I was tired of my hair. It is long and incredibly thin and just as incredibly coarse and curly. Not the pretty curly. The “I just stuck my finger in a light socket and look what it did to my hair” curly. All I ever do is just throw it up in a pony tail. But, that day I felt an overwhelming need to have one of those woman empowering moments. Almost like the ones where an Alanis Morisette or KT Tunsell song is playing in the background and the girl looks in the mirror, takes the scissors and whacks off her hair (somehow in perfect layers or a perfect bob cut) and feels instantly liberated and empowered.
But, I’m a wimp and don’t like my hair short and I’m not a real big fan of either Alanis or KT. So I would settle on Coldplay music and use the curling iron to make perfect flowing curls, and that would count as my empowerment moment. My hair would be bouncy and sassy, just like in the commercials. Makeup would be flawless and I was going to wear an outfit that flattered me in all the right places.
I guess the bottom line was I wanted to be pretty, not just liberated or empowered. It had been awhile since I felt truly pretty. For some reason that day was the day I would get gussied up. I just really wanted him to see me as beautiful. Because, maybe that would make him remember how he felt about me. Maybe that would remind him that he cared.
So I parted my hair into sections and proceeded to wrap each section around the curling iron and then waited for a miracle to happen. The first two sections worked beautifully. The curls curled and bounced just as I imagined. I smiled with excitement. I was going to look so hot. How nice to feel beautiful again. I was determined to have a good day that day. All the right things would be said. I wasn’t going to ramble on or say something stupid. All pop culture and celebrity references would be kept at a minimum. Today I would be the pretty girl that was funny without being obnoxious, insightful instead of simple. He would look at me today and be glad I was his.
It was during this train of thought that I stopped paying attention to what I was doing to my hair. I suddenly realized I had wrapped too much around the curling iron and couldn’t get it unwrapped. It was an older curling iron and it had bristles, so it doubled as part brush/part curler. Actually, to clarify it was my grandmother’s. Evidently, not only am I too cheap to get a decent hair cut, I’m too cheap to buy a curling iron that was made after the 1990s.
I gently tried to unwrap the section of hair that was now entangled around the iron. No success. I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation. I kept trying to pull my entwined hair from the iron. Nothing happened, except it seemed to get more tangled. Progressively gentle tugging turned into frantic yanking. My laughing out loud slowly turned to frantic grunts trying to free the section of hair being held hostage by my curling iron.
“Seriously?!” I yelled out loud. Whether it was directed at me or God, I’m not sure. Although, something tells me that if it was God, not me, doing my hair- things would have turned out a lot better. I glanced at the clock. I was late. Crap. Something else for him to complain about. I needed help, so I called my mom.
“I think I’m going have to cut my hair. Like, really cut it really, really short,” I whimpered when she answered. I explained to her my situation. She laughed and said something to the effect of “only you, Angela”. The humor of the situation had pretty much left me at this point. I was late to meet him, my hair was seconds away from becoming the world’s worst pixie cut, and the weight of the curling iron hanging from my mass of hair was giving me a headache.
“Well, I can’t leave work right now. Can you come to the office and I’ll work on it here?” she suggested. I agreed to drive there. As I hung up the phone I heard her say “you’ll never guess what my daughter got herself into this time…” to a co-worker. I sighed. I glanced in the mirror, and then my glance turned into a hard stare.
My face was red and blotchy from the frustration and strain. My hair looked that of a bird’s nest, just not as neat, and with an electronic appliance hanging from it. I couldn’t look away from my reflection. I forced a laugh. It would be a funny story. And at my core I am a bit of a laugh whore; I’d do anything for one. Yep. This will be a funny one to tell everyone at work. Especially since these types of things tend to happen to me a lot.
And it was at that thought that I totally dissolved into tears. I wept. I couldn’t help myself. I just wanted so desperately to be beautiful that day. What a silly idea. That one day of good hair and makeup would save a relationship that was dying. That this stupid curling iron would act as a wand and dissolve all our problems. He had been slipping away from me for awhile. It was a wonder that we had started a relationship in the first place. He was successful, handsome, polished and intelligent. I was a college drop out, self deprecating, clumsy, and had an unhealthy obsession with TV marathons.
