Freeing yourself of judgements and approvals.

I remember the day I stepped onto the booster block, looked into the bathroom mirror and saw a minority child staring back this time. I remember the day I learned the meaning of some words that bad kids yelled at me — most of which were surprisingly inaccurate. I remember the afternoon I saw bones jut out from around my anorexic high school friend’s bikini, and suddenly felt ok about her calling me fat. I remember the moment when my mother told me I should marry a white man so my children would stand out even less. But I can’t remember a moment of feeling bad about who I really am or what ethnicity I look like (and I look like several). In fact, after several decades of pondering the subject, those events are all still a bit baffling to me… as I hope they will remain for the rest of my life!

Not long after my mother passed away, my aunts told me how proud my mom was of me. Always. Even though she rarely said it to me, she bragged about me to everyone. That got me thinking about my life, what I’d done right and what I’d done poorly. Then it sunk in. My mom always was a smart woman and she really knew me better than I probably knew myself back then. And so, for probably the first time in my life - and at age 47, no less - I became proud of myself, too. I came to feel really good about what I’d done and the person I’d become……and comfortable in my own skin.

It has really varied (another candidate for “none of the above”). I felt very comfortable growing up in my own skin, and then the wash of who I should be according to the Devil Wears Prada crowd flattened me. Very soon, I realized I could do that, but then, again, the fact that I didn’t want to made me uncomfortable for a couple of years. I was pretty comfortable then until I got cancer, and then I felt really uncomfortable for a while. Now, turning 61, I feel pretty comfortable again, but could do without the creaks and squeaks, aches and pains. The hearing aids pissed me off, but I’ve worn glasses since 21, so no big there. Comes and goes. Comfortable in my own soul is so much more important now.

I became more comfortable with me when I left my husband, seven years ago. My thinking was that I could not live or do anything without himor his money. Boy, was I wrong!! I have successfully raised two beautifully children and I am doing remarkable, well. I like me and I enjoy everyday as if it is a gift!! Being comfortable with me is about knowing me, liking me and recognizing my gifts, talents and how I am to use them, positively.

I have bad skin, and I wish I wasn’t driving such a rattle-trap, but other than that, I’d rather be me that anybody else I can think of. I’m comfortable in my own head, and in my own heart, but I gotta watch my skin.

I’m rendered speechless by Render’s post. I remember that booster stool my gramps made for me for the sink and lookin’ in the mirror and seeing a girl kid seein’ a dirty face and a messy bob cut, from fun outdoors stuff. that my Mom expected me to fix for the dinner table, whatever that meant. I’m tryin’ to imagine what it must be like to look and see myself as a minority kid whose browness has served to point to the most evil within the human race. And how much more, I wonder, would we have become embracin’ all our Sisters and Brothers? Render I hope you can stand back and understand where your Mom was comin’ from. She just wanted to see her Grandchildren go through less. I know, my gawd my gawd. But, the shoes she walked in, ya know? She just thought the pain would be less. I have a friend Render who is as white as this ole Italian crone but has African American hair full features and native American cheek bones and a bit o Asian yellow to her skin, as I do, and she is also Irish. Her Mom also encouraged the marry white yada yada for probably all the same reasons as your Mom. Now in her early 50’s she’s wears her hair in corn and not doin’ all the straightening stuff. And her hair is beautiful and like a piece of art work everytime I see her with the options and creativity she has! She is about 5 ft. 10 and regal and now is wearin’ wrappings that reflect the colors and patterns and styles of African design and she is simply eloquent and I am envious! Yeh, and she doesn’t crack! Whata pay back that is!

Why is it that Lear’s Magazine failed? One take is that even ‘mature’ women identify and prefer to look at 20 year old women in magazines.

About 31. I learned to listen to and understand my own body and how it works, and not to beat myself up for its shortcomings or faults. Strangely enough i almost immediately lost two clothes sizes by treating myself right and cutting myself a break!

In all honesty, my “comfort” will stick around for years and then disappear for years. I go through awkward “ugly duckling” stages and then, somehow, get right again, but it’s really quite painful and embarrassing…