I am blatantly honest, perhaps to a fault. Typically, I say what's on my mind, and even if I am quiet, I am probably thinking blunt, sarcastic thoughts. I remind myself an awful lot of any of the characters in "The Invention of Lying", because I can be that blunt from time to time. And the closer a person is to me, the likelier he or she is to become a victim of these observations of mine. That's why, when I date again, I need to find someone with a similarly dark sense of humor, because I can be a lot to tolerate if you don't get me. Just ask my ex-husband.
Recently, I mentioned to a friend that I hadn't heard from a mutual friend lately. She suggested it was because I gave the friend a lecture on the perils of extramarital affairs. The conversation went a little like this:
Me: I haven't heard from Other Friend lately. I wonder if she's mad at me?
Friend: Maybe she's mad at you from that time you lectured her about sleeping with married men.
Me: That was not a lecture. That was the truth. And I guess some people just can't handle the truth.
While I have no problem sharing "the truth" with friends, I tend to keep quiet around strangers, mostly because I don't like to be seen as socially unacceptable or as an oversharer.
However, today when I was at the nail salon, my tech had no problem with oversharing. Her partner is out of town, or rather visiting family in Vietnam. I guess that's why she decided to open up to me today.
When I am having any kind of salon service done, I typically prefer my technician to just be quiet, and this is especially true when I get my nails done, because it's in the middle of the work day, and sometimes just listening to that file grinding away at what is left of my nail bed can be soothing. Today, my tech was the opposite of quiet. By the end of the appointment, my inner lip was bloody, from me trying not to laugh at the following overshares:
* "Yeah, I got pregnant a month after I got separated from my husband. I don't know how that happened so fast...I guess it was because I was going out to the bars and drinking a lot."
* "My sister married my ex-boyfriend, and he used to try and make out with me. I mean, I never did the nasty with him, because I was still a virgin then."
* "Oh, my kids? Yeah, I don't have custody of any of them, but I can still see them whenever I want."
* "Was your ex-husband whhh...I mean, American?"
* "I lied to my husband about needing to work, and then I met this guy and we were drinking and kissing in the pool room. Then he told me to go out to his truck, and I did, and my ex-husband caught me with him."
* "All I did when I worked there was drink all night long, so I didn't want to do anything except lay on the couch all day. I didn't even want to take care of my kids!"
* "Yeah...that time that I got pregnant, I think I had a miscarriage...is that what you call it? I went to the doctor and they told me I was pregnant, and then I started bleeding a lot and I wasn't pregnant anymore."
* "When I was pregnant with my first kid, I caught the dad having sex with some KOREAN in the bathroom. I came into the hallway, and I heard was bang, bang, BANG!"
Sometimes, I wonder why people feel so inclined to overshare with me, because this is not the first time I've been in this type of situation. I can only assume that it's because I seem to be a good listener, which is not entirely untrue, because what I am actually doing is listening so I can make fun of the comments later.
When I got up to wash the acrylic dust off of my nails before getting polished, I couldn't help but notice that I was the first nail brush in the 'used' basket today. The first client of the day, and it was 1:00 in the afternoon. If she overshares with her other clients as much as she does me, I can see why other clients might experience trepidation in visiting.
In other news, I feel really frustrated when I don't get what I want. It is especially frustrating when this involves another person, because then there's really no way to alleviate my frustration over not getting what I want. And since this happens so rarely--this business of not getting what I want--I am completely unaccustomed to these feelings and have no outlet for dealing with them.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Jagged Little Scars
I've had two surgeries in my life: my C-section, to deliver my daughter, and seven weeks after that, my gallbladder removed.
My C-section incision was a work of art. MY OBGYN's specialty is surgery, and it shows. My incision was flawless, perfectly straight, and staple-and-stitch-free. It was simply smoothed together with surgical glue. When I was in the hospital, nurses would ask to examine my incision, and I'd dutifully lift up my gown to show them. Many nurses would oohh and aahh over it, saying how good it looked. I would smile in pride over my OGBYN's handiwork.
The C-section scar healed beautifully. I forget that I have it, because it is so smooth that it just seamlessly blends into my skin. I never think about it.
My gallbladder, on the other hand, was removed laprascopically, and I feel that the surgeon did a hack job. I have four scars, and while they are small, they are jagged and stick up from the skin. They are a different color than the rest of my skin, and even when I tan, they do not. Lately, I have been considering taking those little sunshine stickers they force upon you at the tanning salon and placing them over the scars, just to bring a little sunshine into my life.
I equate my emotional heartbreaks to my scars. Most are like my C-section scars: they heal up smoothly, and you forget that they are even there, that the pain ever even happened. It's a distant, long-resolved memory that requires no further thought.
Others are like my gallbladder scars: noticeable, protruding pains. Jagged edges, as though they were left incomplete, not smoothed down to a vision of not being noticeable. Forever there, no matter what. And every time you look down, ever-present and always noticed.
The majority of the heartbreaks in my life have been the smooth-scar type. Sure, it hurts in the recovery period. But then as time goes on, the pain goes away and you forget that you ever even endured it, much less even notice the mark this left on you.