It wasn’t my hair I was tired of. It was me. I was just tired of being me. I thought of the women that look like they walk out of a salon everyday. They have degrees and know where they’re going and how to get there. They are experts at flirting and getting men’s attention. They have grace and elegance. Men love them. The confidence radiates from them. These women don’t trip over their own feet or run into random objects in their paths. They don’t waste hours wondering if they’re going to break up Jim and Pam on The Office, or get excited when they hear a pun joke. They don’t spill coffee on themselves…everyday, and these women never, ever get curling irons stuck in their hair.
I just kept weeping. I would never be that woman. No matter how much he wanted me to. Every time I tried, I failed. I was trapped being myself. He says I’m enough. I am the one he wants to be with and I make him happy. But, his distancing and disappointed looks spoke louder than his words.
Finally, after ten minutes I composed myself enough to make it to the car and took off towards my mom’s office. There I was driving down I-430, letting out a string of curse words directed at me and my hair, weeping, and tugging at the stubborn iron (that had become an extension of my head) with one hand, and driving with the other hand. When those in the cars driving beside me looked at me with their “what in the …” looks I’d shoot them the meanest ‘go to hell’ look I could muster up. Couldn’t they see I was having a moment?
It was somewhere over the river bridge that my hair was freed. Somehow all the tugging, cursing, weeping, yanking and ‘why me’s’ had loosened the curling iron’s grip. I instantly felt stupid. I couldn’t believe I had a near mental break down because of a curling iron. I called my mom and canceled ‘Operation Hair Rescue’ and took the next exit back towards my house.
While driving back I thought of my ‘episode’. It was then I realized that I wasn’t sure if I was truly upset because I was tired of being me or if it was because I missed who I used to be. I never took myself too seriously before. I liked having the funny stories. Each day could easily be an I Love Lucy episode, and I liked that. It set me apart and it taught me how to laugh at myself. I used to think of it as a gift. But, lately I started to resent it. Trying so hard to be who I wasn’t, I lost a bit of who I actually am.
I was sad again. Because that meant I had to give something up; him or myself. I couldn’t have both. And at that moment on I-430, after an exhausting battle with a curling iron, I honestly couldn’t decide which to give up. My cell phone rang. It was him. “Where are you?” he asked concerned. I proceeded to tell him about my adventure with the curling iron and my hair, sans the mental breakdown. After a moment’s pause, he said “Lordy. Only you.” I let out a sigh and replied, “I know”.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A Whispered Prayer
Remind me again how big You are. I should know by now. But, today I feel especially defeated. So, please remind me of all I have. Remind me all I could have and be, if I would just get moving. Remind me to move.
I compare myself to the giants, remind me to compare the giants to You. I can't see very far, give me the eyes to see. I don't think this is who I'm supposed to be. Remind me who I'm supposed to be.
One more thing, remind me to keep talking to you. Remind me not to forget.
Amen.
I compare myself to the giants, remind me to compare the giants to You. I can't see very far, give me the eyes to see. I don't think this is who I'm supposed to be. Remind me who I'm supposed to be.
One more thing, remind me to keep talking to you. Remind me not to forget.
Amen.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Cheesy Poetry and Hoffa
I cleaned my room today. It was one of those 'once a year' spring cleanings. Went through all my papers, dusted, cleaned out underneath my bed (by the way, Hoffa has been found. He was under my bed reading cheesy poetry I wrote when I was fourteen...he's doing fine, and looks great!), and organized my drawers in my many dressers. It felt good.
I had kept having this awful thought in the past week that if anything happened to me, it would absolutely suck to have to go through my room. And worse, what if a crime happens to me and CSI guys have to come through with their travel labs and do my room a comb over? If I wasn't already dead I would die of embarressment. I had notes from the fifth grade lying around, Sbarro reciepts from '02, tons of letters written but never sent, not to mention the awful poetry I had to pry from Hoffa's fingers. But now I feel relief and free to let whatever happen to me happen, whether it be a mafia hit or getting run over by a bike. I feel good.
