A Cautionary Tale

I was prompted 100% by vanity.

The inconspicuous anomaly marred my reflection.

Because while  there was a little something-something a bit irregular in shape which itched and was located in an area on my chest that had been subject to repeated sunburn for the last 54 years, that growth had gone ignored.

No. I picked up the phone and made an appointment with the plastic surgeon because there was a teeny tiny perfectly round barely  visible but in the 20x makeup mirror itty bitty growth which  was preventing the smooth application of my under eye concealer. This teeny tiny perfectly round barely visible but in the 20x make up mirror mole had also become a mascara collector—and so, it had to go.

Thusly, the plastic  surgeon removed and did a biopsy on the something-something  thingy on my chest that I believed was at minimum a squamous cell carcinoma (or worse) and cut out the teeny tiny perfectly round barely visible but in the 20x makeup mirror growth located just under my bottom eyelashes.

The biopsy report concluded that the chest  thingy  I thought was positively something turned out to be positively nothing; and the vanity-prompted teeny tiny perfectly round barely visible in the 20x make up mirror nothing turned out to be positively something.

It's a cautionary tale.

Vanity is considered one of the 7 deadly sins---a form of self-idolatry—the root of the other 6. But what is also said is this: "Vanity well fed is benevolent."

Which in my case was absolutely true-- vanity was a good thing, even if the teeny tiny perfectly round barely visable but in the 20x makeup mirror mole was not.

Label Making

She made it seem as if it was the new cool thing parents were doing  to make either her job more difficult, or to give children an undeserved academic edge. She seemed not to recognize that by nature of identification children would have a less encumbered path to education—that a label would open the door to possibility not impossibility.

She forgot that education was designed to empower children not educators.

Because what I recall her saying (with a sigh) was this: Every year more and more parents are opting for testing and so the district finds itself with increasing numbers of identified children: kids with autism—including Asperberger’s--- or attention deficit  with or without hyperactivity-- or children with some kind of learning disability that the State mandates must be addressed.

   

I mentioned in an earlier blog how in all my years in school I never knew any gay people-- which I realize now was statistically impossible as  Gays constitute 20% of the population. But what I also now realize is that it was statistically impossible for me not to have known at least one classmate who in this day and age would have been correctly identified as having  special needs requiring accommodation.

In my time, kids with learning disabilities were the unfortunate ones labeled as slow or worse lazy. They were the “write-offs”—the barely literate “push them through the system” bottom percentile who were destined for menial labor or work that required little cognitive activity---if they were lucky.

We also had what were called the “problem children”—kids  with behavioral issues—the few who could not physically sit still in their seat no matter how much punishment and “talking to” they had. They never could complete their homework assignments or finish their exams. They were labeled “disruptive” and “unfocused” and “impulsive.” They too were considered “write-offs with an uncertain future—like a life of crime.

And my favorite group of labeled misfits was what was known  back then as the weirdos. They were the classmates (and sometimes professors)  I encountered mostly in college and in graduate school who were highly intelligent (often genius-level intelligent)yet had tunnel vision regarding their course of study or area of research. Social cues were routinely missed or misconstrued. They remained absent in group discussions and were verbally abrupt. The masses tolerated their abrasive behavior simply because their minds were so sharp and their contributions were so great.

Everyone of those children (or adults) would have benefited academically and emotionally had they been correctly diagnosed as being dyslexic or having attention deficit or Asperberger’s and given a proper educational plan.

But who knew?

And I would like to say that I stepped up to the plate and defended special education to the “couldn’t be bothered” school staffer.

But I did not. Because the school staffer had her own label to deal with---an insidious one for which she was totally unaware—yet one that said it all.

Hint: it begins with and “i” and ends with a “t” and has the Italian word for “God” wedged in between.

German Ingenuity

She is exacting. Precise. Efficient.

Waste not want not is her rule.

My mother, in the most complimentary of ways, describes her as being very German.

Because when Margot cooks, everyone is well fed with no leftovers.

Margot discards a pair of shoes before purchasing new ones.

And when she travels, her suitcase is not full of  new clothing; instead, she packs attire earmarked for donation—then leaves it in hotel rooms along her journey post-wear.

Margot arrives home with a lighter suitcase than when she began, no laundry to do, and the    satisfaction from having made clothing donations to the less fortunate.

And it is Margot who inspired me recently on an overnight stay in Manhattan.

I packed my toiletry bag with a current end-stage-of-life toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste with two squeezes left, and a nearly-ready-for-the-garbage stick of deodorant. My makeup bag consisted of items that were either unwanted, old or nearly empty. I slept in an old tee shirt, tattletale gray socks and pajama bottoms with dried out elastic.

And in the morning I left it all behind.

I walked from my hotel to Penn Station—23 streets and 2 avenues.

I also walked part of the way home from the train station.

Neither my back, knees nor neck hurt.

In all ways my load was light.

I was free—arriving home with  little dirty laundry and a less-cluttered bathroom cabinet.

I felt pretty good about myself.

And it was all because of Margot—and her German ingenuity.

On Good Body Image

A provocative article on self-image was posted on Facebook by a woman I admire. The article included a before and after photo with a twist: the before shot was of a young very muscular borderline-anorexically thin woman, and the after shot was of the same woman noticeably filled out with little muscle definition.

On more than one occasion in my nearly 54 years I have come to the conclusion that it is an absolute  miracle that I do not have an eating disorder or a bad case of BDD. I grew up with not one but two parents who had a dysfunctional relationship with food—they were forever gaining and losing weight—they were habitual dieters.

How good they were feeling about themselves on any given day was directly proportional to a number on the scale.

The word “fat” floated everywhere in my atmosphere.

It kept me company when I was alone.

My mother’s 2 closets held four seasons of clothing subdivided into sizes 8, 10, 12 and 14.

She, in her lifetime, has cumulatively gained and lost the equivalent of several people.

And my household was not my only frame of reference for body image. I was a little girl when Twiggy—the boyishly figured British beauty became the world’s first supermodel. Later, as a teenager, posters of Farrah Fawcett and Cheryl Tiegs hung everywhere on every bedroom wall.

They were the images that everyone aspired to; yet my body in no way reflected back any of the images surrounding me.

And had I not paid attention when I accompanied my mother to Weight Watchers meetings back in 1985 I might not have learned how to create and maintain a proper body/food balance. For me, sitting in that room with women sharing their struggles and strategies struck a positive chord: all diets fail—only lifestyle changes succeed—and most importantly: the number on a scale defines no one.

And so when I had my three daughters I became hyperconscious of how to properly model eating habits. I was determined to convince them that their bodies were flawless—that their curves and/or lack thereof as the case might be represented personal perfection.

The words “fat” and “diet” never rolled off of my lips—ever.

Which is why (unlike perhaps  a different mother) I was totally elated and proud when my daughter Briana did not think twice about raising her hand to volunteer to dance in a bikini on the Live with Kelly and Michael Show.

My daughter is completely comfortable with her body—which is both fit and curvy.

She is not self-loathing of her J. Lo, Beyonce, Sophia Vergara type figure.

Ebullience and self-confidence spilled from the television screen for a national audience to see.

A friend told me she was "brave."

I told her Briana was more than that--because "brave" is when you do something despite fear. Briana performed with no fear: she was fearless.

And when I picked my mother up from the general practitioner a week or two ago, nearly the first words uttered from her lips were According to the doctor’s scale I lost 5 pounds!

I rolled my eyes up into my head and said Oh my God--you are 83 years old—when are you going to give up on the weight thing?

Her silent reply said it all:

When the shovel of dirt hits the mahogany box--and nature takes care of itself.