My two oldest daughters recently had a chance to get all dressed up as well as flex their social muscles at their middle school masquerade dance. They both returned home with a glowing review of the event.
It was Rachel’s first dance, and I was so happy it proved to be a positive experience. I remember my first dance well. I was an awkward sixth grader with a bad perm, chubby cheeks, and a few odd gaps in my mouth from where permanent teeth were missing (my own kids are also missing a few of their permanent teeth; genetics are cool). I also had a rash on my legs that wouldn’t go away, and some boys on my bus would ruthlessly tease me, saying I had leprosy.
I avoided those same boys in the school gym that – despite being spruced up for the dance -still smelled faintly of stale sweat and soiled socks. I stood off on the periphery with some of my friends, giggling and acting like I was having a grand, old time. Then I waited for someone (anyone!) to ask me to dance. My hope was tenuous; I knew I was low on the social hierarchy of middle school. Boys didn’t ask for a dance from the girls they oinked at or the one they compared to lepers.
But then I saw a boy who had always been a friend walking in my direction. My heart fluttered. It felt like time had stopped, and everyone else in the gym blurred into a muddy palette. It was just him and me in the glittery universe. While I knew this boy had never liked me THAT way, he’d always been nice enough and he thought I was funny and smart. My cheeks flushed. I beamed, and I grinned in his direction. Just as I thought, “This is it! I’m about to have my first dance!” he sidestepped me and asked one of my best friends who was standing next to me. The real world around me came back into view, the room full of awkward teens swaying to the music, the boys’ sweaty palms on the girls’ shifting hips. But my vision quickly blurred again – this time because of the tears that flooded my eyes.
My heart no longer fluttered; it ached. My cheeks were now flushed with shame.
Years later I would be asked to dance. What people referred to as a late-bloomer, I eventually grew in to myself. My sun-kissed, blonde hair – no longer ravished by a bad perm but straight and golden, my emerging curves, and thin, muscular legs (sans the rash now) made the same boys who teased me take a second look. People even started to describe me as pretty. But it was frequently more of a curse than a blessing. My outward appearance became my social capital, and I would hide the real me behind the mask of beauty, convincing myself I didn’t have much more to offer the world than skin.
When the compliments stopped coming about how thin I’d gotten or how pretty I was, I waited to be noticed again. I waited for someone or something to fuel me. Not surprisingly, there were other masks I’d hide behind in order to fit in and be affirmed.
Today I’m all grown up and on the cusp of officially entering middle age. I like to think I’m wiser, but there’s still sometimes the temptation to wish away the years (you know the ones that etch all those lines on our faces) or the pounds, to want to cling to youth and beauty as an affirmation of my worth and proof that I am no longer that rejected, little girl pushed to the social margins. I have also made success, accolades, my maternal aptitude, the number of books I’ve sold, and even my running pace barometers of my self-worth in the past. Hiding behind the mask of accomplishment can feel very safe.
We live in a world that is hyper-focused on self-improvement and putting our best, most polished, airbrushed self forward. So we are constantly seeking new ways to make ourselves look better – whether physically, intellectually, or spiritually. In our quest to be accepted, lauded, and affirmed, it becomes increasingly easy to forget who we really are, what is important to us, and what and whom we really love.
I told my girls to have fun at their dance and also to be kind and to be true to themselves. “We will!” they said, and they meant it. They seem to possess far more self-assurance than I did at their age. I hope they always will.
I’ve decided to really put forth the effort to never hide behind any kind of mask anymore. I’m not getting any younger. Instagram filters help, but they can’t completely hide the fine lines spreading like rivers and their tributaries on a well-worn map. I’m not sure I’ll ever lose those last 10 pounds, and so what? Why does occupying a smaller body equate to happiness and even success in so many of our minds? Trees change with the seasons and with weather and age. Why do we expect our bodies do be no different?
Earlier this week I snapped at a child. But then I apologized. I am a very human mom who sometimes loses her patience or doesn’t know how to handle histrionics or supercharged emotions from me or my kids. Sure, you might glance at my Instagram feed or the archives of this blog and think, “Now she’s a mom who has it all together.” And sometimes I do. But there are many times I don’t. And that’s okay, too. I don’t need to wear a “I love every minute of motherhood!” mask to prove my love to my children. In fact, it’s in the admitting just how hard this mothering gig can be and then also just continuing to show up day after day that speaks to its sublimity and the beautiful sacrificial love it requires. Motherhood isn’t for wimps.
Neither is being a teenager – a popular one or not.
Neither is being teased and shunned or regularly adored. I’ve been both, so trust me on this one.
Neither is just being a human being in this broken world.
We all have to find our own way, and sometimes we might have to fake a smile just to get through a hard day or even a cancer diagnosis. But I’ve found that most of error more on the side of pretending as a rule or hiding behind our worldly successes or weight loss as a way of making ourselves feel okay rather than a means of optimistic thinking.
Just the other day I called my mom, and I asked, “How’s your face?”
“How’d you know?” she asked.
Her question took me off-guard because she has been living with atypical trigeminal neuralgia for years now, but it turns out she had taken a fall because of medication-induced vomiting and dizziness and initially thought I was referring to the bruises on her face rather than the searing, chronic pain she endures every single day.
When she finished telling me about her fall (her second bad one this year) and minimizing it and even laughing about it, I said, “I’m so sorry, Mama. This sucks.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said.
“No, you’re not.”
“Really. I am.”
“NO! It’s okay to say it sucks! Say it! Say, ‘It sucks!'” I said, my voice trembling because sometimes life and sickness, heartache and loneliness, chronic pain and death, poverty and persecution really, really do suck. Big time.
We can’t change the lives we have, reverse the aging process, cure every sickness, end world hunger, or keep others from hurting people, but we can pay attention. We can admit that sometimes life isn’t fine and it even sucks, but it’s still a gift. We can be authentic and put the masks down. We can stop being so afraid of what we have to offer and instead just offer it and ourselves to others.
It’s hard to see clearly when you’re wearing a mask. I used to invest so much time in to worrying about what others thought of me and how I could be better, thinner, more perfect, more successful. I missed out on so much. But when I show up as is, when I embrace good enough is good enough, especially when it’s paired with God’s grace, I notice the small, evanescent moments – my toddler’s dimples, my teenager’s wit, my husband’s strong hand pressed gently onto my back, the rust-colored leaves clinging to the trees in fall, the wet nose of my lab as she pushes against me when she’s hungry or wants to go outside, my child curled up next to me as I read him a story aloud at bedtime, the smile of a stranger at the grocery checkout line…. I catch a glimpse into another’s soul because I’m not so preoccupied with myself or my appearance to others.
I can’t always change my life, but I can pay more attention to it, especially when I gift myself with the permission to just be sometimes-zit-faced-me. And when I pay more attention to others (and less attention to the amazing, science-defying fact that my own skin simultaneously produces pimples and wrinkles!), then I am offering others what I and every person before and after me really desires at his or her core: I am doing more than seeing them – I am noticing them, hearing them, and telling them with my naked, authentic face that they matter.
Thank You for this post, it is quite inspiring. Your girls are so lovely. Glad they had a good time at the dance.
Marion and Marilyn
Thank you so much for your kind words and for reading. :-)
Kate Wicker recently posted…Firing the food police