Thursday, June 30, 2011

On radiation, love, and acceptance....

For as long as I can remember, I've been the type of person that wants to look my very best nearly all the time, even when I'm camping. Call me crazy, but that's how I've always rolled. Pretty everyone that's ever known me knows this to be true. I took it to an extreme once when people started making fun of me for this and took a curling iron on a camping trip. It was a giant "F*** you!" to a lot of the people that had made fun of me and it was done in jest and irony, but I did it nonetheless (no, I never used it. I'm not that dumb).

For whatever reason, I always want to make sure I look my best, but I fail at that a LOT. This failure stems from my own feelings of inadequacy so where I fail, most people probably don't even see it.
My lips are constantly chapped. I have rough, worked hands. My feet are vein-y and look weird. My breasts are approximately two sizes to small (I'm like the Grinch of boobs). I have a gut that I can't seem to get rid of despite my best efforts. My cheeks are a little too wide, especially on one side, thanks to my molar removal surgery when I was 17. I have an inexplicable scar on my forehead that I try to cover with my bangs most of the time. I have bowed legs and am knock-kneed (yeah, it provides for good entertainment when I'm's worse than Phoebe, I swear). I have birthing hips and an ass that won't quit.

On top of all that, I tend to speak my mind at inappropriate times. Sometimes I tell bad jokes and say things that I regret because they come out so much differently than I intend. I can be lazy and rude. I've been known to go for the cheap laugh. All of which are the product of some situation or another.

Junior high and high school were rough for me, like they are for so many people. I was anorexic and probably mildly depressed for a good few years (though few probably knew that). The one person who probably should have known never would have because I hid it THAT well. I don't even think I admitted it to that person until well after high school and it was a painful conversation to say the least.

I still carry all of those issues and insecurities with me and I probably always will. But I'm coming to terms with the fact that I will never be perfect and, maybe more importantly, no one is expecting me to be. I read something the other day that struck a chord with me and resonates with a mantra that I want to carry with me always: A mother who radiates self-love and acceptance actually vaccinates her daughter against low self-esteem (Naomi Wolf).

I have a lot of issues and things that I think are "wrong" with me, but I don't ever want any spawn of mine to think that he or she has to be anything they can't, don't want, or don't need to be. So I'm working on trying to carry all my "mistakes" and insecurities proudly and be okay with all of them. I'll still try to have a flat belly, but I'm not going to deny myself a good burger.

Like she said in "Eat Pray Love": "I'm so tired of saying no and waking up in the morning and recalling every single thing I ate the day before. Counting every calorie I consume so I know exactly how much self-loathing to take into the shower. I'm going for it. I have no interest in being obese. I'm just through with the guilt. So this is what I'm going to do. I'm going to finish this pizza and then we're going to go watch the soccer game, and tomorrow, we're going to go on a little date and buy ourselves some bigger jeans."

And now here's a picture that maybe isn't my favorite: 
Yep, bow-legged, crazy, and WHOA! Check out that five-head!

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Wednesday, June 29, 2011

On creative disasters....

The other day, my creativity came up in conversation with my husband. We're both rather creative people, to be honest. He's written several books and has come up with no less than three different universes for those books. It's pretty amazing. I'm looking forward to hearing the stories he comes up with to tell our kids at bedtime (because, sorry honey...A Game of Thrones is NOT, I repeat, NOT an acceptable bedtime story for a toddler). He has a wonderful imagination and I never tire of reading his stories (especially the "love stories" that he writes when I ask him to).

My creativity lies in a different type of story-telling and even more in the ability to envision events and see them through to completion. Todd is forever going on and on about how he thinks I'm a great writer and that I should put that to use in the vein of story-telling. I'm not quite sure where he gets that idea. I tried writing a story once and it was kind of an epic fail. I've actually written a number of stories, all of them for one class or another. Fiction is a beast to write, no lie. It's not my favorite thing to do by a long shot. My best story-telling comes when I'm simply re-telling a story that's already happened (that, I can write some damn fine poetry).

My family is a huge mess of hilarious stories. I will never tire of telling stories of my dad's many (MANY) home-improvement injuries or my brother's travels or my sister's inability to distinguish Queen from Def Leppard or my mom's many years of teaching (and her inexplicable punch-dancing when I sing the "Team America" theme song). I guess if I wanted to write a book, something Todd is really itching for me to do, it would be something of a memoir based on my family. The problem there is the problem that comes with many memoirs: no one really cares (except maybe for the people mentioned in them).

My own life story is what can only be described as "beautiful disaster." Seriously. There are so many points in my life that make me think, "Well, that wasn't bright, was it?" or "How am I still alive?" or "What possessed me to think THAT was a good idea?" Those are really some of the funniest parts, even if they involve me admitting my own stupidity.

I doubt I'll ever write a book, much less one about my family, but if you're ever in the market for a good story, especially one that involves injury and mayhem, then I'm your girl.

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