The jagged scars are the ones that you are forever marked with, the ones that never go away. The ones that you can brush against, and the memory of the pain will be back full-force. These are the ones that are the product of unfinished issues. I think that it's inevitable that anyone we have unfinished issues with will continue to pop up in our thoughts.
The question for me is always, how do you finish these unfinished issues, so you can forget that scar and let it blend in with your past? I don't know the answer to that one, but I wish I did.
I think there are only two people who have scarred me to the point that they still recur in my thoughts, as much as I wish they didn't. With one, I thought I resolved him, because I thought I felt it. In an instant, I sensed his presence, and with that, it felt as though my heart and soul imploded into each other. And then I felt relief. But just like a temporary pain reliever, the effect wore off, and I find myself irritating that scar more and more these days.
So, what's the answer? It's sure not Mederma, or Tylenol, or even time...
My C-section incision was a work of art. MY OBGYN's specialty is surgery, and it shows. My incision was flawless, perfectly straight, and staple-and-stitch-free. It was simply smoothed together with surgical glue. When I was in the hospital, nurses would ask to examine my incision, and I'd dutifully lift up my gown to show them. Many nurses would oohh and aahh over it, saying how good it looked. I would smile in pride over my OGBYN's handiwork.
The C-section scar healed beautifully. I forget that I have it, because it is so smooth that it just seamlessly blends into my skin. I never think about it.
My gallbladder, on the other hand, was removed laprascopically, and I feel that the surgeon did a hack job. I have four scars, and while they are small, they are jagged and stick up from the skin. They are a different color than the rest of my skin, and even when I tan, they do not. Lately, I have been considering taking those little sunshine stickers they force upon you at the tanning salon and placing them over the scars, just to bring a little sunshine into my life.
I equate my emotional heartbreaks to my scars. Most are like my C-section scars: they heal up smoothly, and you forget that they are even there, that the pain ever even happened. It's a distant, long-resolved memory that requires no further thought.
Others are like my gallbladder scars: noticeable, protruding pains. Jagged edges, as though they were left incomplete, not smoothed down to a vision of not being noticeable. Forever there, no matter what. And every time you look down, ever-present and always noticed.
The majority of the heartbreaks in my life have been the smooth-scar type. Sure, it hurts in the recovery period. But then as time goes on, the pain goes away and you forget that you ever even endured it, much less even notice the mark this left on you.
The jagged scars are the ones that you are forever marked with, the ones that never go away. The ones that you can brush against, and the memory of the pain will be back full-force. These are the ones that are the product of unfinished issues. I think that it's inevitable that anyone we have unfinished issues with will continue to pop up in our thoughts.
The question for me is always, how do you finish these unfinished issues, so you can forget that scar and let it blend in with your past? I don't know the answer to that one, but I wish I did.
I think there are only two people who have scarred me to the point that they still recur in my thoughts, as much as I wish they didn't. With one, I thought I resolved him, because I thought I felt it. In an instant, I sensed his presence, and with that, it felt as though my heart and soul imploded into each other. And then I felt relief. But just like a temporary pain reliever, the effect wore off, and I find myself irritating that scar more and more these days.
So, what's the answer? It's sure not Mederma, or Tylenol, or even time...
Starry Nights
When I bought my house a few years back, I was envisioning how I'd decorate it even before I put in an offer. I even bought fireplace accessories, because they were on clearance and they'd look good in that house. It was then that I decided that I'd put in an offer on the place: if you are already mentally decorating it, why isn't it yours?
The entire house had ivory Berber carpeting, except for the master bedroom. That room had royal blue carpeting, for no real apparent reason. I guess the owner just favored royal blue in the bedroom, or it was the cheapest remnant available when he bought carpeting. Because the carpet was newly-installed and flawless, I could not justify replacing it before we moved in (read: I was too broke). So I decided I'd have to decorate the room to match the carpet.
Sometimes, I get these really wacky ideas that I can be all artsy and talented. I have no talents in the creative arts, apart from writing. In high school art class, the teacher would draw my picture for me, and then I'd just have to color it in. Just like a toddler, I'd be careful to stay within the lines, so I could get an A.
But since this was my first house, I was eager to decorate. I chose a retro black-and-white cherry theme for the bathroom, to match the deep green ceramic tiles. I chose a nautical theme for the living room, and painted it a slate blue to accent my lighthouse collection. For the master bedroom, I chose a Van Gogh 'Starry Night' theme.
It sounded good at the time. I had to paint the white walls to a deep royal blue, and I planned to sponge gold paint on top of that, in swirly starry night shapes, just like the painting itself. And I'd decided that I loved painting; I couldn't wait!
Four coats of royal blue into the project, I decided that painting sucked. I hated painting. All I ever did for two whole weeks was go to work, then drive to the house to paint on yet another coat of royal blue. Finally, the day came when I got to sponge on the gold paint. The first wall didn't look right. At that point, I didn't care. Like a maniac, I kept sponging on the gold paint, because I wanted to get the job done.
The room looked hideous. I added a celestial border near the ceiling, hoping it would deflect from the garish walls, but it only made my room look like it should belong to a teenager. I detested waking up and looking at this room every morning, the bright sunrise deflecting off the gold walls and offending my poor eyes. One of the good things about sleeping in the living room for the last six months of my marriage was that I didn't have to look at that room the moment I opened my eyes each morning.
