Recently, I was accused by a good friend of having no apparent problems. Obviously, I was really offended by this callous and off-base observation. God knows I work as hard as the next modern-day woman to feel like crap about my continual inability to do it all. Sure, I may act like I don't care about all those beauty products and butt-firming exercises, but, deep down--like, almost more than two inches below the cushy proof of my secretive potato-chip addiction--I am acutely aware of how I don't measure up.
I suppose I should make my peace with things. I mean, clearly, I will never be skinny enough, successful enough, tan enough, feminine enough or exhausted enough to break into the top one million of "Women Who Really Give a Damn About What Really Matters and Know What To Do with That Feeling."
Actually, what my friend's comment really said to me was that people don't look closely enough when casting their nets of judgment upon others. I mean, do you know anyone who doesn't get out of bed with the secret hope that their business has closed down and that Channel 10/11 is running an all-day "Frasier" fest?
Yeah, I didn't think so.
So, cut me some slack, people. Truth is, I really do wish I were skinnier, blonder, buffer, more interested in moving up the "power" ladder at work.
But I'm not. That's just not how I was made.
Don't fool yourself, though. I carry around my fair share of luggage, even if it's made with some kind of invisibility material. I have a sister who died at birth. A dad who died just shy of Eric's first birthday. A brother who never lived long enough to meet Allison. There is a miscarriage, a job loss or two, a big heap of missed opportunities that still conjure up feelings of guilt.
Still, I guess I wonder why I have to mention these things at all. Do I really need to pull out my merit badges every time someone claims I've got it better than them? Truth is, I know I have it better than I deserve. Just as I know that I'm grateful for all the good.
My warts may be hidden from others' eyes, but I've got them, nonetheless. And, actually, I am glad to have them. They keep me honest. And alert. Best of all, my own warts help me to recognize the warts in others and to love those imperfect people anyway.
And I secretly hope that others will return the favor, cutting me some slack for my own abrasions and shortfalls. After all, I think we become better friends and neighbors when we just assume there'll be some unpleasant truths along the way.
No comments:
Post a Comment