Reading those notes from Jr. High made me laugh. I really thought I was deep back then. It turns out I was just really, really winy. But, you can't throw a rock in a Jr. High without hitting a winy teenager, so I refuse to think any less of myself than I already do. I came across a photo album I had put together when I was in a play. I was fourteen and the play was put on by the Theatre department at OBU. I was the youngest one in it.
I fit in. There I was in every picture with a smile beaming and looking perfectly comfortable. It was one of my best memories. I don't have alot from those days. I chose to accept that I wasn't that smart or talented. His words of hurt were louder than my voice telling me I was better than that. It never occured to me to believe in myself or to keep doing something that brought me happiness. The thought of failure paralyzed me. All those years wasted. Time can be such a mean s.o.b. It can be so long and then it can pass in a blink of an eye. Bastard.
But, I think we all have a story similiar to that. The difference is what we do with it. There are days that I turn back into the fourteen year old girl, but not many. 31 years old and finally growing into myself. Such a late bloomer, maybe my boobs will finally come in.
At the very least, I've come to like my voice. It's wiser and stronger. I'm also getting a bit more careful with my time. I'm still behind, but I figure I'll be some great underdog story that Hallmark can make into a movie with Kelly Martin starring as me. In the mean time I'll enjoy my sparkly clean room.
I had kept having this awful thought in the past week that if anything happened to me, it would absolutely suck to have to go through my room. And worse, what if a crime happens to me and CSI guys have to come through with their travel labs and do my room a comb over? If I wasn't already dead I would die of embarressment. I had notes from the fifth grade lying around, Sbarro reciepts from '02, tons of letters written but never sent, not to mention the awful poetry I had to pry from Hoffa's fingers. But now I feel relief and free to let whatever happen to me happen, whether it be a mafia hit or getting run over by a bike. I feel good.
Reading those notes from Jr. High made me laugh. I really thought I was deep back then. It turns out I was just really, really winy. But, you can't throw a rock in a Jr. High without hitting a winy teenager, so I refuse to think any less of myself than I already do. I came across a photo album I had put together when I was in a play. I was fourteen and the play was put on by the Theatre department at OBU. I was the youngest one in it.
I fit in. There I was in every picture with a smile beaming and looking perfectly comfortable. It was one of my best memories. I don't have alot from those days. I chose to accept that I wasn't that smart or talented. His words of hurt were louder than my voice telling me I was better than that. It never occured to me to believe in myself or to keep doing something that brought me happiness. The thought of failure paralyzed me. All those years wasted. Time can be such a mean s.o.b. It can be so long and then it can pass in a blink of an eye. Bastard.
But, I think we all have a story similiar to that. The difference is what we do with it. There are days that I turn back into the fourteen year old girl, but not many. 31 years old and finally growing into myself. Such a late bloomer, maybe my boobs will finally come in.
At the very least, I've come to like my voice. It's wiser and stronger. I'm also getting a bit more careful with my time. I'm still behind, but I figure I'll be some great underdog story that Hallmark can make into a movie with Kelly Martin starring as me. In the mean time I'll enjoy my sparkly clean room.
The Really True Story of the Valentine's Day Massacre
Valentines Day is not what I would call my best holiday. I’m either single, have a boyfriend that forgets about it or decides to make some grand stand against the day. “Valentine’s is dumb. What a stupid thing to celebrate.” Blah. Blah. Blah. Yes, but when St. Patrick’s Day comes along he’ll gladly put on a green top hat, some beads and shoot jager bombs all night like they’re going out of style. Just get me a $1.99 rose from the gas station and some dinner. That’s all. I don’t think that’s asking a lot. But, no. The day usually begins with high hopes and ends with me on the couch watching Law and Order reruns.
My problems with Valentine’s Day began long ago in a land far away. It was the seventh grade, which is the worst grade ever. You are either a late bloomer or early bloomer and neither is a great place to be. I was not the most popular of girls, but I wasn’t the least. The place of being unnoticed was where I occupied my time. That was fine. Of course popularity meant something to me, but I never let it bother me. Not until Valentine’s Day.
