Something smells GOOD.”

I sniffed tentatively and hazarded a guess. “Pizza?”

“Yes!” he shouted “It’s gotta be garlic knots.” And with that he threw back his leonine head and practically growled. He was large and in charge AND shameless! And this was not the false bravado of the secretly insecure. This guy loved himself.

Well why the F not? I thought as we drove away after his seductive “Have a nice night, ladies.” Why not be a huge massive monster and love yourself instead of a scrawny annoyer complaining about a millimeter of flab and the shadows of crows feet? Insecurity is so tiring. In fact, I might go to the ‘Mart next weekend and get another lesson in ‘how to think I’m the Eva Livin Shiat.’

*Although also in the “mart” family, this specific evil American superstore name has been changed to protect the employee, whose name has also been changed.