For all of you body conscious people out there, I have news for you! You ain’t seen nothin’ yet! I have read more posts lately about weight than I care to. Take this for example:
“Then they slip into the most skanky clothes and parade through the beaches, city parks and streets disgusting those of us who actually care about their health and how they look.”
Another poster typed that she recently learned people on OS didn’t like her because she was fat, and has since deleted the post.
I certainly do not have a perfect body and I know diet and exercise are key to looking and feeling great. Our society is obsessed with youth and beauty yet, the older I get, the more comfortable I am with myself. I am thankful I have two legs that work and two arms that can reach over my head when I need something out of my cabinets. I am more thankful than any of you know.
When I see or hear people make fun of others because they do not fit in, it affects me deeply, to the very core of my being. A person I love with every breath I take does not fit in to any youth or beauty category. When she was born, she wore casts on her legs for over a year. Her mother was told this child would never walk, nor ride a bike. When she ate, food would come out of her nose because she had a hole in the roof of her mouth. She can’t open her hands because her fingers simply don’t work that way. While her sisters grew to over five feet six inches tall, she stayed at four feet, eleven inches. While her sisters wore high heels, she wore high-top tennis shoes because she has no arch.
When she goes out in public, people stare or make rude remarks. She was not kept hidden away, but forced out into every day life so she would learn to cope. As she grew, she had the most beautiful long, wavy, dark hair I had ever seen. She finally learned to walk at the age of three, after her younger sister walked across the room. She was bound and determined to follow her. Banana bike seats came out and she learned to ride a bike, as well. In high school, she drove a Mustang with elevated pedals.
Life for her has not been easy, but she doesn’t let anything stop her. My mother died last April and my little sister, Theresa, took a turn for the worse. I spent over a week sitting by her side in intensive care until she could breath on her own again. She is 51 yrs old now and has an attitude like you would not believe. She goes to work every day and bought herself a horse that she is learning to ride. She makes friends wherever she goes because she has absolutely no prejudices and a wonderful sense of humor. She's learned all to hard, her weaknesses, but she also learned her strengths. She's accepted her looks and lived her life with grace and zeal. She has a heart of gold. So, when I sound harsh on your posts, hopefully you will have a better understanding of where I am coming from.
This year, my youngest sister decided to take Theresa along on her Florida vacation. I received an e-mail from her telling me they ran into Cindy Crawford on the beach and she was kind enough to allow them to take pictures of her. So, for all you people who wish you had the perfect body, I say, “Live your life with zeal and be thankful!”
And I offer you this, my amazing and imperfect little sister...
The love of my life is finally home. I haven’t seen him since the holidays and my heart is swelled with love. I knew the moment he pulled into the driveway because Apollo The Sun Dog, went berserk, running in circles and jumping at the door. His boy was home and he was ready to welcome him with open paws, face licks and toy jousting. Z barely drops his bags at the door before getting tackled and soon both are sprawled on my living room floor, wrestling and pouncing. I am thrilled. I am ecstatic. I am relieved, for when this child is not in my sight, a piece of me is missing.
Z is the child that almost died in my arms in the birthing room. Z is my miracle. I was holding him when the nurse came in to take his footprints. When she unwrapped his blankets she instinctively knew he was in trouble. I thought he was sleeping when, in fact, he was dying in my arms. Within the hour of his birth, he was rushed into surgery and I was told to prepare for the worst. They prepared the life-flight to fly him to Chicago and put him on an infant heart/lung machine, which our local hospital didn’t have. I could do nothing but wait and pray. My four-year old daughter paced the room repeating, “I am so mad. I am so mad.”
My husband went with his father down to surgery while my mother stayed at my side. The call finally came that Z had pulled through surgery with flying colors and they were placing him in the local neonatal intensive care unit. I had to leave the hospital without my baby. In the middle of the night I would hear him calling me, drive to the hospital and sit with him. The day finally came when he was allowed to come home. I remember walking him to the car when it began to snow. It was the end of April and it was snowing, like a scene from a movie. I took this as a sign from the Universe that this child was special beyond belief. And he is.
He has been my rock. Growing up, he gave me fits; trips to the emergency room for stitches, always harassing me, as well as being my jester, making me laugh more than anyone else could. He does not let me get by with anything and calls me out every chance he gets. Often, when I have not cleaned the house, he remarks, “Oh, I love what you’ve done to the place. Did you call in a decorator for this look?”
But, when I need him, he shows up every time, without fail. I had surgery four years ago, right after I divorced his father. I told Z not to worry, don’t come home, I’ll be fine. He was at school and I didn’t want to interrupt his semester. The day before surgery I am working in my home office and I hear my back door opening. It was Z. He’d hitched a ride home with a friend to be at my side. The gesture brought tears to my eyes. He stayed with me, caring for me the entire week before he found another ride back to school.
Now, he is home again and my heart is tap dancing. I only have him for one week, but he is all mine for that week. He is over six feet tall, but in my eyes, he is the baby that almost died in my arms. He is twenty-three and a grown man, but in my eyes he is four years old, chasing the dog, a new dog, around the back yard. We sit together until wee small hours of the morning exchanging ideas. We talk about life, about death, about my mother who died last year, about my father, about school, about his dreams and about how I should get off my ass and start dating. I think about bringing another man into my life, but if I do, they have to understand that Z and I have a special relationship that goes way back. Way, way back…. To other lifetimes, I think.
Come on in and make yourself comfy. Kick off your shoes... Coffee? Tea? Sit awhile and read… Express your thoughts. Any questions? Feel free to ask for I am a woman of a certain age and I do not fear my secrets. I welcome them for they have led me here, where I pour them out in written word. I'm also a Recovering Catholic, but I very much believe in a Higher Power. Those shoes you see in my title banner, I own those shoes... Stuart Weitzman Fever in patent leather red! We used to get out alot more, me and my shoes. So I decided to add them to my blog because, hey, I'm not dead yet!!
"Age does not diminish the extreme disappointment of having a scoop of ice cream fall from the cone." ~Jim Fiebig