I sent out a tweet last week that said: Every time I think about eating garbage, I remind myself that my 20 year reunion is in less than a month. I had quite a few retweets and a couple of tweeps that said they had their reunions coming up this summer too… but the response that caught my attention was the reply that said: @dianeistrong, you shouldn’t care what others think.
My mind instantly floated back to those afterschool specials with the heart-felt, all warmy-feeling messages about self-esteem and confidence.
You’re right, I thought, I shouldn’t care what people think of me. But then I thought, the hell I shouldn’t!
I’ve been staring at the nine bug bites on my stomach wondering when the hell they will go away. They’ve been there for weeks and I look like I have chickenpox! It’s like they are trying to compete with the gallbladder surgery scars on my navel and between the rib cage.
I’m not nearly as concerned about those nine bites as I am about the six that are on by bikini line. It looks like I got in a fight with a rusty razor. (Sorry, no picture, I just couldn’t bring myself to post it.) This morning I found myself applying triple antibiotic ointment to them in hopes of a speedier healing. The second day of our reunion is going to be spent at the beach (what kind of sick test is this!), I can’t have these things on me with 200+ classmates judging me.
Of course the rash I get in my armpits from my homemade deodorant probably won’t look too hot with my swimsuit either. If you catch me swimming or sunbathing with my shorts on and my arm held tight to my sides and my hands wrapped around my waist in a tangled mess then you can be sure the damn things didn’t heal in time.
I almost forgot about that line of cuts on the top of my shin that I re-nick every time I shave my legs. Even if they did heal, I’m going to have white spots on my legs because I essentially shaved off my suntan. There is one good thing about the nicks, they take away from the bulging varicose vein on the inside of my calf. Beautiful. In the right light, it looks like a really sick muscle.
but I have a few new ones to add. Of course there are the Tiger Stripes (that’s what my hubby calls them anyway) on my lower back (thank you children), the silver dollar sized hole in my left leg (thank you Black Lab on the bike ride two years ago) and all those scars on my knees (thank you trail race where I biffed and two tough mudders), the scar from the gallbladder removal (as mention above)…I could go on but I’m pretty sure you get the gist.
It is very obvious that I am not perfect. I am flawed like most people. And if it weren’t for Facebook, that fact may be a little easier to admit. See, when Facebook first arrived in my life about six years ago, I had just found running. I found myself updating my status on a daily basis, bragging about how far I ran and what place I got at some local Podunk race. I still can’t help but tell everyone when I manage to do something that seems really awesome…at least to me.
Don’t we all seem kind of awesome in our own special way on Facebook? Forever witty, only posting the very best pictures of ourselves. It’s the persona we want the world to see (though my persona is especially challenged when it comes to spelling and grammar), especially the ‘friends’ we’re pretty sure won’t ever see again…except at our highschool reunion.
and of those twelve people…maybe one or two might care, maybe.
So they are really the only people I need to maintain my persona with. This takes quite a bit of pressure off. Unfortunately, I don’t know who those two people are.
And when I really think about it, those two people may or may not show up for the reunion so statistically there might be one person who cares. And now that I think about it, what kind of judgmental, self-righteous, capricious, not to mention superficial, person would give a crap about some chick they went to school with twenty years ago? I mean really, that’s a little sick, right? Like maybe they need to be put away or confined…maybe have a little one-on-one with a doctor in a cold room painted lime green. Right? Are you feel’in me here?
Now that I take a closer look at the crazy, whacked-out egg, I can see who it is, it’s me. I’m the only one who cares what I look like at the reunion. I can’t believe I just posted all those pictures of my flaws (they physical ones…haha, you don’t want to see pictures of the mental ones!) I feel better now that I have all that out on the table, however, thanks for listening. This chick thanks you for it.