After I got my husband out of my bedroom and out of my house, I vowed that the first thing I would do was re-decorate that bedroom, before the opportunity to have a boy over presented itself. I couldn't let a boy into my ugly, garish bedroom! Sure, the bed itself is grand and beautiful. But it's surrounded by ugly, garish walls! What would he think? My ugly, garish bedroom would totally overtake his exuberance at seeing me naked!
So far, I haven't managed to get up the ambition to even start this project of re-decoration. First, the bed easily weighs 1,000 pounds, and will have to be disassembled to even get it out of the room. So I am going to have to work on the walls one-by-one, and then promptly freak out when I reach the point behind the bed, as I will have to try to figure out how to paint around it, and I guarantee it won't be pretty, and I doubt it'll be well-thought-out. And the walls are so...garish. It will take endless coats of paint to cover up all that royal blue and gold. Ugh...so for now, I suck it up, since it's not like I'm sucking any boys right now, anyway. It is nowhere near as lovely as the real Van Gogh, nor is it anywhere near as beautiful as a starry northern Minnesota night.
The other night, I got together with some friends, and we decided to meet at J's house, because we are all broke. Too broke to even go to the bar. I am broker than broke right now. Beyond negative balance broke. So this worked fine for me.
J has an outdoor hot tub. I'd never been in an outdoor hot tub...in the winter. I protested loudly, until a bottle of wine and two pitchers of Amaretto Coke got me to join them.
Once I was in the steaming water, it was fabulous. It's a crazy experience, because all around you, the world is icy and snowy and freezing, but yet you are right in the middle, all warm and toasty and relaxed, even though your hair is iced to your head. We talked and laughed and talked some more, for hours. It was a great night.
In a lull in the conversation, I leaned my head back to look up at the stars. The sky was incredible: cloudless and bright, with each and every star in that starry sky shining twinkling. I stared for longer than one should, silently praying for a sign. A sign of something--of anything--that would assure me that things are going to be okay, that perhaps a soul mate does really exist out there somewhere in that starry night.
What was I expecting, really? A shooting star? Planetary movement? A meteor shower? A military fly-over? Any or all of these would've sufficed. But none happened.
At the end of the night, we begrudgingly hauled ourselves out of the blissful hot tub and into the single-degree night, but for the rest of that night, until I went to bed, I was happy and warm and downright...blissful and content. For those moments, I didn't care that I was single. In fact, I knew that the night could not have possibly been any better, even if I did have someone. It was the perfect starry night.
I thought I'd sleep like an angel that night because I was so relaxed, but of course, all good things must come to an end. I tossed and turned, and I blamed the dog. Turns out, my friends slept equally as poorly, and we later blamed this on the slight hangover and severe dehydration that comes from spending two hours in a hot tub in the dead of winter.
After a few hours of fitful sleep, I finally did fall asleep and slept until the alarm went off in the morning. When I awoke, I'd been dreaming about a boy, a boy who didn't even like me enough to call after he said he would. Suck. Sometimes, I think it should be mandated by law that if a boy doesn't call, he has to tell you the reason...but would you really want to know? I probably wouldn't. But his unspoken presence in the dream was still an agonizing reminder--or sign--that I'd wanted something I hadn't been able to get. Double suck. I hate that feeling.
But the true disappointment in that whole thing is that it's like that blissful starry night: secretly, deep down, you are hoping to recapture that feeling and that excitement that comes with first finding someone you are interested in romantically. I hope I get to feel that way again soon, but lately, experience has taught me not to count on it. But maybe--just maybe--the next time the boy will actually call, and I'll be counting the stars with him, whoever and where ever he is.
The entire house had ivory Berber carpeting, except for the master bedroom. That room had royal blue carpeting, for no real apparent reason. I guess the owner just favored royal blue in the bedroom, or it was the cheapest remnant available when he bought carpeting. Because the carpet was newly-installed and flawless, I could not justify replacing it before we moved in (read: I was too broke). So I decided I'd have to decorate the room to match the carpet.
Sometimes, I get these really wacky ideas that I can be all artsy and talented. I have no talents in the creative arts, apart from writing. In high school art class, the teacher would draw my picture for me, and then I'd just have to color it in. Just like a toddler, I'd be careful to stay within the lines, so I could get an A.
But since this was my first house, I was eager to decorate. I chose a retro black-and-white cherry theme for the bathroom, to match the deep green ceramic tiles. I chose a nautical theme for the living room, and painted it a slate blue to accent my lighthouse collection. For the master bedroom, I chose a Van Gogh 'Starry Night' theme.
It sounded good at the time. I had to paint the white walls to a deep royal blue, and I planned to sponge gold paint on top of that, in swirly starry night shapes, just like the painting itself. And I'd decided that I loved painting; I couldn't wait!
Four coats of royal blue into the project, I decided that painting sucked. I hated painting. All I ever did for two whole weeks was go to work, then drive to the house to paint on yet another coat of royal blue. Finally, the day came when I got to sponge on the gold paint. The first wall didn't look right. At that point, I didn't care. Like a maniac, I kept sponging on the gold paint, because I wanted to get the job done.
