As teens, we loved or loathed the homecoming queen and yearned to emulate or eviscerate her.
In my case, I was her.
Except, of course, I wasn’t.
And so I spent my adolescence doing what we so breezily refer to as suffering for beauty.
I suffered, and also I felt afraid.
Afraid of looking fat, of being seen without my hair just so.
My old tiara lies inside, a glimmering artifact of the dream girl I used to be.
In my case, self-acceptance was on back order and didn’t arrive until I was in my 40s.
As human beings, we are all conditioned to care, to conform.
To reject conformity in favor of asserting one’s individual nature is the work of a lifetime.
And then, I do it all over again.
Then I became a mother.
When she started school, I noticed how closely she was observing me for clues about how to behave.
Was this the kind of woman I wanted her to become?
Even more urgently, was this the kind of role model I wanted to be?
When my daughter became the target of a first-grade bully, I had a choice to make.
I chose the latter.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t care how other adults perceived me.
I cared only about what my daughter saw, and whether I was doing right by her.
Now, people can call me what they want.
A few years ago, there was a full-page profile of me in the British newspaper I take daily.
I turned to it with interest.
I’d thought we got on rather well.
I opened to the page and found out she despised me.
She said I was short and dome-shouldered, and rather like a badger around the neck.
She said I was past it; that my house was dreary.
The article made quite a stir.
So what do I care?
The worst has been said.
I even stopped dieting after the article and as a result have lost a lot of weight.
That’s how it goes.
when those parents object.
But what if the parents never notice, let alone object?
Then you’re merely an angry kid with green hair and infected holes in all the wrong places.
That’s what happened to me (not the piercings but the misplaced bids for attention).
Still, I continued to live for that “Good job!”
from a boss or “You look great!”
Then, around the time I turned 30, I looked in the mirror and saw an angry adolescent.
My dad finished talking and said, “OK, bye, honey.
I love you.”
And I knew he meant it.
Nothing had changed, except me.
“Are you sure you don’t want a more traditional invitation?”
our wedding planner asked as we described our idea for something that looked like a vintage French advertising poster.
“This is forever, you know.”
But I’d already had a traditional wedding that was not, in fact, forever.
It wasn’t me at all.
(“What good can come of that?”
Ian asked, legitimately.)
We wanted the wedding to be like a fabulous party where we simply happened to get married.
The toasts were bawdy and hilarious and possibly inappropriate.
(At one point, my dad leaned over and asked what a booty call was.)
Perhaps we’ll someday regret our wardrobe choices.
Perhaps we’ll look back at the prewedding double-decker bus ride as a bad decision for my hair.
Then again, perhaps it was magical and exactly what a wedding should be.
I’m in love with my husband.
At first, I earnestly tried to defend myself against the attacks.
Hmmm, I thought.
“No wire hangers"andliking to have sex with your husband.
They’re really all of a piece, aren’t they?
The proof, after all, is in the pudding.
I have four beautiful children who are secure in their mother’s love.
As the saying goes, the greatest gift a mother can give her children is to love their father.
If that’s so, my husband and I have given our children a very great gift indeed.
In contrast, said husband has always told people no with relative ease.
“Sorry, I can’t do that.”
“Sorry, not right now.”
“I tried to clean up,” I’d explain and feel embarrassed and morally distressed.
Of course I care about social niceties, the necessary graces.
Finally, I asked her to go.
I thanked her, then I hired someone new.
Right away, I told the new woman, “We’re messy.
The kids grind raisins into the floor; the dog hair settles in corners.
It’s who we are.
Thank you for giving us a cleaner house.”
Then I left her to her work and appreciated her efforts immensely.
Photo Credit: Terry Doyle
