In a world of Kardashians I am absolutely a Charlie Chaplin.
Clumsy and awkward, and the ability to make people laugh my only defense. You might recognize me immediately, but no one is dying to be me. I made a comment recently about being grateful for being old, fat, and invisible. And it is partly true. I no longer feel under scrutiny. I am the "before picture" and the cautionary tale. I am the 40's and 50's era reminder that men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses (or sport big asses).
I am the nice girl. The bookworm. The involuntary sidekick always. It isn't a role I signed up for. It just seems to evolve that way over the years. "Can you tell her I like her?" turns into "Is your friend single?" turns into "So, tell me about the winterizing on your house?" I've been demoted from wing-man to Home Depot salesclerk. Once again, without my awareness or consent.
As the mother of daughters, I don't know how to guide them. My dating history is minimal and mild. I don't know how to prepare them for being an object of interest whether solicited or unsolicited. I can't tell them how to handle a pick-up line, because I've never had to. I feel under-prepared all the time when I think about where we are headed in fewer years than I care to think about.
While I would almost always rather have someone think I am smart than think I'm pretty, there are still days that I want to be both, and grieve that I've missed my chance. In the last week I've been told I look "tired", "frazzled", "pale", and "shot from a cannon". These are not ringing beauty endorsements.
My Facebook invites are to join weight loss and diet groups, and my social events involve meeting up on Facebook at a specific time. This is not what adulthood was supposed to look like.
The most challenging part is what needs to change. What do I want to give up? What do I want to be different? If I could go back into single dating life would I? OMG, No! If I could redo my college years, would I? Maybe one or two days.... If I could go back and take up running at eighteen, would I trade the books that I read while others were running? I don't think I would.
So what needs to change, I guess is my acceptance of who I am and have always been. The nice kid. The invisible girl next door. I just have to stop making decisions as though who I am limits what I am. And vice versa.
And so, I put this risky bit of self disclosure out, not to garner reassurance that I'm okay, but because I want to give you advance notice that I am working some stuff out. I'm coming to terms. I'm figuring out which parts of me I want to keep, and which ones I don't, and which ones no longer give a damn.
And to warn the "gentleman" at the gym that "what shape I am trying to get into" is none of his business. If my grandfather were still with us, he would break you for speaking to a lady this way. And I am, after all, a lady. And I was raised in a culture where this is beyond rude. And my grandpa's warrior genetics rage through my family tree.
You have been put on notice sir.
I may waddle like a Chaplin, but I read like a champ and I can insult you in ways that you will still be looking up weeks from now.
Clumsy and awkward, and the ability to make people laugh my only defense. You might recognize me immediately, but no one is dying to be me. I made a comment recently about being grateful for being old, fat, and invisible. And it is partly true. I no longer feel under scrutiny. I am the "before picture" and the cautionary tale. I am the 40's and 50's era reminder that men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses (or sport big asses).
I am the nice girl. The bookworm. The involuntary sidekick always. It isn't a role I signed up for. It just seems to evolve that way over the years. "Can you tell her I like her?" turns into "Is your friend single?" turns into "So, tell me about the winterizing on your house?" I've been demoted from wing-man to Home Depot salesclerk. Once again, without my awareness or consent.
As the mother of daughters, I don't know how to guide them. My dating history is minimal and mild. I don't know how to prepare them for being an object of interest whether solicited or unsolicited. I can't tell them how to handle a pick-up line, because I've never had to. I feel under-prepared all the time when I think about where we are headed in fewer years than I care to think about.
While I would almost always rather have someone think I am smart than think I'm pretty, there are still days that I want to be both, and grieve that I've missed my chance. In the last week I've been told I look "tired", "frazzled", "pale", and "shot from a cannon". These are not ringing beauty endorsements.
My Facebook invites are to join weight loss and diet groups, and my social events involve meeting up on Facebook at a specific time. This is not what adulthood was supposed to look like.
The most challenging part is what needs to change. What do I want to give up? What do I want to be different? If I could go back into single dating life would I? OMG, No! If I could redo my college years, would I? Maybe one or two days.... If I could go back and take up running at eighteen, would I trade the books that I read while others were running? I don't think I would.
So what needs to change, I guess is my acceptance of who I am and have always been. The nice kid. The invisible girl next door. I just have to stop making decisions as though who I am limits what I am. And vice versa.
And so, I put this risky bit of self disclosure out, not to garner reassurance that I'm okay, but because I want to give you advance notice that I am working some stuff out. I'm coming to terms. I'm figuring out which parts of me I want to keep, and which ones I don't, and which ones no longer give a damn.
And to warn the "gentleman" at the gym that "what shape I am trying to get into" is none of his business. If my grandfather were still with us, he would break you for speaking to a lady this way. And I am, after all, a lady. And I was raised in a culture where this is beyond rude. And my grandpa's warrior genetics rage through my family tree.
You have been put on notice sir.
I may waddle like a Chaplin, but I read like a champ and I can insult you in ways that you will still be looking up weeks from now.
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