Eyes of Emulation

                “I.  Am.  Sooooooo.  Bored!”   My son lamented in a dialect best described as ‘Ugh’ and simultaniously moved his body in a similar fashion to the rubber band Gumby toys I had as a child where when you push the button the band goes slack and the entire thing collapses on itself.  It may soon be scientific fact that children’s bones are made of a similar material, yet instead of a button the band goes limp any time a request is uttered from a parent’s mouth.

                “Only boring people are…..” I couldn’t finish.

                “Oh my god mom!  BORED!  Yeah, I know!   I hate when you say that!”

                This is a phrase that has been passed down generationally.  My mom said it to me with similar results to the ones that I receive.  She ended hers with, “If you can’t find something to do, I will and you won’t like it.”  This was always my cue to stomp into my room before she could introduce my hand to the vacuum.  After I’d shut myself in I would vow to never say that kind of stuff to my kids should I have them.  I wish that I could go back in time and laugh in my ‘all knowing’ preteen face.  Repeating things from our childhood is natural.  Whether it’s phrases or traditions or favorite meals or even a vicious cycle of drugs and abuse (while I certainly don’t suggest the last one) the perpetuation of these things is something we are all guilty of in some way.  The one thing I feel I missed out on is that now not only is it frowned down upon to ‘beat our kid’s asses’, but somewhat illegal in places.  Don’t get me wrong I wasn’t looking to met out corporal punishment or anything, I’m just sad that I will probably never get to say:

 “This will hurt me more than it will hurt you.”

“I hit you because I love you.”

“I’m just trying to teach you a lesson.”
“Wait until your father gets home and he’ll ‘tell’ you again!” or

“You made me do this.”

I suppose I must rely on my wits and bribing techniques instead of the back of my hand.  Really is too bad. 

                While camping recently my sister’s mother in law joked that when my son grew up he would likely write a book titled, ‘Growing Up Angie’ and that she would buy it.  I countered that instead of a college savings I should make it a ‘therapy account’ to help him become normal.  This did cause a bit of introspection though about what sayings and things from his childhood that, while he hates them now, as an adult he’ll find the wisdom in and perpetuate.  I have compiled some of my favorites that I well and truly hope continue:

“Only you have the power to embarrass yourself.”

“Don’t sell yourself short or someone will pay the clearance price.”  (This is sometimes ended with, “and you’re worth more than that.” depends on how much energy I want to expend in my parenting syllabus.)

“Yesterday is not today’s fault.”

“Jason Mraz songs have subliminal messages in them to make people want wieners.  That’s why girls really like him.  Prolonged exposure for guys will cause gayness.  That’s science.”

‘Soooo not true, everyone knows people are born gay, they don’t become it.’

“Mr. Mraz hasn’t been around that long.  You’ll see I’m right.”

“You’re welcome to as many negative comments as you want, but must counter them with three positive.  Negative rolls downhill and if you go too far it’s a long hard climb back up.”

“Don’t say, ‘I can’t.’ but ‘how can I?’”

“You can’t control people, only how you react to them.”

“It’s not what you say, but how you say it.”

“The most important thing you can make people feel is appreciated.”

“You get bed bugs from strip clubs.”  (Among other things.)

                Maybe he’ll repeat all of them, maybe none, maybe only two, but most likely I’m telling him these things as a reminder to myself.  I can make a million speeches about eating healthy, but if I do it while shoveling fast food into my mouth the words become moot.  I can’t just say the things that would make me a better person, I have to be them to ensure that when my son looks at me with eyes of emulation, I’m proud of my reflection.

My Singlet Situation

                Spray tan.  It’s most likely the best alternative to an actual tan.  You still get the ‘been at the beach’ look, without all the cancer causing side effects.  Also it eliminates those pesky tan lines that make a strapless dress look a little odd, or when you go to the nonfiction beach your stomach is not a grotesque shade of flesh.

                “I’m not thinking I need a spray tan.” I announced while having a salad lunch with the ladies, “I just got back from camping and spent a good amount of time in the sun.  Plus I finally put in my garden, so I should be good.”  Well that’s what I thought at least.  Upon further review it seemed that I was wearing shorts and a tank top when I received the gift of sun styled pigment on my skin, so without the help of clothing, it appears as though I am wearing a flesh colored wrestling style singlet.  Maybe even glow in the dark.

                “Hey Apes, what date is it that ‘home base’ is an option?  I’m going on number five tomorrow and I’m afraid that when ‘business time’ arrives he may be more than slightly taken aback by my choice in tanning styles. There’s a very real possibility that upon stripping he might get out a wrestling mat and some oil in preparation for what I’ve clearly (un)dressed for, a Greco Roman grappling competition.”

                “Maybe you could get some body paint, outline it, and add like a team name or superhero symbol?  Then it’s legit.  If there’s a team name it’s ok.”

                “Like team Cock Pocket?  Or Salami Drawer?”

                “I was thinking more along the lines of team Milkshake or an acronym, like STD.”

                “Or HPV?  I hear 1 in 4 people is on this team.”  (This was before Michael Douglas got himself the cancer by the way, otherwise I feel our jokes would’ve been even better.)

                So on and on this conversation went.  At some point we decided that it should be done in henna so that it wouldn’t wash off.  Also colors must be chosen, we both concurred that red was out.  The idea of a Varsity Blues style whipped cream singlet (instead of the bikini she wore) was also a very viable option to try and hide the unfortunate tan line happenings.  I also lamented on whether I should warn the fair suitor ahead of time, or to make it a surprise?  Well, everyone likes surprises, right?

                Now if I want to bust out the honesty card my acronym would be SC.  Self Conscious.  That’s what it’s all about anyway.  That maybe this brilliant man, a Language Artist if you will, would find something about my human form to be unattractive enough to not only call off the date midway through ‘adult time’ but to also lose my number and block my Facebook.  Completely illogical on my part.  Not that I’m the mayor of It’s Just Me-ville or anything because I’m quite certain that even the most secure of people has something that makes them hesitate to bare all (this is as much mentally as physically).  Maybe it’s stretch marks, a ‘spare tire’, arm fat, explosive sneezing, a big nose, back hair, arm hair, no hair, compulsive talking, falling down, giggling when nervous, uneven teeth, uneven legs, a stutter, commitment issues, stalker issues, stage five clinger tendencies….. etc. 

                After multiple costume changes and a multitude of expended energy on worry about hair, shoes, makeup and other date worthy stresses I made it out on the town.  Just like my uncontrollable urge to share the ‘jelly jam joke’ it didn’t take long before I went ahead and laid out my singlet situation.  Response, “You could start a club called ‘All the Singlet Ladies’”.  Brilliance.  So maybe, just maybe, sharing my insecurities instead of pretending that they don’t exist or going the ostrich approach, would lend itself to comfort and acceptance instead of confusion and angst.  Most likely the things I worry about the greatest, mean little to those that care.  I view myself with the most critical of colored glasses (not sure the spectrum on that, but I’m positive it’s not rose hued.  Maybe grey?  Or can I not use that color without thinking about porny novels?  Hmmmm), which is beneficial when it comes to personal growth and overall physical health, but otherwise, I think it’s about time I cut myself a break.  I’m worthy of wits matching with a wonderful wordsmith and if my pigmentation turns groping into grappling, so be it.  Plus, I bet it’d be memorable.

This beauty right here is was texted to me by my lovely sister with the caption "Date outfit choice #1."  So at least no matter what I'm worried about I can always count on my family to make a joke out of it and laugh at me even if I can't.  Awesome.