I fell asleep the other night watching TLC, and woke up to one of my worst nightmares..
(Okay, there very well could be worse, but this one revealed some weaknesses, character flaws, and deep seeded insecurities. In turn that eventually led me to believe that I wasn’t the person I had thought I was, which led to some soul searching.. So, I guess it was a happy ending.)
I digress, I woke up to the show “What Not to Wear”. As bad as that sounds, that isn’t the nightmare part. Nor the fact that I actually watched it from start to finish.
The eppy that was on, they dealt with ME. Or someone who really, could have been me. She was a cute gal, she dressed in what I like to call “Who gives a rats ass?” Which is totally my style. I’m more of a function before fashion type.I don’t put any thought into my clothing, aside from color. Even then the word thought may be stretching it, there. (Apparently, I like stripes.) I like my clothes loose fitting. I don’t like things touching my body. These were her issues as well. Think of grunge meets pajama party. They totally ragged on her for not wearing a bra (er, my girls like to sag in the wind, what there is of them, any way.) They totally wanted her to wear tight jeans and heels! (you should have seen the grossness of the outfit that they picked out for her… eeeeeeeeew.)
When they put her clothes in that garbage can, presumably to be burnt; she protested, just as I would have “There are people who NEED these clothes, these are good clothes!”. She totally reminded me of me… Frumpy bob gone awry haircut, thin frame, kind of lanky….And get this; she worked as a drug and alcohol counselor.(my last 9-5 job.)
They put some make up on her. (Something I haven’t done since college, perhaps high school) Tweezed her brows. (Never have I done that!Tho, I may “need” to.) Slapped a dress on her & brought her home to a party where everyone was waiting. Of course, everyone hugged her and cried, blab blab & blab. There she was, Better than she was before. New and improved. Apparently, in this world all you need to be beautiful is some make up and a stylist.
Suddenly, my head started to flood with all of the times I’ve ever heard someone call me androgynous, cute, or frumpy. Every time Mr. Pipps said, ‘You sure do wear alot of olive drab’. Every time I had someone call me “bro” on the deadlot. (I guess I was the only hippie chick on the planet who carried a skateboard and didn’t wear sun dresses on the lot.)
It was loud, and ringing in that overlapping kind of way; not unlike something directly out of a scary scene, from a movie about a psychotic found on The Lifetime Network. (You know, right before someone boils a rabbit.)
I finally did manage to back to sleep. (And, yes, as much as I hate to admit it, this new found insecurity in my elf/butch self kept me up!) My dreams must have been so traumatic I couldn’t remember them.
However, when I woke up, I did put on a bra. Presumably, if my little girls were holstered, that would make me more of a woman. Neveryoumind I birthed two children, and every month I loose my mind a little bit.
Obviously, all of this was resonating in my head. I never really looked at myself and been so unhappy with the outside.
The day wore on, yard work was accomplished, breakfasts and lunches were made; all the wile a nasty little bit of under wire was jabbing me in the right breast, reminding me of my ’shortcomings’ (or is that longcomings? Who knows.)
With everyone settled and not needing me for a split second, I decided to use the time to edit some photos.
Well, looky what I found on that photo card. (Taken by that sneaky Mr. Pipps)
In all my brown glory. Yes, that is my tookas, equipped in boxer shorts & khaki cargo pants. (It is like my uniform; I wonder what the neurotic folx at What not to Wear would say about that?) And surprise, surprise! I’m wearing stripes! (In a lovely shade of khaki, no less.)
My heart sank. IT WAS ALL TRUE! Every last bit of it.
You see what happened here, right?
I bought the lies. Hook, line and lead sinker. And I paid cash, too.
Once I realized that I played right into their hands, I immediately felt better. From day one (okay, day five, maybe) I knew that I would never be a model, with my own spread in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition (An aside, I fully blame my BFF, for undermining any chance I may have had at a carrier as a stripper, by giving me a homegrown tattoo on my thigh, when we were 15 & drunk on Vodka)
So, there I was, with a pocket full of lies. And Lorrissa knows, I have plenty of pockets in my cargo pants to stuff all those lies into. I did what any self respecting elfbutchfrump would do. I got pissed off. At first I was pissed off at myself. As, I like to think I am above petty media manipulation. I hold the illusion that I can think for myself, near and dear to my heart. I like to think I am smarter than that. That lead me to even more pissed-off-ed-ness. Because, in my book; stupid is a far grater evil than wearing khaki 24/7. Stupid is the thing that has lead to the demise of humanity. Stupid leaves children hungry and orphaned, stupid goes to war over inexhaustible greed. I abhor stupid. To see it in myself was utterly devastating.
I don’t know what happened, but I snapped to my senses and became royally pissed off at the machine. (I’m good at being pissed off at the machine.) The machine is the sneakiest of sneaky bastages. Low down and dirty. Prey upon my fears, get into my psyche, and bitch slap me until I’m putty. Pretty good phychlogical torture. (I never said the machine was stupid.)
The moral of my story, learn from my mistakes… In the words of Stuart Smalley , I’m Good Enough, I’m Smart Enough, and Doggone It, People Like Me! Repeat after me….”I’m Good Enough, I’m Smart Enough, and Doggone It, People Like Me! ” Don’t let the machine get inside your brain, not even for a millisecond, as that millisecond can lead to days of self doubt. I’m not saying, by any stretch, that we shouldn’t strive to make ourselves better humans.. Quite the contrary… Wearing khaki really has nothing to do with the quality of our humanity.
Quite appropriately, these were the photos I had sat down to edit.
Now, if you are in the states, you may be celebrating independence day this week.
Join me in declaring independence from the machine.
Whichever one it is that is out to get you. I implore you to stick some M-80s in it’s ear.
& Have an extra helping of potato salad if you want; because the value of your humanity does not hinge on you dening yourself of something you love only to fit an arbitrary mold.
♥
