Pinky Issue

   For some reason, this week, I was reminded of an issue I used to have with one of my pinky fingers. I know it sounds really odd to have an "issue" with a finger, but I truly had a problem with my left pinky. You see, smack dab in the center of the middle portion of my pinky - between the upper knuckle the knee-equivalent knuckle of the finger - I had a dark, black, unsightly mole. I had - and still have - various moles and freckles on my hands, but this mole on my pinky was very troubling... And very ugly to me.

   Back then, when I would look at my left hand, all I could see was that big mole, just looking back at me like it's name was John Boy Walton. Everything else about the finger was fine - it had a good nail and it was the right shape and size. But just like the actor who played John Boy Walton, all I could see when I looked at that finger was the big, black mole!

   So to make sure no one else had to look the ugly speck, I'd tuck my pinky under my ring finger when I was sitting idle, or I'd ball my hand up into a tight fist to make sure the monster spot didn't garner any inadvertent attention. (I think I may have actually caused the joint to pop out a bit on that hand in an effort to cover up the mole because to this day, my left pinky has a very broad range of motion - compared to all of my other fingers, that is.)

   Then one day, when I was in the sixth grade, I had the brilliant idea to put a bandage over the mole! By wrapping the taupe colored adhesive around the middle of my finger, I could hide the spot! The idea was genius because if people did happen to notice the bandage, they would worry I was hurt - which would be a lovely reaction - and not be tempted to turn away with horror over the ugly mole that was hiding under the dressing! It was a great plan, and I was so very happy to have stumbled upon it.

   The first few days of wearing the bandage provided me with a newfound liberation! My left hand was suddenly free to move about and accentuate my stories with fluid movement and total and complete participation. I felt confident and happy with the bandage on my finger, and even though my mother asked about it a few times (without the anticipated and welcome sympathy I had predicted, but with more of the pestering, worried-mother style she was known for when bandages were in use!) I felt like the bandage was a great and brilliant move.

  But after wearing the bandage for about a week, I did start to feel there could be a potential down side to my camouflaging plan. Due to the fact that I have always had an irrational need to wash my hands (repeatedly) throughout the day, my pinky finger had started to smell a little - like wet adhesive mixed with a tinge of fungus. And even though I changed the bandage every day - sometimes twice or more - the stench was still present, as if it was a permanent part of my pinky skin. And then there was the chapping. The skin under the bandage started to shrivel slightly and had a milky, yet chalky quality to it that simply didn't look right. However, the shriveled, caky quality of the skin only made the black of the mole pop with more drama, and even though the stink kind of drove me crazy, I now I realized I simply couldn't allow myself to go through my life without the bandage!

  So I pressed on with my bandage strategy, but I came up with various ointments and creams to apply to the finger before I put the bandage in place, and I worked out clever ways to use my left hand without getting the pinky dirty. (That way, when I washed my hands, I could let the bandaged left pinky pull away from the water - kind of the way you hold it when sipping proper tea from fine China.) The new techniques I used worked for a time, but eventually, it was the stench that finally got me. I can actually smell that awful, pungent smell in my mind as I recall this time in my life, and even the memory of it makes me dizzy. I had to finally face the reality of my situation. People could either see the unsightly mole on my finger, or smell the stench of my molding, rotting flesh underneath the bandage. 

   So...I decided to let the mole win.

  Loads of time has passed since I was in this sixth grade dilemma, yet the other day, I caught myself tucking my pinky under my ring finger when I placed my hand on the back of my husband's chair at church. It was strange to think that I was still self-conscious about my pinky, so I pulled my hand up to my face to inspect the mole. To my complete and utter shock, there was no mole on the pinky at all! Not even a "speck" or a "freck" - it was just plain skin (that didn't stink!)

   As I studied my pinky for awhile, I had to laugh at myself. At one time in my life, I thought for sure this mole was going to be a problem I would have to deal with forever! AND, I was oddly certain that if other people saw the mole, they too would think it was unsightly! The way I analyzed that silly freckle and focused on it was such a waste of energy - especially if I'd known it would fade as I grew older, and one day, wouldn't even exist anymore! 

   The whole thing kind of makes me wonder: are there things in my life right now that I obsess over as if they are going to impact my life forever? Are there things that take over my mind and guide my every decision that one day will end up being as trivial as the mole on my pinky?

  Well, I do believe there are always a few irrational driving forces in my life - especially when it comes to things having to do with how I think others will see me. BUT, I really do think I can learn a lot from this memory involving my pinky! Maybe I should just have a little more faith in the fact that nothing ever stays exactly the same, and I can trust that even my own outlook has the potential to evolve! What a revelation!

