All’s fair in love and tagging. Or so sayeth Shakespeare. Maybe it was Marlowe? Hard to tell now. That English Lit. degree is lost somewhere in the depths of that junk drawer in my kitchen so it’s difficult to remember.
When I tagged Julie the other day she returned the favor and asked me and a couple of pregnant ladies and even some un-pregnant ones about when they were at their most ‘bangable.’ I’m going out on a limb here to suggest that means when we think we were at our prettiest. Like princesses. Like darling young ladies who felt really good about themselves. Or maybe she meant when I had bangs. Me and bangs just don’t get along.
You really don’t want me to start talking about hair because I’m a curly girl.
Tangent coming up! This one’s for the Curly Girls and Guys. I’m looking at you, Mr. Brilliant Malcolm Gladwell.
I found a new product line called Ouidad and if you visit their site you’ll find where they offer free trials of products after you let them know about your own curly hair. FREE TRIALS, CURLY PEOPLE.
With that said, I suppose I’d better get back on track here, except I feel another left turn coming up ahead.
Growing up with a beautiful, athletic, popular sister it was hard to ever feel ‘pretty’. One story in particular comes to mind when I think about how I’ve viewed myself as a girl, a young woman, and eventually a woman. My father was active in the Jaycees and helped to coordinate all of the events where we lived and, since he was big on staying active, he signed us up for all kinds of marathon runs for charity. We were about 12 and 13 years old at the time. In one of them there were all these celebrities and my sister and I were quite overwhelmed with meeting these people who our parents talked about. We weren’t all that much into Frankie Avalon or Connie Stevens, but we couldn’t wait to meet Smokey Robinson.
After the marathon there was a dinner at a banquet hall where my father took both of us after we’d cleaned up from our sweaty runs and we stood close by our father in the hopes that Mr. Robinson would shake our hands. Maybe we’ll get an autograph!
As we sidled up to him my father very proudly presented his two daughters and he did shake our hands. Smokey, known for his sparkling eyes, noticed that mine were about the same color as his and told me, “Pretty eyes!” and I probably stopped breathing for a second there. Then, my older sister was presented to him and he gasped. “Oh! SHE’S beautiful!”
There was enough of a difference in the way he said that for everyone to notice. I continued to hold my breath except now I was also holding back tears. I knew that everyone thought she was pretty, but I wanted that, too. What little girl doesn’t? My father’s hand was squeezing mine tightly and, in a rare moment of complete understanding from him, he pulled me back into the circle where Smokey Robinson was salivating over my sister and firmly said, “Both of my daughters are beautiful. Thank you for meeting them.”
In what would become a pattern for us, Erin would take me off to the side and reassure me that we looked the same and that none of this mattered and look! Shrimp cocktail! Let’s distract you with food!
If I could fast forward to being 17 I recall having this strange thought that feeling good about myself wouldn’t really happen until I hit my stride in my 30s. It took that long to drop the baby fat from my kids, gain strength from weightlifting, and finally getting control of pimples and wild hair. (See above)
Now that you know how Smokey Robinson helped blow my self-esteem for my teen years, you’ll understand why I like myself much more now and that it took until I was 34 years old to actually have a good picture taken of myself.
I forgive you, Smokey. But you had no idea looking at me how much worth I had on the inside anyway. Now, sing me a sweet lullaby and we’ll call it even.
