I had to go the shops after work and after the bubby bath/bed routine. I seriously wasn’t in the mood for the shops, or fellow human beings (did I mention I was cranky?) but I had to find something to wear for a party the following night. I had to wear a certain colour, which I didn’t have and it was the only night I had free to shop.
So there I am, walking through the shops, work shoes clicking away. My mind is a sea of cranky thoughts….How can I make this super efficient? How can I get out of here quickly? Why am I here again? The cranky is still flowing freely, but I remind myself that at least I can walk the shops without a pram and try on clothes without Mini flinging the change room curtain open at inopportune times. Just as I push the positive thought through the sea of cranky, my high heels slip on the shopping center tiles. So begins my wobbly descent to remove the skin from my knee.
It’s weird how falling always happens in slow motion. Amazing how the brain slows it down, perhaps to give you a chance to adjust your limbs. My limbs clearly needed more time, because despite quite a flailing display, I still incurred gasps from nearby shoppers as I tumbled to the floor. I must give my limbs some credit, for my body walked away rather unscathed, just a grazed knee. My dignity, not so much. Nothing like some public humiliation to lighten my mood.
Surprisingly, it actually did. I was so embarrassed, I forgot about being cranky. I was just thankful no one I know saw me, or if they did they were so embarrassed to know such a buffoon – they avoided me. Fine with me, ignorance is bliss in this case. I wearily continued my shopping which actually was quite successful. Two pairs of shoes, both 40% off. Who can be cranky after that?
Looking at my skinned knee I have a little pang of regret. Why can’t I be one of those girls who never trip? You know the ones with perfect hair (no weird wispy bits like mine), excellent nails, perfect outfits, no fat bits and certainly no public stacks.
Looking at my skinned knee I have a little pang of regret. Why can’t I be one of those girls who never trip? You know the ones with perfect hair (no weird wispy bits like mine), excellent nails, perfect outfits, no fat bits and certainly no public stacks.
I promise girls like this exist, and not just on facebook. I know a few. They have far more grace and poise than I. They’re effortlessly graceful, radiant even in pj’s and hair always smooth. I’m not kidding, if I didn’t love them I’d think ungracious thoughts. Sometimes I wonder why I subject myself to comparison with these girls. I really don’t feel like the ‘graceful swan’ type of gal. I do clumsy awkward things rather often. More often than I’d like that’s for sure.
There’s the time I was a third wheel on a date, so already feeling awkward, knocked over a speaker at the jazz bar bringing the entire place to a halt. There’s the time I sliced my foot open on a dog bowl. Yeah I know, how do you even do that? There’s the time I almost broke my nose on an amusement park ride. And then there’s the almost weekly occurrence of bruises and scrapes because I misjudge distances, or walk half into walls. Sigh. It’s true. And I usually have some sort of discomfort in my mouth from brushing my teeth with too much zeal and banging my cheek or lip. Yep. I am that unco.
At my primary school we had these little yellow badges called ‘deportment medals’. These yellow beauties were awarded for things like always wearing the correct shade of green ribbon in tidy hair, wearing your uniform immaculately and ‘carrying yourself like a lady’ (We were 10 year old). Oh how my 10 year old heart yearned to be worthy of a deportment medal. I tried hard, so very hard, but the yellow medal was beyond my grasp.
I’m not blaming my primary school for some sort of childhood trauma, but there has always been a part of me that feels like maybe I’m not quite as good as the girls with the yellow badges. They were kind of the primary school equivalent of magazine perfection.
But you know, as I’ve grown, I’ve decided to embrace myself, with or without the deportment medal, with the mall stacks. I’ve decided to love myself for my unruly hair, my weird wide feet, and my penchant for tripping or knocking things over. In a weird way, Mini has made me see myself differently too.
In my eyes that child is perfect. Not a hair wrong on his little head. Some might not appreciate his unruly hair, gappy smile or snub little nose, but there isn’t a thing wrong in my book. Some might not love that he is NEVER still unless asleep, or the way he unpacks everything and drags it around the house. In my eyes, he’s exactly as he should be.
Why can’t we see and love ourselves with the same open heart? I’m sure the closer we get to accepting ourselves, the closer we get to accepting others, stacks and all. I read a quote that helped me embrace the clumsy side of my nature – “We weren’t born to be perfect, we were born to be real.”
Bring on real I say.
Xo
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