Semi-serious survival guide for the self-esteem crusher (usually in beige)

It happens suddenly. You’re walking down the street, at peace with yourself, after a week of meetings, emails, and calls. You decided to go out, just to chill, window-shop a bit, maybe buy four t-shirts for the price of three — no real need, just for fun. Then, from behind a shoulder, a hand. A touch. You turn around.

And he’s there. You recognize him immediately.

The self-esteem crusher

The one who shows up exactly when you feel vulnerable — though you don’t know it yet. He blends in like a gecko on city walls — beige, hazel, maybe a cream shirt. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t exaggerate, doesn’t sweat. He smiles, all teeth (whitened, of course). But from one canine, a spark shines. Like a warning.

It’s that old friend, the one you shared years and sports with, who always knew how to make you feel slightly “less.” Less fit, less ready, less worthy. His talent isn’t empathy — it’s the precision of a low blow.

And indeed, he begins:
– “Have you seen how nicely they renovated that house you wanted?”

You smile. Nod. Picture yourself in the rose-filled garden you’ll never plant. And he, meanwhile, calls you by the wrong name.
– “Hi Marco. You’re Giulio, right?”
– “You’ve always been touchy,” he says, and the first blow lands.

You try: you talk about your work. Your skills. Something you know well. He listens, then comments in that neutral tone, which is worse than arrogance:
– “But you should probably research it a bit more…”

Clarity falters. Self-esteem wavers. Your armpits sweat. Your hair sticks to your forehead. And he keeps going.
– “Gained a few pounds, huh? Remember how you used to be?”

In that moment, you’re no longer yourself. You’re a war veteran. Private Palla di Lardo from Full Metal Jacket. And he’s Sergeant Hartman, Zara edition.

Then something happens. Maybe the sky changes, maybe it’s you finally seeing him for what he is.

Not a judge. Not an authority. Just a small man dressed in superiority.

You remember Al Pacino in Any Given Sunday: either you stay down getting hit, or you fight your way toward the light.

So you stand up. Metaphorically, of course. You smile — that loud, almost absurd laugh that feels like a declaration of freedom.  You don’t answer, you don’t defend yourself. You walk away.

And as you distance yourself, he shrinks in your view. Smaller and smaller, until he disappears. And in your mind, you think: Sergeant Hartman, you’re done.