The room looked hideous. I added a celestial border near the ceiling, hoping it would deflect from the garish walls, but it only made my room look like it should belong to a teenager. I detested waking up and looking at this room every morning, the bright sunrise deflecting off the gold walls and offending my poor eyes. One of the good things about sleeping in the living room for the last six months of my marriage was that I didn't have to look at that room the moment I opened my eyes each morning.
After I got my husband out of my bedroom and out of my house, I vowed that the first thing I would do was re-decorate that bedroom, before the opportunity to have a boy over presented itself. I couldn't let a boy into my ugly, garish bedroom! Sure, the bed itself is grand and beautiful. But it's surrounded by ugly, garish walls! What would he think? My ugly, garish bedroom would totally overtake his exuberance at seeing me naked!
So far, I haven't managed to get up the ambition to even start this project of re-decoration. First, the bed easily weighs 1,000 pounds, and will have to be disassembled to even get it out of the room. So I am going to have to work on the walls one-by-one, and then promptly freak out when I reach the point behind the bed, as I will have to try to figure out how to paint around it, and I guarantee it won't be pretty, and I doubt it'll be well-thought-out. And the walls are so...garish. It will take endless coats of paint to cover up all that royal blue and gold. Ugh...so for now, I suck it up, since it's not like I'm sucking any boys right now, anyway. It is nowhere near as lovely as the real Van Gogh, nor is it anywhere near as beautiful as a starry northern Minnesota night.
The other night, I got together with some friends, and we decided to meet at J's house, because we are all broke. Too broke to even go to the bar. I am broker than broke right now. Beyond negative balance broke. So this worked fine for me.
J has an outdoor hot tub. I'd never been in an outdoor hot tub...in the winter. I protested loudly, until a bottle of wine and two pitchers of Amaretto Coke got me to join them.
Once I was in the steaming water, it was fabulous. It's a crazy experience, because all around you, the world is icy and snowy and freezing, but yet you are right in the middle, all warm and toasty and relaxed, even though your hair is iced to your head. We talked and laughed and talked some more, for hours. It was a great night.
In a lull in the conversation, I leaned my head back to look up at the stars. The sky was incredible: cloudless and bright, with each and every star in that starry sky shining twinkling. I stared for longer than one should, silently praying for a sign. A sign of something--of anything--that would assure me that things are going to be okay, that perhaps a soul mate does really exist out there somewhere in that starry night.
What was I expecting, really? A shooting star? Planetary movement? A meteor shower? A military fly-over? Any or all of these would've sufficed. But none happened.
At the end of the night, we begrudgingly hauled ourselves out of the blissful hot tub and into the single-degree night, but for the rest of that night, until I went to bed, I was happy and warm and downright...blissful and content. For those moments, I didn't care that I was single. In fact, I knew that the night could not have possibly been any better, even if I did have someone. It was the perfect starry night.
I thought I'd sleep like an angel that night because I was so relaxed, but of course, all good things must come to an end. I tossed and turned, and I blamed the dog. Turns out, my friends slept equally as poorly, and we later blamed this on the slight hangover and severe dehydration that comes from spending two hours in a hot tub in the dead of winter.
After a few hours of fitful sleep, I finally did fall asleep and slept until the alarm went off in the morning. When I awoke, I'd been dreaming about a boy, a boy who didn't even like me enough to call after he said he would. Suck. Sometimes, I think it should be mandated by law that if a boy doesn't call, he has to tell you the reason...but would you really want to know? I probably wouldn't. But his unspoken presence in the dream was still an agonizing reminder--or sign--that I'd wanted something I hadn't been able to get. Double suck. I hate that feeling.
But the true disappointment in that whole thing is that it's like that blissful starry night: secretly, deep down, you are hoping to recapture that feeling and that excitement that comes with first finding someone you are interested in romantically. I hope I get to feel that way again soon, but lately, experience has taught me not to count on it. But maybe--just maybe--the next time the boy will actually call, and I'll be counting the stars with him, whoever and where ever he is.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Big Girl in a Big Dress
I have, like, 30 magazine subscriptions. I am not joking. Every day, I get scores of them, sometimes five a day. I bet my mail carrier hates me.
Because I get so many magazines, it's easy to fall behind if I have other things going on, and that's been the case lately. Between taking care of AC and my emotional dramas caused by my divorce, I am woefully behind on my magazines. This is most noticeable with my weeklies, like People.
Last Friday, I had some spare time, because AC was at her Grammy's house and I had nothing else to do. Actually, that's a total lie. I had plenty else to do, but I was choosing not to do it. Sometimes, catching up on magazines is an accomplishment on its own, so I use that as an excuse to ignore housekeeping duties. After all, as my ex pointed out, I am no homemaker, so why change that now?
The issue that I grabbed, from a few weeks back, featured celebs and fashions from the 2010 Golden Globe awards. I was mortified when I saw this picture of Mad Men star Christina Hendricks, in which she was described as a "big girl in a big dress".
My jaw dropped and all I could think was, really, America? Really? This is a "big girl in a big dress"? Wow.
Being single again has caused me to have major body confidence issues. Not that I've ever had body confidence, mind you. Even when I was at my smallest, it was still a struggle, because thin was never thin enough. As I got older, it became harder and harder to maintain that thin, no matter what I did. By the time I married and started my desk job, I let go of that notion altogether. After all, I thought, even if I was "thin", what difference would it make? It wasn't going to significantly change my life in any way.
