A mother’s legacy

It all started with my mom, or maybe even as far back as with her mother.

My mother is a beautiful woman, but for my entire life, she was always so harsh about her appearance. She thought she was too fat, or too grey, or too this or too that. I don’t remember her ever saying she thought she was in any way attractive.

Add to this that everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, told me how much I looked like my mother. She loved hearing it, me not so much. Because of the way she felt about herself, I heard, “you are just as unattractive as your mother.” I thought other people had the same image of her as she did.

Let me point out that my mom never told me I wasn’t pretty. She never criticized my appearance, except maybe to comment on my fashion sense. She never deliberately tried to make me feel unattractive. This is all my perceptions as a child that followed me into adulthood.

Now that I have a daughter, one that EVERYONE comments on how much she looks like me, I cringe. I’ve tried not to be as vocal about my discontent with my looks as my mother was, because I desperately don’t want my daughter to feel like I did.

Ironically, I think my daughter is gorgeous. I should be pleased that other people think we look alike, that in some way they think I’m as pretty as she is, but my brain doesn’t work that way. It’s as if I perceive the comparison as some sort of insult to her.

Moms out there, forget what fashion magazines say about female beauty, forget TV and movies, forget music videos. What are WE saying to our daughters and sons EVERY. DAY? What we say about ourselves is far more powerful than any of that superficial stuff.

We shouldn’t transfer our lack of self-image to our children, to future generations. Because of my poor self-esteem, I never want my daughter to question herself when people say she looks like me.

50 is the new cat lady

I was talking with my dad recently about meeting for lunch to celebrate my 50th birthday in two weeks. He was reluctant to mention which birthday it is. It’s really weird saying it out loud… “I’m turning 50 years old.” (I think my parents are also having a difficult time reconciling the fact that their ‘Baby’ is that old.)

I don’t feel 50, I certainly don’t act 50. I do suspect that I look 50. I don’t know how to explain it. It seems like it should be a really big deal, but it merely seems very strange. I’m counting down the days… 14 more… but I’m not sure if it won’t all be just a huge let down.

Will I wake up that morning feeling vastly different? Will I have some sort of epic epiphany? Suddenly overnight I’ll know the Meaning of Life, and have a lighted path to my destiny. Or will it be another lazy morning filled with cat litter and doggie kibble?

Hubs cashed in some flyer miles to get me a roundtrip airline ticket to hang with my College Kid on that weekend. I’m more excited about spending time with her for an adventure, than that it’s because of my birthday. (We’re headed to Knoxville, TN to participate in the Color Me Rad 5k run.)

A few years ago, I don’t know if I would’ve even wanted to participate in a 5K race, let alone one where strangers pelted me with colored powder. Maybe beginning my second half century has freed me to be more adventurous.

Who knows though, after my actual birthday, I may be reduced to a tottering, old, cat lady waiting by the mailbox for my AARP membership card. Spending my days shopping for comfortable, yet butt-ugly shoes, and arguing with cashiers that I do indeed qualify for the senior discount… $5 is $5 dammit!

I’m wavering between excitement and apprehension. I’m either waiting on Nirvana or Medicaid.

A little lost

There are days when I feel that I am hiding away from the world. I refuse to leave my home, often neglecting simple niceties, making it easier to rationalize my need for my self-imposed solitude.

Avoiding windows, ignoring doorbells, screening calls – hoping it’s no one important who would necessitate actual conversation.

There is just too much to deal with, so I don’t deal with it at all.

Any time I venture out of my safe haven, I feel a little lost. As if I’m on furlough and under constant scrutiny. That I’m being judged and falling short.

Only when I’m away from other people, off on a solitary trek, do I relax. Away from judgement, away from having to live up to a standard I can never attain.

If it weren’t for people depending on me, I know that some days I would never get out of bed.

Inner fire

Burning bright

Is your inner light a tea candle or a blazing inferno?
Does it shine or smolder?
Warm and inviting, welcoming others to draw closer,
Or intense and overpowering, too hot to approach?

How does your internal flame burn?

