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I never thought to share this piece on here. But maybe for me this is a test to see if I really have the guts to be a writer, which is why I set up this blog to begin with. Seems I’m not drawn to writing fluffy pieces of fiction as I wanted. I’m drawn, instead, by honesty and a deep sense of finding my own path.

My last post was on learning an important lesson about myself, how I can be both good and bad at the same time. That experience allowed me to find healing for a core issue in my life. Something else happened a few years later that helped me take another huge step toward self- acceptance. It required a mid-wife of sorts in the guise of one Kim from Australia whom I met on a Tolkien website. She took my hand and practically dragged me kicking and screaming into that cave that I’ve been spelunking in ever since.

*****

Valentines Day 2004To say I couldn’t get the words out of my mind would be an understatement. I’d spent the entire morning running back to the computer, pulling up my favorite Tolkien web site, finding my picture and reading the comments posted there. People rarely said such things to me, and those who had tried had, more often than not, received a sarcastic remark in return for their
efforts. But there they were in black and white, and posted
on the worldwide web for anyone to see. And I’d be damned
if I knew how to feel about them.

Finally I’d had to make myself get up from the computer and get on with the day’s chores. I wandered into the bedroom to get dressed, still shaking my head and blushing as I passed the dresser mirror. “Awww Calen, you’re so preeeetty!” Nienna had said. Pretty! Imagine! She called me pretty! I grimaced at the image staring back at me from the mirror and mumbled, if only she could see me now. At the negative thought my inner child had a fit. Obviously she loved being called pretty! And she had been in her day. Didn’t I have the trophy from the beauty contest to prove it?

I must have been all of four when my mother entered me in that silly thing. Still in my pajamas, I crossed the hall and opened the door to the washroom. On a shelf, long forgotten, sat a tarnished gold and black marble trophy. The writing was nearly worn off after all these years, but I knew what it had said, “Blue Ribbon Award, First Place Toddler Division.” Yes, I had been a beautiful child, even if a little on the chunky side. Golden-red hair hung to my waist in unruly natural waves and was a real “bitch” to comb, or so my mom had complained nearly every day of my young life. My dad, however, would run his fingers through the tangles and swear it was my crowning glory. When he fussed over
me like that, I felt like the most beautiful girl in the world, a princess.  And when I turned 10, that was a very wonderful and important thing to feel.

I guess that’s why everyone was so surprised when mom did what she did. Dad left for a week to go camping with his buddies, and while he was gone she had it cut off clear up to my shoulders. I remember being practically sick at the first snip of the scissors. But she was tired of fighting that rat’s nest every day, she told the poor lady doing the damnable deed. Forlornly the woman tried to assure me through my tears that I would love it. It would be so easy to take care of. No more getting the comb stuck and pulling hunks out by the roots. She couldn’t have had an inkling of the damage the act would cause inside me.

The week seemed interminable. I was so excited to see my Uncle’s car pull up to the curb in front of our house. And that’s when it happened. Dad got out, yanked his suitcase from the back seat and walked right past me where I stood waiting expectantly for my usual hug and kiss; right past me and up the porch stairs into the house. That moment froze in my memory. That was the day I stopped being pretty.

I put the trophy back on the shelf and ran my finger across the brass plate on the big red and gold one next to it that read: “Outstanding Business Student, 1969.” If you were going to survive in life, you had to learn to cope. The key chain I carry to this day says it all, “Not born Barbie, trying to cope anyway!” And cope I did! If I couldn’t be pretty, at least I could be smart. It was a vow I made to myself. I sighed and pulled the door shut.

The day was getting away from me. I slipped into one of my husband’s old flannel shirts and caught my reflection in the mirror. “I second that! Pretty, pretty Calen,” Ducky had posted. I stared again at the dumpy housewife in the mirror and couldn’t make the connection. It didn’t occur to me just then that a smart-ass comment hadn’t been readily on my lips this time, nor that I stood there and looked a few moments longer than necessary. I changed into my jeans and t-shirt and threw my pajamas in the hamper. They made such a big pile lying there. But then I always bought things big. Buying clothes that were too large, wearing shapless t-shirts were just coping mechanisms for me. I’d learned how to use those tools across the alley behind our house.

The family in back of us had an overweight daughter, too. Her mom only bought her the best clothes — Chubbies, from the J.C. Penney catalog. So when she’d outgrown them, which was generally just in time to get new ones for school, mom and I would make a trip across the alley and come home with a whole new wardrobe. I guess I should be grateful that she let me choose the ones I wanted, but like the lady who cut my hair, mom had no idea the damage that was being done to my self-esteem by hauling me across that alley every year. It felt sleazy (though I wouldn’t have known that word then), wrong somehow. And it made me feel “less than.”

(cont.)