Thursday, March 26, 2009

Youthful Delusions

It's funny. Or pathetic. Depending on how you choose to look at it. When I was about C's age, I had big dreams. Huge dreams. The world was going to be my proverbial oyster... even if the thought of oysters just gives me the heebie jeebies. Yuck.

Anyway, I was going to be one of those beautiful supermodels. Barbizon (I think) was going to make me famous. I would be tall, graceful, and dropdead gorgeous. Heh. I was going to drive a slut red Lamborghini Diablo. Or maybe a Ferrarri. Although the Ferrarri didn't have near the appeal as that Lamborghini. Holy hell I thought that was the most exotic car EVER! And I was going to own it. I was going to drive that thing like it was nobody's business. And I was going to have a blonde, bronzed body surfer boy look-a-like boy toy to keep me company. I had no idea why I wanted the hot man at the time, but I just knew I needed an 'accessory'. That's basically how I thought of it/him. A gorgeous accessory that I could trade in on the next hotter model if I saw fit.

The reality was, I was this geeky, Orphan Annie-esque kid. I had red hair that my mother insisted on cutting in a bob and then perming herself. Even at that age I knew I looked like a friggin idiot. Me with my curly bob haircut and my sisters 1970's castoff courdouroys. I was awkward (just the word awkward is awkward), gangly, homely, and everything I didn't want to be.

Over the years, I morphed into a larger (although still not Barbizon tall), more grown up Orphan Annie. Hair is still red but there really is a God because my mother has not touched it in 15ish years. Still awkward, and anything but graceful. But somewhere along the way, I grew into 'me'. My skin fits better now and I've learned to be comfortable in it. I can marvel at how a real, grownup me still manages to trip over her own feet, run into things, and be just an overall klutz. Grace eluded me. Grace took a look and decided I would take entirely too much effort and you just can't make a 'me' graceful. Or elegant. Or blonde for that matter.

I can't nail down the date and time that it happened, but somewhere along the way I just accepted me. And realized I'm not so bad afterall. I drive a Chevy instead of a Lamborghini. My boytoy is a husband and more Italian romeo than blonde surfer boy. And I'm a far cry from supermodel what with my tendency to tattoo and pierce random bits of skin. And it's ok. Well, mostly. I still want that Lamborghini Diablo. Holy hell that car is sexy. Rawr. Heh.