Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings – Wedding

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October 28, 1987

Dear 22-year old self,

You have just started the bank. Congratulations! This means you’ve taken a HUGE step forward in your financial career (of course, that will fizzle out shortly after you have your first child but we’ll talk about that later).

The sexy guy you now work with? The blonde hunk in the drive-thru? Guess what. You’re going to marry him. I KNOW! How cool is that, right? He’s smart, funny, fun to be around and he will end up being your best friend and the best thing that ever happened to you.

But first. You will live together for two years – a trial marriage, if you will. Your family will not approve. But you’ve lived your life on your own terms at this point in your life, why change?

Those two years will be great – one big party. You’re going to get married on May 26, 1990. And you will use your student loan to help pay for it. (Don’t freak out, it’s really the only option you will have at the time).

It will be a small and intimate wedding, only about 75 people will be there. Don’t be depressed – that’s all you ever wanted, you just don’t know it yet. Your best friend Melissa will be your matron of honor and your husband’s best friend, Alvin, will be your best man. Your mom will make your wedding dress and it will be beautiful. You will look and feel radiant.

You will be late to your own wedding. You spend way too much time at a friend’s house getting your hair done. This will make your future husband very nervous and he will think you backed out.

But you arrive (fashionably late) and you will get stressed out trying to dress and look your best.

But once you start walking down that aisle on your father’s arm, your nervousness will dissipate and suddenly, you’ll feel like laughing because it truly is the happiest day of your life. You have no doubts – none. You know this is the man for you.

I hate to spoil the actual wedding for you, but I will tell you this – you will barely remember your vows because you will be distracted by the fact that you are getting ready to fly off together to a remote island (Cozumel, Mexico) and that you will no longer be alone in life, but part of a couple.

And you and your future husband will giggle together because you have a strange sixth sense when it comes to knowing what the other one is thinking.

Life will be very good for several years. You will have two boys and though it will freak you out that you’re a mother, you’ll adjust.

One word of caution: 1997 and 1998 will be very tough on your marriage. You will need to do a lot of soul searching; you will need to grow up. For though you may deny it now, you are, and will be, very immature.

You’ve been warned.

For now, enjoy your youth. Enjoy your journey – it will be a great adventure.

Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings – Observations

Want to scribble along?

If there is one word I’d use to describe myself, it would be an observer.

I prefer to live my life on the outskirts of society. I’m perfectly happy to simply press my nose against the glass and people watch. I really have no desire to interact with people in general – I’m sure there’s a psychological reason for that, but I truly enjoy just sitting back and … observing.

I’m thinking I should apologize for that … but I won’t. *grin*

There is one group of people in particular that I really love watching. Unfortunately, I don’t get a chance to watch them very often and when I do, I have to do so while pretending I’m doing something else.

The group?

PTA moms.

Now before you go and get the wrong idea about me, I’m not one of THOSE moms. I don’t attend meetings. I don’t obsess about whether my child is eating too many carbs. I don’t care to compare my offspring with any growth charts – either physical or mental. I don’t wear “mom” pants (well actually, I do on occasion when I’m feeling bloated), I don’t drive a mini-van (well actually, I used to), and I certainly don’t care if I’m caught out in public not wearing any lipstick – in fact, I think I’ve worn lipstick exactly six times my entire life and then for only 30 minutes because any longer and it dried in the creases of my lips and I felt like the Joker from Batman.

But that’s another issue, apparently.

I have attended a few meetings though. And the few times I’ve gone I’ve been treated like a leper. You have to understand that the fact that I even WENT to begin with was a big deal to me because I’m a terribly shy person in real life and walking into a room full of strange women who will be curious to check out the new girl thereby giving me the once/twice/thrice over makes me physically sick.

But I sucked up my apprehension and I went.

And no one talked to me.

And yes, I made attempts to join conversations.

The PTA Moms saw me, analyzed me and found me wanting, unfortunately.

But that didn’t stop me from participating in my sons’ schools. I still went to class parties, I still helped clean up and then I accidentally got recruited to help out with the school website.

I’ve been designing and maintaining school websites ever since.

So, I guess you could call me an OBSERVANT PTA Mom. I’m doing my part, just not a part that anyone can SEE.

And that suits me JUST fine.

However, I do occasionally have to deal with the bitches on occasion.

And I’m not calling them female dogs to be insulting (well, maybe a teeny-tiny bit), but rather, PTA moms (at least the PTA moms in my sons’ schools), are like a pack of female dogs. They stick together, they snarl at outsiders, they protect their territory and they pee on you when you get too close.

Oh, and you’re forced to step over a pile of poo occasionally, too.