   (Hmmm.... I may just have to go out and buy a pinky ring for my left finger to commemorate this valuable life-lesson!)

A Question of Talent

   So my husband likes this show that kind of gets on my nerves a little bit. It's called America's Got Talent. Thankfully, we are nearing the home stretch of this dreadful talent show, where acts from all over America compete to win a million dollars and a Vegas show. I think the reason the show bugs me so much is because some of the acts are just really terrible. It kind of slays me when the judges ask the guy who just pulled string through his nose and out of his mouth if he believes his act is worth a million dollars, and he confidently answers, "Oh yes!"

   It's not that I want to be a dream squisher, or that I don't want people to believe in their greater value. It's just that it makes me worry, that's all... I worry that if a drag queen lip-synching Tina Turner songs, or some inflatable plastic mascots can stand on a stage in front of people like my husband, and declare the have talent, maybe I'm not as talented as I hope I am.

   So in the end, is it really a matter of talent, or is it more about confidence? I guess maybe a combination of both, really. And while I'm super happy that we won't be watching this show much longer, I guess I need to take some notes from the various acts that have been on the show. One, that in order to be successful in life, you have to put yourself out there and try. Two, that a belief in your ability to move people in some way is often all the fuel you really need to make it. And three, America is a very open place for showcasing the odd, the unusual and the questionably talented. Points taken... ;o)

Sister's Keeper

   You know how when you're with a good friend, you kind of count on her to tell you if you've got pepper in your teeth, or if you have some mustard on your chin? I mean, if she's a good friend, she will certainly tell you about that kind of thing, right? Well, wouldn't it be nice if that same kind of care and concern extended beyond the bonds of friendship, and spilled out and over into the collective sisterhood of being a woman? I find myself pondering this because of two experiences I had this week, and now I feel the need to share. I went to Washington DC and Philadelphia with my husband, and while I was out and about, I saw a couple of sisters in trouble. 

   The first sister was having what you might call a minor wardrobe malfunction. We were on our way in to do a meet and greet with the Senate Majority Leader, Harry Reid, and it was kind of a busy, bustling environment. I was scooting my way over into a line to sign the guest book when a larger woman stepped right in front of me. I pulled back to let her in, but because she was a bit larger, my face was literally pressed into her back. I did my best to keep a thin margin of space between me and this gal, but it was a real effort. That's when I noticed that the woman's shirt tag was hanging out of her collar. It is sticking out and flopping around, just a tad above my sight-line. It was a shirt made by the oh-so-stylish Liz Claiborne and it was an XL.

   Now, I felt like if it were me, and my XL label was flapping around, I would hope someone would give me a signal or maybe discreetly tuck it in. So acting on impulse, I gently tucked the tab into the collar of the space-invading sister. It just seemed like the right thing to do, right? WRONG! I guess that was just too familiar of an act for a total stranger! The woman swung her head around and gave me a nasty look and said, "You got a problem?" I decided explaining was out of the question, so I just smiled and said, "Nope...no problems..."

   Now even though I generally consider myself as a person who learns her lessons, I must have a sadistic side in me when it comes to helping out one of my fellow ladies. This time, as I was boarding my flight from Philly to Atlanta, my eyes were drawn to a young woman, sitting in an aisle seat. She was wearing a tan skirt and tight, white T-shirt. She had managed to wedge her feet up and off the floor by bending and tucking her toes into the seat-back pocket -- you know, the pocket where people shove garbage, magazines, and if you're unlucky, used air-sickness bags. And because she was wearing a skirt, her risky positioning basically gave all the boarding passengers a free cooter shot! (She had on lime green panties, by the way, and it was not a good angle!)

   Clearly, this was not good! I felt immediately concerned that she was flashing everyone as they boarded the plane! There were even people pointing it out to each other! I felt like I had to do something. So being the glutton for punishment that I am, I carefully lowered myself down so I could line my head up to hers and said, "Miss, you might want to reposition..." She looked up from her book and said in a kind of angry huff, "What?!" So I lowered myself again and said, "You might want to put your legs down..." The girl just looked at me like I was a total idiot, and said, "My legs are fine..."  

   As I kept making my way back to my middle seat, way in the back of the plane, I felt my cheeks start to redden with embarrassment for trying to help a sister out. Don't other woman want this kind of care? Aren't we supposed to put our necks out to protect one another from embarrassment or humiliation? Isn't that what we women do? Well...I guess not anymore. I guess we have entered a time in our culture where it is all about live and let live. Perhaps it's time for me to make a mental note that these days, you have to be careful when it comes to protecting strangers from themselves!