Gay jokes still aren’t funny

If I could tell you who it was, I would.

This weekend while I was driving toward my usual photo hike I was listening to the radio. The morning DJs were in the midst of a routine that I can only assume was meant to be humorous. After only a couple of jokes, I turned the channel so I can’t be 100% sure which station or which DJs were involved, or I’d call them out.

The main host was making comparisons of what was manly and what was gay, affecting an effeminate voice that I can only assume was a caricature of a gay man. The other two – another man and woman – were being the obligatory sycophantic sidekicks and cackling like a couple of adolescents after each pairing. Still didn’t make it funny.

The jokes weren’t vile or obscene, just juvenile and stupid. That they were indulging in tired, lame gay jokes was offensive enough, but that they assumed as a listener I was equally ignorant and bigoted to find the jokes amusing, just went further to piss me off.

They wouldn’t have substituted any other groups to ridicule – men and women, Americans and Asians, Christians and Muslims – because it’s obviously contrite and feeble. That and their phone lines would have burned up with complaints, or death threats.

I don’t like humiliation humor. If I’m watching a TV show and there’s a scene where a laugh is attempted through embarrassment or ridicule, I’ll turn the channel. If I can’t do that, I leave the room  - go into the kitchen for a drink, or just to another part of the house until the scene is over.

It’s almost physically painful to watch. That someone has to be made to feel bad, for me to feel good (laugh), is troubling to me. I don’t think it’s funny – never have, never will.

That it’s 2012 and that there are still ignorant people who think making fun of any segment of our society is okay, is both sad and pathetic. Sexist and homophobic humor, ethnic or religious humor, isn’t funny. Neither are jokes about mentally and physically disabled people.

We are smarter than that, we are better than that.

49 and a half

Drop in the bucket... list

Today, I am exactly 49 and a Half. For those of you who are chronologically challenged, that puts the big FIVE-O birthday in October. (For those so inclined to lavish gifts on the sadly aged,  here’s my ‘Buy Me This‘ List.)

Prior to our teen years, tacking on that ‘Half’ was vitally important. That’s when we wanted so desperately to be grown up. Not so much now.

Say this with me, “I am 50.” Gives me a little shudder.

Pragmatically, I know that it’s just a number, and in all seriousness I don’t FEEL 50, I don’t feel old at all. Not like when I was 12 and actually thought 50 was ancient. My mind has been whirling every time I ponder on my half century birthday. I’m having difficulty reconciling my actual age with my imagined age.

I simply don’t know what to do about turning 50, or if I even need to do anything… other that not-so-subliminally cajole my peeps into some serious celebratory action. (I keep dropping hints that as a Birthday Girl I get free admission into Disney World. Some kids never want to grow up, and I love roller coasters.)

What do I have to show for my first 50 years? What do I want to do with the next 50?

I’m not going to make some unattainable declaration that within x-number of years I will accomplish this or that. I think any sort of deadline only sets me up for disappointment and failure.

I don’t need cruises or lavish vacations. I don’t want luxury cars or huge houses, expensive jewelry or truck loads of money. I’m not interested in amassing extravagant material wealth. There are no delusions of fame or infamy.

I have no plans for reconstructive or cosmetic enhancements. I wouldn’t mind shedding some pounds, but I need to do that on my own… sometime soon.

My marriage is happy, my kids are doing great. Those are my personal life successes.

Besides I have another 50 years to do more fabulous things, right.

So, tell me… what should I put on my ‘Second 50′ to-do list?

Reflecting

I look like I know what I’m doing.

Black rubber-encased camera with a custom-made neck strap; a 55-200mm zoom expertly twisted into place; long hair expertly encased in a black ball cap; capped off by a tan field vest with its many pockets filled with prime lenses, filters, and batteries – I am the very image of a professional photographer.

But, I’m not a professional – I only play one on TV.

Rule of thirds

Trifecta, a weekly one-word prompt, challenges writers to use that word in its third definition form, using no less than 33 words or no more than 333. The week’s prompt is: Image [noun \ˈi-mij\] 3: a) exact likeness: semblance b) a person strikingly like another person