Sometime, you might submit an article for publication and it might get rejected. Said article might make a serious point, such as if you've long been struggling to accept yourself as you are, it might be time to give up and relax about it, only via slightly lame humor. Who doesn't like to laugh, right? Even lamely. (Alright, maybe only a few people.) The rejection of your article might come with a comment questioning the sagacity of "the pooping part." Oops. My bad. But, seriously, that would be funny. It's an old story. Life's a bowl of cherries, until you get to... "the pooping part."
Hey
there, Adorable!
I’m always trying to
become a better person. It’s exhausting. I listen to educational books while
cleaning the house, crochet gifts while watching TV, and spend at least eight
hours a week at the gym. Granted, I like the gym and working out keeps my joints
moving, like the tin man’s oil can. If I stop for a week, stiffness sets in,
and pain is a fantastic motivator. But I also go because being fit makes me
feel acceptable - to others and myself. I wish that were not the case. I long
for the confidence and self-acceptance to feel at ease no matter my size, but
when my love handles start puckering above my waistband, I want to cancel all
engagements, like my friend who occasionally feels the need to “call in fat” to
work when her clothes feel snug and she wants to hide away from the world. Of
course, most people don’t know the truth. To her boss, she has the flu or a
stomach bug.
I’d
love to be more like another friend. For a few years, she’s had a night job in
which her abilities are underutilized. Eventually, she got so bored she started
eating candy at work to entertain herself and to stay awake. She lines peanut
M&M’s around the perimeter of her desk and allows herself to eat one every
ten minutes. The next night, it might be Skittles. She started the job as a size
eight and by now has, in her words, “blossomed into a size fourteen.” Has this
phased her confidence? Not a bit. She struts around in her new, size-fourteen
wardrobe as if she owns the world. I’ve actually seen her pass a mirror and
shout, “Hey there, Adorable!” Surely, she is not thrilled about her new size,
she definitely needs a new job, and all that candy cannot be healthy, but she
is going through a tough time and refuses to judge herself too harshly. I envy
her self-acceptance.
I
also envy that man on my plane last Sunday. He sat beside me on our packed six
a.m. flight to LAX. The dude was what I like to refer to as middle-aged, like
me. Fifty had come and gone, as evidenced by the monk-like fringe of grey
stubble encircling his head like a headband. He wore Justin boots and a flannel
shirt featuring dancing santas. Halfway through the flight, he gathered up his
Dallas Morning News and vaulted over my knees to disappear into the lavatory. I
wanted to shout behind him, “Seriously, Dude, make yourself at home. And while
you’re at it, why not announce to the entire plane what you’re up to?” During the half-hour he was in there, I had
to marvel at his aplomb, as well as his remarkably relaxed attitude toward
germs. This was a man I could learn something from.
I
would never even think about toting a newspaper into a public lavatory. What
would people think? I mean, I know we’ve all seen the book Everyone Poops, but who really wants to know our personal
logistics? In public, we’d all (except for my seatmate) rather pretend ourselves
exempt. Besides, I’m way too germaphobic to consider actually sitting down in
there. Even though I do yoga, I doubt I’d have the core strength to hold a
newspaper in a squatting position on a moving airplane while answering the call
of nature.
So for this new year, I plan to make no resolutions. I am sick of improving
myself. I plan to relax, to work at accepting myself as I am, like candy girl
and santa-shirt man. Maybe I should consider starting each day this year
by staring into the mirror and shouting, “Hey there, Adorable!” I’ll try it,
but if I forget once in a while, I’ll remind myself to be okay with that. After
all, nobody’s perfect.