On Valentine’s, at my school, they waited until the last class to let you see the gifts delivered to you. The office workers would bring in whatever was sent to you and place it against the wall. How horrible. You have a whole building full of low self-esteemed gawky kids and then make them wait all day to see if someone liked them enough to spend fifteen bucks for a balloon to be delivered. It’s just horrible.
I wasn’t really expecting anything. There was no boyfriend of any sort. I had just started wearing makeup, and that wasn’t going exceptionally well (throughout most of my seventh grade year I looked like a white ghost with really flushed cheeks), and I was still determined to make spiral perms work therefore my hair resembled that of a poodle. Plus you can go ahead and put me in that late bloomer category I spoke of earlier. But as they were carrying all the red, pink and heart shaped items in the room I couldn’t help but to hope at least one thing would be for me. It could be from some secret admirer, probably someone named Antonio with an accent (doesn’t matter which accent, any would do) that was desperately in love with me and bought out the flower shop for me. I daydreamed a lot in Jr. High.
Finally, after an hour of staring at all the Valentine gifts lined up against the wall of class, the bell rang. I coolly walked over to the gifts and searched for my name. And it was the most incredible thing that ever was. There wasn’t just one, two or three items with my name on it, there were multiple items with my name on it: Angela D. Clark. It was extraordinary. There were roses, flowers, candy, balloons, and a giant transparent balloon with a stuffed bear inside surrounded by pink tissue and glitter. I was elated. Cloud nine had nothing on the happiness I felt when I saw my name on the outside of those envelopes. I quickly gathered the items and floated down the hall to my locker. I had trouble carrying all my gifts, there were so many. I happily struggled with them. Gleefully I took random sniffs of the flowers and my imagination ran with who could have sent me so many treasures. My feet were barely touching the floor. There was no stopping the smile of pure joy on my face. I had arrived. This was my moment.
And it was at that moment that I notice the gang of girls walking towards me with full determination. The gang was lead by the other Angela D. Clark. Yes, there were two of us, only different by our middle names with the same initials. We were in the same grade and mix ups between us were common.
She was Pentecostal with a daily uniform of waist length hair and ankle length skirts. They walked toward me in what seemed like slow motion, their eyes locked with mine, waist length hair swaying, ankle length skirts swishing. I knew. I knew the day was about to end badly. I couldn’t move.
“Uh, hey Angela. I think you got some of my gifts,” Pentecostal Angela said with a smirk. And before I could let out my meek “oh”, she and her gang started grabbing items from my hands, checking the cards and giving nods of confirmation to one another. It was like the scene in Cinderella when the stepsisters realize that Cinderella’s dress is made from their scraps. They start ripping the dress apart screaming “My sash!”, “My beads!” That’s how it felt. “My flowers!”, “My candy!”, “My giant transparent balloon with the teddy bear in it surrounded by pink tissue and glitter!”
Finally, Pentecostal Angela and her gang were done tearing the spirit of Valentine’s Day from my arms. “Thanks, Angela. Happy Valentine’s Day!”, she called as she and her gang left with an armful of what were formerly my gifts, dreams, and hopes of what could have been the best Valentine’s ever. There I was standing in the hallway, mouth open in disbelief of the recent event, holding the one gift that remained mine. A lone balloon with a teddy bear on it holding a candy heart that read ‘Have A Heartfelt Day’. The card attached read, ‘To: Angela, Love Mom’. I could hear cloud nine laughing in mockery of me.
This experience, along with my other unsuccessful Valentine’s, could have made me calloused and bitter about this holiday of love and romance. It could have made me into one of those angry women that roll their eyes and curse at happy couples and drink heavily on the holiday. But, it does not. I still hold on to hope of having a successful holiday of romance. Some great romantic experience that every time February 14 comes around, will make me smile in remembrance. Therefore, I smile at those happy couples and tend not to drink any more heavily than I do on a normal day in February. My Happy Valentine’s will happen. $1.99 rose and all.
My problems with Valentine’s Day began long ago in a land far away. It was the seventh grade, which is the worst grade ever. You are either a late bloomer or early bloomer and neither is a great place to be. I was not the most popular of girls, but I wasn’t the least. The place of being unnoticed was where I occupied my time. That was fine. Of course popularity meant something to me, but I never let it bother me. Not until Valentine’s Day.