This past Friday, I took MK to pick his schedule up from school. This is the last year I’ll really have to deal with PTA because by the time kids get into high school, parents have realized that PTA doesn’t have the money or the resources to make that big of an impact on the kids anymore; the kids would prefer to hang out with their friends or get a job and buy a car as opposed to doing anything school related by that point in their lives.

Or they appeal to the student council who take matters into their own hands and bypass the PTA entirely.

But elementary school and middle school – still an issue.

After MK picked his schedule up, we made the table rounds. We bought his assignment book, then we went to another table to order a school hoodie.

The moms were nice enough on the surface. But underneath the thick foundation and heavy powder, their true personalities bled through and it was that sugary, sweet fake nice, you know? The plastic smiles, the vacant/shifty eyes because they are constantly on the prowl for someone more important than you, and the barely concealed snobbery as they attempted to disguise the onceover they gave you as you’re standing there, sweating because you decided to wear something halfway fashionable and the school doesn’t have air conditioning and you just roamed the halls looking for MK’s locker and classrooms and now you’re being stared at and it’s making you nervous thereby causing your pores to ooze more salty goodness down your face thereby smearing the carefully applied makeup you put on for the first time all summer in order to impress this pack of female dogs.

Good times.

I know I sound bitter, and I don’t really mean to, but let’s just say, I’ve been shunned one too many times. I’ve tried to fit in and was rejected. The other moms simply don’t like me, for some reason.

But believe it or not, I’m not that upset about it. Instead, I’m content to observe their petty attitudes from afar …

… and wish, on some teeny-tiny level that I was part of the pack.
______________________________

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It’s fun!

Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings – Curves

You say curves, I think body image.

And when I think of body image, I picture this week’s post cards from Post Secret:

Thin 1

Thin 2

And that disturbs me.

For the longest time, I didn’t have any curves: I was a walking, talking scarecrow who breathed. And though this sounds great on the surface (Oh, to be THIN!), it wasn’t, at least to me. I wanted boobs. And I wasn’t going to be stingy about it – I wanted handfuls, just something for a man to hang on to.

But alas, I didn’t develop like I wanted to and was I stuck with size “B” bumps.

Then, I had children and suddenly, I had curves were there were none before. My breasts swelled to a size “C” (and stayed there) and where in the world did these hips come from? (I was thrilled about the breasts, the hips? Not so much).

Now that I had curves, you would think I would be happy, right?

Wrong. Suddenly, I wanted my hips to reduce and my waist to come back, neither of which has happened, by the way.

I wasn’t happy with my body then, and I’m not happy with my body now. And my point is: is anyone ever really happy with every aspect of their body, even when they achieve their goals?

Of course not. Part of that is our desire to be better, to be perfect. I think most of us have an innate desire to improve ourselves. But I think a large portion of how we feel about our curves, or lack thereof, comes from society and the picture they have shoved down our throats about what is beautiful, and what is not.

Take the above post cards, for example.

The first one, she obtained her goal. She had her surgery and she was now beautiful and thin. And yet, she’s still not happy because her shield, or her size, was no longer available for her to hide behind. This is a classic case of be careful what you wish for, you just might get it. And when you get it, can you handle it?

The second one, she’s thin, but not thin enough. She wants more, she’s never satisfied and I’m guessing will never be satisfied with her appearance until her inner expectations change: a classic case of wanting more and never quite getting more. When does the wanting stop?

I think women obsess about curves way too much. I think men obsess about curves way too much (but then again, they’re sort of programmed to think that way, so they have an excuse). Women want to look like the models, the ones who portray our idea of beauty, yet they don’t want to work for it – it takes time, discipline and motivation to obtain that rock hard body, or they’re simply not physically built the same way and no matter how hard you try, those birthing hips? Will never slim down because your bone structure is different.

When we will learn to be satisfied with who we are? In whatever shape we’re in? I mean granted, a person shouldn’t be so large that it interferes with his/her health, or give up on his/her appearance simply because it’s easier to do that than to exercise restraint, but if a person is larger because they are simply built that way, why can’t we just be okay with that fact?

When we will accept the fact that we are who we are and stop worrying about becoming someone else? Life is too short to be miserable, either make improvements and be satisfied with those improvements, or stop worrying about it and enjoy life.

I think I have finally accepted the fact that I’m an Amazon woman. I’m a big woman, not in the physical sense but in the physical presence sense. I will never be petite and no matter how much I close my eyes and mutter my wishes under my breath, I will never be the size I wish I could be. I’m tall and wish I could be shorter. I’m average weight for my height but wish I could weigh lighter. I wish … I wish … I wish … I want … I want … I want …

You know what? Screw it. I’m a curvy woman and I’m okay with that.

What about you? Have you accepted the way you look? Or are you still trying to fix yourself?