Now that I feel like I need to attract men, I could not be more self-concious of how I look. I've lost two sizes since I started my divorce, the product of a lack of appetite, which, upon seeing results, ended up as full-on starvation mode. I feel guilty when I eat, as if every bite brings me one step closer to upping a size again. But I still don't feel good or cute or accepting of myself.
I have a friend who has lost a significant amount of weight over the past year. Before she started losing weight, she was about my size. After her weight loss, she gave me a bunch of hand-me-down clothes, because she had shrunk, and they were worthless to her. I tried to stifle the minor sting this caused me, because she was trying to be nice, not point out my weight issues. The weight issue connection is all imaginary to me, because this friend is nothing but nice and gracious. She would never intentionally make me feel like shit about my weight, and I know that I only feel that way because of how I feel about myself inside.
A few weeks ago, we had lunch, and we were reviewing Facebook pictures of various people, including the girl that her ex-husband had an affair with. This girl was several sizes smaller than my friend, before my friend lost weight. As we looked at the pictures, my friend announced that when she divorced, she knew that she had to lose weight, because at the weight she was, she was unmarketable to men.
Unmarketable. To men. Her words stung beyond belief. I have no question that she didn't think when she said that. She was applying the term to how she felt about herself, without thinking that I am the weight she was before her weight loss. I doubt that she even realized that what she said would at all apply to me, and she'd never say something like that to be deliberately hurtful. But...by her standards, this makes me unmarketable.
I could not get those words out of my mind. To even have the word "unmarketable" pop up in my thoughts made me tear up. I scrutinzed myself in the mirror, wondering how I could fix my unmarketable-ness, and quickly. The "turkey waddle" of a lower tummy that I have since pregnancy and my C-section don't help, as weight loss actually makes this more profound. It's somehow like a growth, independent from my actual body, with a mind of its own. It doesn't tan with the rest of my stomach. It burns and it peels. The skin itself has never really regained feeling since my C-section, and is still numb to the touch. I could grab a handful of skin and flab and who knows what else. It's covered in stretch marks. It's very unattractive. It's unmarketable.
I wish I could say that I have the inner confidence to blow this off and feel good about myself, regardless of what society says. I am cute. Right now, I wear the same size as the "average" American woman--and I am three inches taller than "average". I'll probably hit a below-average size, in time, especially if I could manage to utilize the free time that joint custody brings to work out instead of read magazines. But yet...this still is not good enough. No matter how thin I got, it would not be good enough, when we live in a world where even "average" is not good enough and is harshly criticized.
Over the weekend, I got together with a friend from high school, someone I had not seen since the end of our sophomore year, when I moved out of the area. We had a good laugh over all the times that I tried to "guide" her into a proper model walk, making her walk with a book on her head to better her posture. She said to me, "One of the things that I have always liked about you is that you have always had that confidence to go after what you want, even if you don't necessarily know what it is that you want."
I laughed inside, because in my mind, hidden beneath my towering tsumami of a personality, is actually a gurgling cesspool of insecurity. It causes me to never feel good enough, no matter how many sizes I lose or how cute I look or how funny I am.
No matter what, when I look at myself in the mirror, all I can see is "big girl in a big dress" and "unmarketable"...
Because I get so many magazines, it's easy to fall behind if I have other things going on, and that's been the case lately. Between taking care of AC and my emotional dramas caused by my divorce, I am woefully behind on my magazines. This is most noticeable with my weeklies, like People.
Last Friday, I had some spare time, because AC was at her Grammy's house and I had nothing else to do. Actually, that's a total lie. I had plenty else to do, but I was choosing not to do it. Sometimes, catching up on magazines is an accomplishment on its own, so I use that as an excuse to ignore housekeeping duties. After all, as my ex pointed out, I am no homemaker, so why change that now?
The issue that I grabbed, from a few weeks back, featured celebs and fashions from the 2010 Golden Globe awards. I was mortified when I saw this picture of Mad Men star Christina Hendricks, in which she was described as a "big girl in a big dress".
My jaw dropped and all I could think was, really, America? Really? This is a "big girl in a big dress"? Wow.
Being single again has caused me to have major body confidence issues. Not that I've ever had body confidence, mind you. Even when I was at my smallest, it was still a struggle, because thin was never thin enough. As I got older, it became harder and harder to maintain that thin, no matter what I did. By the time I married and started my desk job, I let go of that notion altogether. After all, I thought, even if I was "thin", what difference would it make? It wasn't going to significantly change my life in any way.
Now that I feel like I need to attract men, I could not be more self-concious of how I look. I've lost two sizes since I started my divorce, the product of a lack of appetite, which, upon seeing results, ended up as full-on starvation mode. I feel guilty when I eat, as if every bite brings me one step closer to upping a size again. But I still don't feel good or cute or accepting of myself.
