Let’s Get Mediocre and Screw. Up.

A couple of months ago I was at a conference with many other women. I sat there listening to the conference speaker in my outfit I had agonized over, with my embarrassing,  ponytailed hair that  really needed to be cut, and worried about my appearance.  (Because really, it IS all about me. All. The. Time.) As I sat there with all the other shiny, pretty mommies, my blood ran cold when I heard the speaker say:

“Pull up your right pantleg.”

Uh-oh.

“Now take your left hand and feel the woman’s leg to your right.”

All the shiny, pretty mommies groaned. We were BUSTED.  As I reached over and felt the girl to my right’s hairy calf, and as mine was felt up as well, I thought, “this is kinda hot!” “Yay! I am not the only one who haz ugly!”

The speaker then went on to say that we  shiny, hairy mommies had just participated in the “ministry of mediocrity” – helping others by showing our real selves.  Wiping off the lip-plumping-diamond-shine-hydra-gloss and puckering up with our skinny, dry, cracked smackers.  She said that when we show others our imperfections, they can better accept their own.

The be-atch had a point.

It made me think of a good friend with whom I have playdates.  We’ve decided to betrothe our two-year-olds (really, arranged marriages just eliminate so much of the worry!) so we get the kids together so they can start getting to know each other. This girl and I are both terrible housekeepers.  I love going over to her house and seeing cheerios and three-day-old shredded cheese on the floor. It’s like Christmas!  She’s giving me a gift by being just as bad or worse at housekeeping as I am.  And you know what?  I am as comfortable in her mess as I am in my own. We can relax, celebrate our epic failure, and have a good time together.

(Exhibit A: the current state of my living room floor)

So do me a favor, blogosphere.  When I see you at BlissDom or BlogHer, and I stick my hairy legs in your face and ask you to feel them, will you obligingly do so and then show me a hairy pit or a chin hair?  Don’t be a tease, I know you’re not perfect.  Let’s compare uglies, get comfy, and party!

Come on, now…I showed you mine.  Will you show me yours?

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There has to be some law against being that gorgeous even with a ponytail and hairy legs… anyone? No? Well, it’s a good thing for Jenny, then, because she’d be in the lock-up for sure. When she’s not too busy being so damn cute, she spends her time Mommin It Up! with her cousin Emily. Hop over!

Bet you didn’t know you had wings.

On Monday I sent John to get us a Christmas tree.

I like real trees. I know that many people have their own, good reasons for having fake trees, but I just can’t have one. I need the smell of a real tree. I need the mess of annoying real tree needles to scatter the carpet. I need the real tree sappy bark and the real tree prickly branches.

I like it when things are real. They hold more meaning for me, somehow. I am alive when I feel.

Real.

Monday evening, I opened a large storage container. In fact, last year, I closed myself up in it entirely, which is a humorous thing for me to recall. What’s even more amusing to me is that, in true camera-obsessed form, I had my Kodak in there with me.

Instead of a dork, it now contains our Christmas decorations. One of the things inside was the Angel we top our tree with each year. We have owned her for about 4 years. Her arms, held open with ribbons and ornaments streaming from one, are posable. I have never moved them, however, and I pack her carefully each year so she that remains in the same position.

So I was more than a bit taken aback when I pulled her out of the box on Monday evening like this:

It was a striking image, her arm thrown across her face, ribbons and ornaments still streaming from her hand. As if the Reality of the family that she was joining this year was too much to bear.

Was she shielding her eyes from my pain? Weeping for us; unable to bear witness.

Tuesday morning, looking down at my own hand, I was reminded of my Angel.

And I realized that I had misinterpreted the message I’d received in her the previous night.

Others are not shielding themselves from this hurt I’m sharing. My pain is not being avoided – it is being shared by and divided amongst all of my “angels.” Without them (you guys), the burden would be heavier, because I would carry it practically alone.

You are my Angels, so to speak.

Every message you send me. Every comment you leave. Every email I get. Every @SarcasticMomLC you shoot my way on Twitter.  You are bearing witness, standing with me, and sharing my pain – you are lessening my burden by supporting me.  All your messages do this.

Please forgive me if I have not the strength or words yet to reply to them all… but know I see them all. I see all of you.

I see you, throwing your hands across your faces with me, the ribbons streaming from them beautifully as you each take a little piece of my pain so I do not feel alone here in “the abyss.”

Sometimes it hurts when things are so real. But I wouldn’t have it any other way, really.

Thanks for letting me feel safe being real.