Archive for January, 2016

14 Jan 2016

8-Year-Old: The Next Generation

1 Comment Uncategorized

Dear 8-Year-Old,

Yesterday, after school, we tried a new homework tactic to avoid the 2-hour back and forth that happens daily. It worked pretty well.

Yesterday, after homework, I let you play on your iPad for 10 minutes.

Yesterday, after the iPad, we threw the football.

Last night I served you stir fry with organic, grass-fed beef because I know you love beef stir-fry and I found a recipe. You picked at the broccoli and carrots and I let you leave several on your plate.

Last night I drove you to flag football practice and sat there in the cold as you ran your butt off.

Last night I gave you a bowl of cereal because you were hungry from all that running. I let you eat it in front of the TV, and stay up past your bedtime.

Last night I let you sleep in my bed because Dad’s not home, and I went into YOUR bed at 1:00 AM because there was no room for me between you and the dogs.

Last night I stayed with you until you fell asleep. I always stay with you until you fall asleep.

This morning I placed the raisins on your peanut butter and jelly sandwich exactly where you wanted them.

This morning I told your teacher to please let you get ice if you needed some for the broken blood vessel you got in your eye during practice last night.

I did this all because I love you.

My parents loved me this much, too.

But the only thing they would have allowed…

Is the peanut butter.

 

 

06 Jan 2016

My Face Hurts

No Comments Personal Crap, Uncategorized

SO!

Let’s talk about all the reasons I sat in a chair today in a very clean medical-type office and let a woman inject many many vials of things into my face.

What in the fucking world could possibly have made it okay in my head to to that?

Why am I not enough when I look at myself?

Why can’t I allow myself to age gracefully?

Why do I not see my humor and heart as enough beauty to get me by in life?

What went wrong?

Oh, man. I have no idea! It’s not like I was ever this beauty who could begin wars or talk a bartender into free drinks. Wait, that’s not true. I got a lot of free drinks. And I talked myself out of two tickets when I was younger. One of them, when I was younger and braless. And I did have a “way” about me. Sex appeal, I guess. But I was no great beauty. And nothing I ever got that meant anything was because of my attractiveness.

I’ve never gotten an acting job as the lead girl or the love interest. All of my work has been character work, and rarely even attractive.

My husband fell in love with me because of my ability to laugh at myself, my utter lack of grace, and my honesty. And maybe my boobs a little.

None of my friends saw me and thought, “I must befriend that GORGEOUS girl so some of her BEAUTY can rub off on me.

I’ve never been that girl.

And yet I find myself looking in the mirror and not liking what’s happening. I don’t like those two lines between my eyebrows that make me look concerned all the time. I don’t like the drooping of my face, the loss of youthfulness, the shit that’s going on with my NECK that is beyond reason and apparently unfixable.

But why can’t I look at all of that and laugh it off? Why can’t I see it as the natural progression of life and allow it to free myself up to be ME? WHY do I HAVE to stay young and attractive? What does that get me? I can’t answer that. I really can’t.

And yet I sat there today and asked for Dysport in my forehead, got filler in those pesky anger lines, and then let myself be talked into more volume in my face. Because you can’t look “refreshed” when your face isn’t full. Of poison.

So now I’m having all these fears.

What if I just put a bunch of shit in my face and it makes my perfectly HEALTHY face… NOT healthy. I’ll never forgive myself.

What if it all works and I still feel unattractive? What then?

What if it works and I love it and I never stop filling my face with poison?

I could have had 10 great therapy sessions with the money I spent on those injections. Maybe that’s what I should be doing instead. Maybe I should be finding out why I don’t think I’m good enough just the way I am.

Because I AM! I am good enough!

Ouch. That outburst hurt. My face feels like someone punched me with needles over and over again. Oh, wait. They did.

I wanted to write this because I just felt like it might be good for me to put it out there that I did this thing. And now that you know, I can continue to be honest about it with you. I might tell you in two weeks that it’s the best decision for me. I might tell you I won’t ever do it again or that I’ve decided to cut my hair, stop wearing makeup, and start enjoying my aging process. I don’t know how I’ll feel about it tomorrow or in a month.

But right now I’m a bit mad at myself. And I also want to hug myself and ask me why It matters if I have wrinkles or not. Because I really do know that it’s not my face or my thighs or my ass that makes me who I am. I just don’t ever believe that long enough to LIVE that way.

I want to change the script. I really do. But right now I’ve got a face full of stuff that wasn’t in there before, and it’s continuing the script I was already writing. I’ll let you know what happens after the swelling goes down.

 

 

 

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