I have a friend who has lost a significant amount of weight over the past year. Before she started losing weight, she was about my size. After her weight loss, she gave me a bunch of hand-me-down clothes, because she had shrunk, and they were worthless to her. I tried to stifle the minor sting this caused me, because she was trying to be nice, not point out my weight issues. The weight issue connection is all imaginary to me, because this friend is nothing but nice and gracious. She would never intentionally make me feel like shit about my weight, and I know that I only feel that way because of how I feel about myself inside.
A few weeks ago, we had lunch, and we were reviewing Facebook pictures of various people, including the girl that her ex-husband had an affair with. This girl was several sizes smaller than my friend, before my friend lost weight. As we looked at the pictures, my friend announced that when she divorced, she knew that she had to lose weight, because at the weight she was, she was unmarketable to men.
Unmarketable. To men. Her words stung beyond belief. I have no question that she didn't think when she said that. She was applying the term to how she felt about herself, without thinking that I am the weight she was before her weight loss. I doubt that she even realized that what she said would at all apply to me, and she'd never say something like that to be deliberately hurtful. But...by her standards, this makes me unmarketable.
I could not get those words out of my mind. To even have the word "unmarketable" pop up in my thoughts made me tear up. I scrutinzed myself in the mirror, wondering how I could fix my unmarketable-ness, and quickly. The "turkey waddle" of a lower tummy that I have since pregnancy and my C-section don't help, as weight loss actually makes this more profound. It's somehow like a growth, independent from my actual body, with a mind of its own. It doesn't tan with the rest of my stomach. It burns and it peels. The skin itself has never really regained feeling since my C-section, and is still numb to the touch. I could grab a handful of skin and flab and who knows what else. It's covered in stretch marks. It's very unattractive. It's unmarketable.
I wish I could say that I have the inner confidence to blow this off and feel good about myself, regardless of what society says. I am cute. Right now, I wear the same size as the "average" American woman--and I am three inches taller than "average". I'll probably hit a below-average size, in time, especially if I could manage to utilize the free time that joint custody brings to work out instead of read magazines. But yet...this still is not good enough. No matter how thin I got, it would not be good enough, when we live in a world where even "average" is not good enough and is harshly criticized.
Over the weekend, I got together with a friend from high school, someone I had not seen since the end of our sophomore year, when I moved out of the area. We had a good laugh over all the times that I tried to "guide" her into a proper model walk, making her walk with a book on her head to better her posture. She said to me, "One of the things that I have always liked about you is that you have always had that confidence to go after what you want, even if you don't necessarily know what it is that you want."
I laughed inside, because in my mind, hidden beneath my towering tsumami of a personality, is actually a gurgling cesspool of insecurity. It causes me to never feel good enough, no matter how many sizes I lose or how cute I look or how funny I am.
No matter what, when I look at myself in the mirror, all I can see is "big girl in a big dress" and "unmarketable"...
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Universal Fix-It: The Band-Aid
My toddler, like all toddlers and all children, loves Band-Aids. She regularly critiques the selection of Band-Aids in our medicine cabinet. Typically, there's a good three or four boxes in rotation, from SpongeBob to Scooby.
Last night, I left the medicine cabinet open while we were brushing our teeth before bed, and she spied a fresh box of Disney Princess Band-Aids. The brush dropped from her hand and she exclaimed, "You bought PRINCESS Band-Aids? I love Princess Band-Aids!"
Naturally, once she found this fresh offering, she was suddenly covered in boo-boos. Most are invisible. Some are described as "huge" or "hurting". All are in need of a Band-Aid.
Last night, she presented a dried scab on her pointer finger, and I dutifully covered it with a Princess Band-Aid. And then her other hand mysteriously developed a boo-boo: the kind that cannot be seen with the naked eye. Nevertheless, a Band-Aid is not worth fighting over and makes her happy, so I applied a Band-Aid and we went to bed.
In the middle of the night, I awoke to AC poking me and screaming about the Band-Aid. It was in her hair. She insisted that I cut it, and in the dark, I fumbled to feel for the Band-Aid in her hair. Sure enough, I felt it twisted in her locks. I told her that it was okay and we would fix it in the morning. She told me it was not okay, and that I needed to cut her hair.
At this point, I was really tired. Not just a little bit tired, but dead exhausted. It was 3:30 in the morning. My three-year-old was demanding a haircut. In bed. At 3:30 in the morning.
In the interest of getting back to sleep quickly, I got the scissors and obliged. I scarcely remember the act, only that I tried to snip it as quickly as possible, avoiding as much collateral damage as possible. Then we both went back to sleep.
When I woke up this morning, the memory came back to me: I cut my three-year-old's hair in the dark at 3:30 in the morning to free her from a stuck-on Band-Aid. Before I even rolled over, I cringed, imagining the result.
Fortunately, there was little damage. In fact, I could hardly tell, though I was very tired this morning and might see a difference when I look at the 3-in-the-morning hairdo tonight. If worse comes to worse and it is noticeable, I will have no choice but to lie and tell people that she cut her own hair, because to admit that you cut your toddler's hair in the middle of the night in the dark is not socially acceptable.
This morning, AC requested another Band-Aid, to cover the gaping empty spot on her hand. I let her select her Band-Aid, and wondered to myself...if it's this easy to placate a child, why isn't there a universal Band-Aid for adults? Is it because most wounds that adults endure are emotional, and a proverbial Band-Aid would never fall off, because those wounds never heal, and everyone would eventually just be a walking Band-Aid?
