|
My Profile
Because I can't bear to eulogize Doug - 2008-08-19
|
3:09 a.m. - 2005-05-24
In which short shorts are bought and I own up to what's bothering me. Who wears short shorts? The Sage wears short shorts. Badly. With orange peel thighs, furry shins and seriously middle-aged butt cheeks. Frankly I have no business wearing Daisy Dukes. I wear them anyhow. I've never had nice legs. Never. I don't stress about it. Never have. I was dealt faboo tits and a pretty face, I didn't need nice legs. My little sister got the legs. She's three inches shorter than I am and her legs are longer than mine. Baby got back too. Not me. I am a gigantic round eye with an Asian ass. Just another reason I was on the shit list during my teenage years. My mother was bottom heavy and the step-sibs were basically butts with teeny limbs sprouting from them. Let's just say if you looked up callipygian in the dictionary you'd find a pic of Drucilla the elder step-troll. First time I saw Steel Magnolias I roared with laughter over the 'two pigs fighting under a blanket' thing. I'd never heard a more apt description of Drucilla's rear view. Meow. Yeah, so what. Catty is better than weepy. And weepy I have been. Nobody should feel bad, I'm not trying to whack anyone with the guilt stick. It's just that recently several folks have posted wonderful testimonies to their families. Especially their parents. A few of my meat space friends have also said stuff about great mothers and terrific dads. Sent me straight into a tail-spin. I hear about this stuff and I ache. I do not know what it's like to be loved by parents. Truly. I know how fricken melodramatic and self-pitying that sounds. But it's the stone truth. I try and imagine what it's like to be loved. I think about what it would be like to be cherished. Approved of. Encouraged. Laughed with. Snuggled. Feted. Supported. Wanted. But I can't understand it really. It's beyond my ken. I felt that same puzzled wonder when I'd visit my friends' homes. Like one time I was at my friend Jeannie's house and her mom came home from work early. We heard her come down the hall and my stomach tightened up. I was waiting for the bad stuff to start. The sneers. The bitter remarks about poorly done chores. Maybe a slap or some hair pulling, you know, just because. Instead Jeannie's mom came into the room with a smile. She smoothed Jeannie's hair and kissed her. Then she took a couple shirts out the shopping bag she was carrying. She handed the shirts to Jeannie and said, "Hey sweetheart, I was at Pearlman's on my lunch break and thought these would look great on you." I was stunned. I knew it wasn't Jeannie's birthday or anything. Her mom had bought her something voluntarily? She'd thought about her daughter and wanted to do something nice? She wanted her kid to have pretty things? It was like I was in some kind of alternate universe. This situation was so far from anything I'd ever known that all I could do was stare with my mouth hanging open like a stupe. At another friend's house her end of year report cards were hung next to that grade's school picture. All along the wall in the family room was this gallery of honor- first grade pic and first grade report card. So on down the line. Michelle's grades were pretty good, but not spectacular. But her parents thought she was a wonderful student and a great kid. I compared this to what it was like at my house. In the sixth grade I scored 100% on the Iowa exam. As I had in the third grade. When the results came in the guidance department ran me through another battery of tests. I aced those too. They got all het up about it and called my mother. Asked her to come in to discuss my academic future. She went to the meeting. Listened politely. Seemed all pleased and thanked the guidance counselors for their time. I knew before we even got out to the car that she was livid. A silent ride home. When I got out of the car she didn't even wait until we were inside. She beat me bloody right there in the driveway. I'd made her look bad. By being so smart I'd made her look bad. She felt the guidance department was judging her. Made her sound like a neglectful parent because I hadn't been skipped a bunch of grades or sent to some posh smart kids school. I'd brought this approbation on her on purpose. That's what my brains did, they deliberately showed her up. My phenomenal test scores weren't something to be proud and excited about, they just proved what she already knew. The only reason I got such good grades and maxed out the standardized tests was to gut shoot her. To show the world what a shit mother she was and how I would do anything to make her look dumb. To this day if someone comments on my intelligence I flinch. I want to babble, "Who me? No, I am NOT smart at all! I was lucky. I'm sure it's a fluke. Really. Don't go away thinking I'm smart. Please." For me to admit that I'm brainy takes all sorts of mad courage. It does upset me when someone dismisses me as all tits and no brains, but at the same time I still get a squirt of guilt and fear if my smarts are lauded in any way. It's okay to be smart as long as nobody talks about it. Just like it's okay to be told I'm pretty, but I'm going to freak out if you say something admiring about my style. The pretty was an accident of genetics, style is cultivated and therefore suspect and punishable. Any accomplishment that was strived for is just plain showing off. Show-offs get backhanded. And worse. That other people didn't grow up like that, their parents wanted their kids to be good at things. They were proud of their children and did things to help their kids toward excellence just blows me away. I try to imagine what it would have been like to get a pretty top or have my report cards hung on the wall and I can't. I read these stories of love and happiness and it's like visiting Narnia or Oz. Places too wonderful to be true. Yet I know they are and my heart hurts. I don't begrudge anyone's happy childhood. I just wish I knew what it was like. Good night, ~LA
|
