Yesterday, I was described as
“different” because of my choice of hobbies and interests. The individual came back to me later to
apologize. I was caught off guard
because it never occurred to me that being “different” was a derogatory description
of character. In fact, I look at it as a
high form of flattery.
I suppose I’ve always been
“different.” My parents encouraged this
of me. I tried hobby after hobby and
twirled around the living room in a pink tutu and cleats because I didn’t quite
know if I was a “girly girl” or a tomboy.
I wore my hair long and then I chopped it short. I wore dresses and jerseys and everything in
between. Boys didn’t interest me until
later than most (and often they still don’t).
I was too busy learning who I was to care what the opposite sex thought
of me, or the same sex for that matter.
Or at least not yet. I didn’t even realize that I was odd.
I remember the first time I learned
this fact about myself. I didn’t exactly don my tinfoil hat and lay in the
middle of a crop circle to call my mother ship to me (though this does sound
like a good time). But I did jump into a
muddy, disgusting lake while still in my cheerleading uniform because I liked
the feel of the slimy mud between my toes and there were tadpoles I wanted to
catch. I was 10. My “friends” looked at me (rather disgusted)
and told me I was weird. It hurt my
feelings (yes, I do have those) and I went home and cried. My mom did what moms do. She dried my tears (after making me shower),
lectured me about Florida lakes and these slightly risky animals called
alligators that lurk in them, gave me some ice cream and said, “you just be
you.”
And I did just that. Other girls were described as “pretty,”
“beautiful,” and “put together.” I continued
to be described as “different,” “quirky,” and “odd.” I was fine with that. Mom and Dad never said a word when I slept
too late to do my hair for school. They
never compared me to other girls who came to high school flawless every day
with their hair and makeup perfected at the age of 16. They didn’t take any particular pride in me
dressing up for picture day or even bothering to get out of the bathing suit
that I lived in 7 days a week. They were
used to the permanent chlorine scent that set into my hair and clothes and they
never missed a swim meet, a water polo match, or mocked me for the bad attempts
at water ballet by myself in between practices that usually invoked stares and
whispers from other parents. My actions frequently invoked stares and whispers
in general. My parents seemed immune to
it. If they were embarrassed, they never
showed it.
No, what my parents noticed and took
pride in was that I laughed. A lot. And loud.
I had fun no matter what I was doing.
I was adventurous and tried new things.
I hula hooped to no music in my own form of interpretive dance on the
sand while the other kids played volleyball at the beach. I was a free
spirit. My parents didn’t constantly
tell me I was “pretty.” What they told
me was that I was “kind.” And that made
me want to be kind. I cared deeply for
fellow human beings and I hurt when they hurt.
My parents were proud when I volunteered and showed compassion and
empathy toward those who desperately needed kindness in their lives. My mom smiled when I got dressed up for prom
but she beamed when I came to the school where she was teaching to be a stand-in
“mom” on parent day for a little girl whose mom couldn’t be bothered to show up
(and no I didn’t do my makeup for the occasion). I knew what it was like to feel like the odd
one out and I didn’t want this little girl to feel that way. I was “kind” because mom and dad told me I
was and that is what my parents praised me for.
I looked in the mirror today and
realized that I have gained some crow’s feet by my eyes along with some
wrinkles. I’ve learned that gravity has
doubled on the earth since my youth and is slowly pulling my once perky body
parts down into the depths of hell.
Victoria’s Secret swallows up a good chunk of my paycheck to keep my
nipples from dragging in my morning coffee and the body I had when I was 17
exists only in my memory and a few glorious pictures to remind me that
everything once fit into place and that the only dimples I had in my cheeks
were on my face. Yes, looks are slowly
fading and, like every other girl on the planet, it bothers me. Every girl I know struggles as the reflection
in the mirror slowly changes and we change our daily routines to try and turn
back time. But despite the unwelcome
stretch marks, dimples, and extra layer of fat that I’ve gained just in time
for bathing suit season, I’m still happy.
I’m still confident because my looks are not all there is to me. I’ve watched those very friends who were
described as “pretty” all their lives and they struggle with depression,
anxiety, and finding their sense of self worth.
To them, their looks were the most important thing about them because
that’s what they were told all of their lives.
And those looks are changing. What’s
left? Well, there’s plenty but they struggle
to see it because everyone else failed to see it in them. Or, at least they failed to tell them what
they saw beyond their pretty face.
This saddens me but it also makes me
grateful that I had parents who taught me there was more to me than my
appearance. They let me be weird. They let me be me. They shaped my vision of who I strive to
be. I will hopefully live long enough to
continue to watch my looks fade. I hope
to be wrinkled and gray like the rest of the elderly. But when I relive the past for future
generations, it won’t be to tell the story of a Homecoming Queen or Miss
Florida. I will tell the story of that
one time my mom and I drove 12 hours round trip in the snow for a ghost hunt. That time I dove with sharks. The time I told a story about the refusal to
fake orgasms in front of 300 plus people (many from a church crowd). I climbed on stage at a Chippendale’s concert
(still working on this one). I played in
the rain and sunbathed nude on the top of the Stratosphere. I placed Craig’s
List personals just for entertainment. I will tell youngsters to be kind and to get
involved in the community and to make this sometimes disgusting world a better
place, starting with their neighbors.
And then I will tell them to get off my lawn... So for those parents out there with
daughters, remember that your kids become what you tell them they are. The next time you start to tell your daughter
that she’s pretty, think again and tell her she’s smart, strong, and kind. Tell her she’s “different.”
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