see? blue cast. photoshop fail.

Today I received a mini lecture about a homework folder.  I’m sure it was as simple as “Mowgli didn’t bring his folder to school today,” but I only heard: “You are a failure as a mother, and your children are destined to become even more terrible failures than you, thanks to your parenting ineptitude.”

When I got home, there was mascara all over my face.

Now, granted, it is a new moon today, plus, nature is just about as dark as she gets right now.  And however skeptical you might be about nature’s effects on the soul, the new moon does at least have physical implications for me.  (read: P. M. fucking. S.) 

Anyway.  I came home—drippy mascara, hungry kids, and all; and went online to place another photo order.  While the order was uploading, I (surprise!) went on to facebook, where a friend admitted to having a bad day.  It was a simple, honest sentence, but was more comforting to me, in that ridiculously depressive moment, than any other words or actions could have been.  Beyond support, advice, or sympathy, it sometimes is just nice to know that you’re not alone. 

I know. I know how obnoxiously weepy and sappy and whiny that sounds if your life is perfect and you are never sad.  (Seriously?  Your life is perfect, and you are never sad?  Wow.  Bitch.)  But for those of us humans, we actually find great comfort and connection in one another’s imperfections.  It’s true, isn’t it?  Don’t you feel closer to a person once you’ve seen their soft underbelly, their endearing (and not so endearing) flaws, their mistakes and secrets?  Or worse, their mundane?

So why in the world do we try so desperately to hide those things?  We flaunt what ”should” be flaunted, and hide what “should” be hidden (including our sadness).  And then we, wearing mascara and perfection, disconnect.

I had a similar conversation with a friend the other day, and she remarked on what a vicious cycle it is: the attempt to connect by appropriately flaunting and hiding and fitting into stereotypes, which, in turn, only causes more loneliness.  Counterproductive.

I was feeling all smug and non-people-pleasy then, like, psssh.  glad i’m not like that.  pssssh. 

Until I thought about what it would be like to meet, in person, some friends I know only through this here electronic device.  And it made me feel socially anxious–a feeling I am not at all familiar with.  I realized that this is totally different than the normal way of getting to know someone.  You people know me at my most manic depressive.  I flash my soul here, in words and pictures and drawings like I would never do over a casual cuppa, yet you would not even recognize me in passing.

Someone directed me to this post by Jen Lee that says it perfectly.  “Being new friends is sometimes about breaking the bad news to each other.”  My confession, my soft underbelly (no pun intended), is more about how normal and relatively boring I actually am.  And so, without further ado, I’m breaking the bad news, a few of my horrifyingly mundane attributes:

 (these will not be making it to the christmas cards.)

~ I have ugly feet.  I mean, who doesn’t have ugly feet?  But apparently, mine are even that much uglier.

~ My dreadlocks really have nothing at all to do with a spiritual journey.  It’s just another hairstyle.

~ I have really short, stubby fingers.  Bad for arpeggios, good for trills.

~ In a matter of minutes, I can be all three of these things: extremely happy, painfully sad, and completely apathetic.  Quite frequently, actually, this is the case.  (Did you know that already?)

~ Currently, my comfortable jeans are a size 12.  And I have neither ambition nor desire to change that fact.  I’m fine with it, but if exercise and dietary discipline are virtues, then fat is a fault.

~ I’m not terribly good at photoshop (obviously?).  AND I use (prepare yourselves, photographers!!!) Photoshop Elements.

~ I don’t wear sunscreen because I like how I look with a tan.

~ I am likely the messiest person you’ll ever know.  Seriously.  (Tell ‘em, real life friends.)

~ I live in the most standard ranch house ever.  And I don’t.  Have.  Anything.  Hanging.  On.  My.  Walls.  (except something I will tell you about later.)

~ I don’t at all take care of things like DVDs (Hi, Jessica!), TVs, laptops, carpets, . . . oh, anything really.  I don’t take care of material things.

~ I was the homecoming queen.

~ I don’t send Christmas cards.