On Valentine’s, at my school, they waited until the last class to let you see the gifts delivered to you. The office workers would bring in whatever was sent to you and place it against the wall. How horrible. You have a whole building full of low self-esteemed gawky kids and then make them wait all day to see if someone liked them enough to spend fifteen bucks for a balloon to be delivered. It’s just horrible.
I wasn’t really expecting anything. There was no boyfriend of any sort. I had just started wearing makeup, and that wasn’t going exceptionally well (throughout most of my seventh grade year I looked like a white ghost with really flushed cheeks), and I was still determined to make spiral perms work therefore my hair resembled that of a poodle. Plus you can go ahead and put me in that late bloomer category I spoke of earlier. But as they were carrying all the red, pink and heart shaped items in the room I couldn’t help but to hope at least one thing would be for me. It could be from some secret admirer, probably someone named Antonio with an accent (doesn’t matter which accent, any would do) that was desperately in love with me and bought out the flower shop for me. I daydreamed a lot in Jr. High.
Finally, after an hour of staring at all the Valentine gifts lined up against the wall of class, the bell rang. I coolly walked over to the gifts and searched for my name. And it was the most incredible thing that ever was. There wasn’t just one, two or three items with my name on it, there were multiple items with my name on it: Angela D. Clark. It was extraordinary. There were roses, flowers, candy, balloons, and a giant transparent balloon with a stuffed bear inside surrounded by pink tissue and glitter. I was elated. Cloud nine had nothing on the happiness I felt when I saw my name on the outside of those envelopes. I quickly gathered the items and floated down the hall to my locker. I had trouble carrying all my gifts, there were so many. I happily struggled with them. Gleefully I took random sniffs of the flowers and my imagination ran with who could have sent me so many treasures. My feet were barely touching the floor. There was no stopping the smile of pure joy on my face. I had arrived. This was my moment.
And it was at that moment that I notice the gang of girls walking towards me with full determination. The gang was lead by the other Angela D. Clark. Yes, there were two of us, only different by our middle names with the same initials. We were in the same grade and mix ups between us were common.
She was Pentecostal with a daily uniform of waist length hair and ankle length skirts. They walked toward me in what seemed like slow motion, their eyes locked with mine, waist length hair swaying, ankle length skirts swishing. I knew. I knew the day was about to end badly. I couldn’t move.
“Uh, hey Angela. I think you got some of my gifts,” Pentecostal Angela said with a smirk. And before I could let out my meek “oh”, she and her gang started grabbing items from my hands, checking the cards and giving nods of confirmation to one another. It was like the scene in Cinderella when the stepsisters realize that Cinderella’s dress is made from their scraps. They start ripping the dress apart screaming “My sash!”, “My beads!” That’s how it felt. “My flowers!”, “My candy!”, “My giant transparent balloon with the teddy bear in it surrounded by pink tissue and glitter!”
Finally, Pentecostal Angela and her gang were done tearing the spirit of Valentine’s Day from my arms. “Thanks, Angela. Happy Valentine’s Day!”, she called as she and her gang left with an armful of what were formerly my gifts, dreams, and hopes of what could have been the best Valentine’s ever. There I was standing in the hallway, mouth open in disbelief of the recent event, holding the one gift that remained mine. A lone balloon with a teddy bear on it holding a candy heart that read ‘Have A Heartfelt Day’. The card attached read, ‘To: Angela, Love Mom’. I could hear cloud nine laughing in mockery of me.
This experience, along with my other unsuccessful Valentine’s, could have made me calloused and bitter about this holiday of love and romance. It could have made me into one of those angry women that roll their eyes and curse at happy couples and drink heavily on the holiday. But, it does not. I still hold on to hope of having a successful holiday of romance. Some great romantic experience that every time February 14 comes around, will make me smile in remembrance. Therefore, I smile at those happy couples and tend not to drink any more heavily than I do on a normal day in February. My Happy Valentine’s will happen. $1.99 rose and all.
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