Last night, I left the medicine cabinet open while we were brushing our teeth before bed, and she spied a fresh box of Disney Princess Band-Aids. The brush dropped from her hand and she exclaimed, "You bought PRINCESS Band-Aids? I love Princess Band-Aids!"
Naturally, once she found this fresh offering, she was suddenly covered in boo-boos. Most are invisible. Some are described as "huge" or "hurting". All are in need of a Band-Aid.
Last night, she presented a dried scab on her pointer finger, and I dutifully covered it with a Princess Band-Aid. And then her other hand mysteriously developed a boo-boo: the kind that cannot be seen with the naked eye. Nevertheless, a Band-Aid is not worth fighting over and makes her happy, so I applied a Band-Aid and we went to bed.
In the middle of the night, I awoke to AC poking me and screaming about the Band-Aid. It was in her hair. She insisted that I cut it, and in the dark, I fumbled to feel for the Band-Aid in her hair. Sure enough, I felt it twisted in her locks. I told her that it was okay and we would fix it in the morning. She told me it was not okay, and that I needed to cut her hair.
At this point, I was really tired. Not just a little bit tired, but dead exhausted. It was 3:30 in the morning. My three-year-old was demanding a haircut. In bed. At 3:30 in the morning.
In the interest of getting back to sleep quickly, I got the scissors and obliged. I scarcely remember the act, only that I tried to snip it as quickly as possible, avoiding as much collateral damage as possible. Then we both went back to sleep.
When I woke up this morning, the memory came back to me: I cut my three-year-old's hair in the dark at 3:30 in the morning to free her from a stuck-on Band-Aid. Before I even rolled over, I cringed, imagining the result.
Fortunately, there was little damage. In fact, I could hardly tell, though I was very tired this morning and might see a difference when I look at the 3-in-the-morning hairdo tonight. If worse comes to worse and it is noticeable, I will have no choice but to lie and tell people that she cut her own hair, because to admit that you cut your toddler's hair in the middle of the night in the dark is not socially acceptable.
This morning, AC requested another Band-Aid, to cover the gaping empty spot on her hand. I let her select her Band-Aid, and wondered to myself...if it's this easy to placate a child, why isn't there a universal Band-Aid for adults? Is it because most wounds that adults endure are emotional, and a proverbial Band-Aid would never fall off, because those wounds never heal, and everyone would eventually just be a walking Band-Aid?
THAT Kind of Girl
My friend H, who was the most adamant about not getting into a relationship quickly after her divorce, was the first one to find a relationship. Go figure. I guess that's where that old "it happens when you aren't looking for it" adage comes into play.
However, for all the complaints and fears I have over being single, she has an equal amount over being in a relationship. Her ex-husband cheated on her, multiple times. Not just random, at-the-bar kissing, but actual relationships. Not just once. Three different women.
Needless to say, she has some obvious trust issues. Facebook and texting played huge roles in her ex-husband's affairs, and she is very aware of the risks presented by these new communication sources. Hell, she's even used them herself a time or two.
Last week, she had a disagreement with her boyfriend over his acceptance of a Facebook friend request. She didn't tell him to accept, she didn't tell him not to accept. She did, however, point out her concerns over his acceptance of this friend request, based on witnessing this person's behavior and her lack of boundaries--because she was that kind of girl, so to speak. When her boyfriend chose to accept the friend request--under the premise of being nice--H was unhappy, to say the least.
A disagreement ensued between H and her boyfriend, and in response, he deleted 22 of his Facebook friends--the vast majority of the single women. Including me. Which got me to thinking...does he think I am that kind of girl?
That kind of girl is Rielle Hunter, who lured that nasty John Edwards into a lurid affair, knowing that everyone in the world knew that his long-suffering wife of many years had cancer. That kind of girl are Tiger Woods' many mistresses, who knew damn well that they didn't go under the moniker Elin Nordegren. That kind of girl is the forever-infamous Long Island Lolita, Amy Fisher, who as a teenager was seduced into an affair with a married man, and then allegedly assisted in his plot to kill the wife. I am not that kind of girl.
In my defense...there is no way I'd be that kind of girl with him. Ever. Even if he and H broke up, it wouldn't matter, because there's always that unspoken bond of friendship between her and I. In the time that he and H have been together, we've socialized on numerous occasions, and I never realized that I was giving out signals that I am that kind of girl. But maybe I was, if he felt it necessary to delete me.
In my un-defense...I have been guilty of being that kind of girl. Looking at some of my aforementioned posts would spell this out quite clearly. I had a knack. For sexting. Married Men. On Facebook.
H's belief is that your best defense against becoming that kind of girl with someone else's man is to befriend the wife. And I have no doubt that she's right. That's why I never wanted details from my Married Man's personal life. If I had to put a face attached to his wife's name, it would make it too personal. That kind of girl has to keep personal out of it, if only to selfishly spare her own feelings.
But it still brings me back to my concern: am I that kind of girl? I'd like to think not. I'd like to think I am nice and relationship-worthy. But sometimes I wonder. A friend once told me that she saw a news article on teens and sexting, and she automatically thought of me. I was like, what?!? You see something on sexting and automatically think, "J"?!? And it seems that the only men I ever find on online dating sites are the ones interested in sexting. Not dating. Sexting.
