I was having a conversation with this friend last night, and although I appreciate his kind words, and the sincerity in which he says them, he’s actually created this person in his mind that is supposed to be me, but it’s not me. Instead she is a 20-something year old, smokin’ hot, Victoria Secret model that wears wings on her back, has a trunk load of emotional strength in reserve, never breaks down, can create World Peace, has a heart of gold, and, I imagine, speaks with a an endearing accent that, if you really listen to, probably slightly mimics the sounds of one with a severe speech impediment. That’s adorable. That’s not me.
On listening to the advice from another friend, “Write, write, write, write… Be you and let the
chips fall where they may…” I’m about to do that right now.
My conversation last night, and in retrospect, ALL previous conversations with this friend, seems to center around his
complimenting my looks. …you look like
your still in high school… you look barely old enough to be a mother, let alone
a grandmother… you have a hot body… you don’t have wrinkles, you don’t have gray
hair… (That’s right, these pesky motherfuckers are deprived of color- they’re white).
These compliments may have been more believable about a year
ago – well except for the ‘hot body’. There are hotter bodies out there, just
look around. No wings on my back!! And seriously, you are not allowed to do this
to me – don’t put me in some category that forces me to suck in, turn down,
avoid and basically threaten my ego. Some of us jiggle when we sneeze too hard.
That’s it.
I hate hearing these things, especially when he says them
while looking at a picture of me that has been blurred and contrasted and toned
and layered with photo effects like squirrely things. “I’m looking at your
picture.” IT’S BEEN BLURRED AND CONTRASTED AND TONED AND LAYERED WITH PHOTO
EFFECTS LIKE SQUIRRLY THINGS.
And then there are the words of wisdom and pep talks …you’re a smart girl …you’re a survivor
…you’re a strong woman and can get through anything …
I hate hearing these things, especially after I just spent
the entire ride home, literally aching inside because my heart hurts, my ego
hurts, my plan fell apart, I’m scared, I’m alone, and I am missing my mother’s
couch – the one place that was the safest for me and it’s gone forever, for
good, even though I need it, and now I have to somehow make my own safe place, without
help, with no net, for my daughter. She needs a couch and I don’t have one. And
I cry.
Friend from Facebook, please don’t talk to me as if you know
me, who I am, what I’m capable of, how much I can handle and with what amount
of grace I can do it with. We’re ONLY Facebook friends. You don’t know me. Don’t
dismiss my flaws as if they are non-existent. They exist; the physical ones and
the emotional ones. I’m okay with them. You should be too. They prove I’ve
survived 45 years. Stop downplaying my problems for me. You make me mad when
you look at me as that person in your head, the one that can bring about World Peace
with her shiny armor. That’s not me. I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that.
I’d rather vent and then eat chocolate. And please don’t tell me again that everyone
has problems, everyone makes mistakes.
I know. I know. I know.
I. KNOW.
I’m not the only one with stuff, but if you ask me how I am
or what’s happening in my life, then listen to me, or please don’t ask. It affects
me emotionally, and I’m too emotional right now to handle it.
The real me - well my
feelings get hurt easily, I doubt my decisions, question my feelings, require
validation and always need advice - real advice like let the chips fall where they may, channel your emotions, don’t be so
hard on yourself, and put yourself first.
A year ago, plus the 8 or so before, I spent the better
portion either in the gym or on my calculator calculating - calories in,
calories out, calories left to play with. I worked out 2 to 3 hours a day, at
least 5 days a week. I ran 6 nights a week, no less than 5 miles a run. I washed
my car by hand. Unless I was buying ice cream, I walked to the store and back,
no matter how many bags I had to carry. I carried a case of water for a mile
and a half once. I climbed stairs, even if I wasn’t going up. I walked my dogs…
individually. I weighed myself every morning
as soon as I woke up and always in the buff. The scale was always placed in the
exact same spot on the bathroom floor. I weighed 105 lbs., ninety of which were
muscle. Thirteen percent body fat.
I also… came up
with reasons why I couldn’t make Happy Hour. I pretend-ate birthday cake. I
nursed lite beer. I stopped answering my phone. When I laid down, I’d feel for
my hip bones, and I’d sigh relief when I felt them. I always looked at myself
sideways in the mirror. I ate ONLY frozen yogurt and drank a tall, skinny
Caramel Macchiato (twice a day) for an entire year – 580 calories. I pinched. I
sucked. I saved all my big clothes because I wasn’t sure how long it would last.
I gave up on God. I always felt guilty… about… everything. I never made decisions. Distrusted men. Politeness took precedence over honesty. And
I always acted like I knew what I was doing.
…and you think that
person has wings on her back…
Today, January 31, 2013, I’ll happily (and proudly) agree
that I don’t look my age. I’ll also cop to the following: I still nurse lite
beers, I run as often as I can, I will skip ALL meals of the day and instead just
eat a Cadbury Egg (plus… umm… one?), I still feel for my hip bones
when I lay down, I haven’t found God, I cry a couple times a week, I get pissed-off
angry when I hear or read stories on infidelity, and I’m scared I haven’t
prepared Haley well enough for motherhood.
But please don’t think for a minute that I THINK my life is over because of those
things, or because I was cheated on or my daughter might go into labor while I’m
STILL in Vegas or that I sent an email without a subject in the subject line … because
as much as those are all stressors in my life, I’m pretty confident I’m not
going to end it over any of those. Try saying “He lost the best thing he ever
had” or “No cop will give you a speeding ticket when you tell him why you’re
daring a road trip between Vegas and Phoenix in less than 3 hours.” Those would
be good things to say. “It’ll be okay, honey, don’t worry, so what else is new
in your life?” is not. When I complain or get emotional about things, don’t
offer that crappy line “You can handle it.” I’m pretty sure I can. And I don’t
have a choice, really. Either stop asking, or just offer your advice or your
pep talk a little more SILENTLY. Accept
my rants for what they are. Then accept me for who I am – someone without wings
on her back … (but with lovely hip bones...) 
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