I just don't get it...maybe I am that kind of girl, and I just don't know it.
However, for all the complaints and fears I have over being single, she has an equal amount over being in a relationship. Her ex-husband cheated on her, multiple times. Not just random, at-the-bar kissing, but actual relationships. Not just once. Three different women.
Needless to say, she has some obvious trust issues. Facebook and texting played huge roles in her ex-husband's affairs, and she is very aware of the risks presented by these new communication sources. Hell, she's even used them herself a time or two.
Last week, she had a disagreement with her boyfriend over his acceptance of a Facebook friend request. She didn't tell him to accept, she didn't tell him not to accept. She did, however, point out her concerns over his acceptance of this friend request, based on witnessing this person's behavior and her lack of boundaries--because she was that kind of girl, so to speak. When her boyfriend chose to accept the friend request--under the premise of being nice--H was unhappy, to say the least.
A disagreement ensued between H and her boyfriend, and in response, he deleted 22 of his Facebook friends--the vast majority of the single women. Including me. Which got me to thinking...does he think I am that kind of girl?
That kind of girl is Rielle Hunter, who lured that nasty John Edwards into a lurid affair, knowing that everyone in the world knew that his long-suffering wife of many years had cancer. That kind of girl are Tiger Woods' many mistresses, who knew damn well that they didn't go under the moniker Elin Nordegren. That kind of girl is the forever-infamous Long Island Lolita, Amy Fisher, who as a teenager was seduced into an affair with a married man, and then allegedly assisted in his plot to kill the wife. I am not that kind of girl.
In my defense...there is no way I'd be that kind of girl with him. Ever. Even if he and H broke up, it wouldn't matter, because there's always that unspoken bond of friendship between her and I. In the time that he and H have been together, we've socialized on numerous occasions, and I never realized that I was giving out signals that I am that kind of girl. But maybe I was, if he felt it necessary to delete me.
In my un-defense...I have been guilty of being that kind of girl. Looking at some of my aforementioned posts would spell this out quite clearly. I had a knack. For sexting. Married Men. On Facebook.
H's belief is that your best defense against becoming that kind of girl with someone else's man is to befriend the wife. And I have no doubt that she's right. That's why I never wanted details from my Married Man's personal life. If I had to put a face attached to his wife's name, it would make it too personal. That kind of girl has to keep personal out of it, if only to selfishly spare her own feelings.
But it still brings me back to my concern: am I that kind of girl? I'd like to think not. I'd like to think I am nice and relationship-worthy. But sometimes I wonder. A friend once told me that she saw a news article on teens and sexting, and she automatically thought of me. I was like, what?!? You see something on sexting and automatically think, "J"?!? And it seems that the only men I ever find on online dating sites are the ones interested in sexting. Not dating. Sexting.
I just don't get it...maybe I am that kind of girl, and I just don't know it.
My Soul is Bare...
My daughter's third birthday is four days away. In four days, she will officially be out of her "terrible twos", though I have been told that "terrible threes" is far worse. I can hardly wait.
When I started blogging a year ago, I meant it to be an archive of the funny things that AC has done and said over the past year. And that went well...for about six posts. Then I dumped the blogging thing altogether, until I started my divorce process over the fall. Then, instead of blogging about my terrible two-year-old, I blogged about divorce and break-ups and lost loves and heartbreak and dating. I used swear words and obscenities. I was lectured by some well-meaning friends that one cannot use such words and terms on a "parenting" blog. My ex-husband told me that my blog was the equivilent of "man repellent", and that any man who read it would never want to date me.
So, in light of the fact that my blog is now anything but a parenting blog and my child is anything but a two-year-old, I decided a name change was in order: My Soul is Bare...
Guess where I got the name from? Those of you who already read my blog would probably guess: a Britney Spears' song, 'Me Against the Music'. I've listened to those lyrics a lot, and whenever I hear that particular line, I always think that Britney has the right idea. Maybe to recover from whatever trauma we are facing in life--or life in general--it's just best to spill your guts until your soul is bare.
And, as we all know, I have no problem spilling my guts...
When I started blogging a year ago, I meant it to be an archive of the funny things that AC has done and said over the past year. And that went well...for about six posts. Then I dumped the blogging thing altogether, until I started my divorce process over the fall. Then, instead of blogging about my terrible two-year-old, I blogged about divorce and break-ups and lost loves and heartbreak and dating. I used swear words and obscenities. I was lectured by some well-meaning friends that one cannot use such words and terms on a "parenting" blog. My ex-husband told me that my blog was the equivilent of "man repellent", and that any man who read it would never want to date me.
So, in light of the fact that my blog is now anything but a parenting blog and my child is anything but a two-year-old, I decided a name change was in order: My Soul is Bare...
Guess where I got the name from? Those of you who already read my blog would probably guess: a Britney Spears' song, 'Me Against the Music'. I've listened to those lyrics a lot, and whenever I hear that particular line, I always think that Britney has the right idea. Maybe to recover from whatever trauma we are facing in life--or life in general--it's just best to spill your guts until your soul is bare.
And, as we all know, I have no problem spilling my guts...
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