A real head scratcher...

   OK, so here's the situation. While buying a hot, sticky cinnamon bun and a latte this morning at my favorite coffee shop, my attention was diverted by a stunning young lady exiting from the bathroom. She had on super tight, super small shorts, and a stomach-skimming, cropped T-shirt. Her stunning-ness wasn't so much about her face - which was fresh and pretty, but nothing shockingly so - but more about her long legs, and her very skimpy outfit. 

   I watched her cross the coffee shop and then stop at a table where there was an incredibly frumpy looking middle-aged woman, wearing one of those believed to be figure hiding ensembles - you know, the kind that just shapelessly drapes over the body in an effort to "conceal" flaws that simply can't be hidden? I quickly surmised that this older gal was the girl's mother. (Well, I guess I picked up that fact because the lovely girl said, "You ready to go Mom?")

   Anyway, as I watched the two women gathering their things, I was feeling a bit ashamed of the cinnamon bun I had just ordered. (To have a lovely figure like this girl has, you can't go around eating cinnamon buns, now can you!) That's when I heard the mother shout, in a sharp, rather alarming tone, "Get control of your eyes!" For a second, I thought she was speaking to me, but then I realized there was a man standing right behind me, and - I'm just guessing here - I think he must have noticed this woman's daughter as well. 

   The two ladies marched out of the coffee shop with a huff of self-righteousness, but not before the mother had a chance to zap the man behind me with her hateful stare. Once the room was all clear, nearly everyone seated in the immediate area let out nervous laughs and commentaries like, "Whatever!" and "What a beast!" The guy behind me seemed to take some solace in the fact that other people in the room were struck by the exchange as well. And it seemed that people's reaction almost made him the victim! And I'll be honest, there was a tiny part of me that felt a little sorry for him, too, because the mother's upset seemed so hateful and personal.

    But as I slathered on a layer of real butter (only on the outer section of my roll that didn't get enough frosting), I began to really wonder about who was ultimately responsible for what went down in that exchange. Does the mother have the right to be upset at a man for looking at her daughter with lust in his eyes when her daughter is going out of her way to flaunt her great body? Does the man have a responsibility to keep his eyes diverted when a woman openly exposes that much of herself in the middle of a public coffee shop? And what about the sexy girl? Was this her plan? Did she hope to get this kind of attention from the men she passed by, while wearing this eye-catching number?

    As I pondered all of these thoughts and replayed the situation in my head, I became convicted of the fact that there were likely multiple things going on during this exchange. Could it be that the mother had some jealous feelings about the attention her daughter was getting and lashed out? Maybe. I don't think this is an uncommon phenomenon - especially in these modern times where women seem to be competing at ever turn with each other, whether they are related or not! And to me, it seems like when women compete, it is for some kind of brass-ring achievement anyway (like male attention, for example).

   Or what about the idea that the mother was actually upset at her daughter but didn't have enough confidence to reprimand her flesh-and-blood, and instead, took it out on a stranger. I do see that many women have trouble confronting other women with truth because they fear losing the relationship or connection. So maybe this mother was a bit troubled or even embarrassed by what her daughter was wearing, but just couldn't find a way to share her concerns with her daughter. Perhaps this caused her frustrations to mount up and suddenly, without warning, she lashed out at the first man she made eye-contact with!

   And what about the man. Was he out of line? Sure. But when have guys ever not struggled with looking?! It's how they are made. And in this day and age, women are decadently presented for the world to see - much like the bakery case, filled with confectionary bliss, that once housed the cinnamon bun resting on my plate! How is a normal person supposed to control the lust for something so decadent when it is displayed in such a way for creating temptation?

   Clearly the daughter didn't mind the attention, and that's where my thoughts have stayed put. If she found the gaze of lusting men in my favorite coffee shop offensive, she certainly didn't let on. Looking back, I even recall that she lifted her leg seductively as she reached down to pick up her purse. I am going to take a wild guess here, but I have a feeling this girl knew exactly what she was doing this morning when she dressed herself and checked her reflection in the mirror. She new the power she could have over men by showing off her body. (But I have to wonder if she realizes what this "power" is doing to her mother!)

   So now I'm left to wonder, and scratch my head a bit. How do we as women protect each other, own our greatness and beauty, and live out our lives with respect and dignity if we can't find a balance. There simply are no collectively accepted rules of etiquette or codes of conduct anymore - particularly among women these days. And to me, this seems like a scary place to be. 

   

 

Strawberry Shortcake - She is just a fond memory...

   I had this little doll when I was around 7 or 8 called Strawberry Shortcake. She was this cute little collectable toy with red hair, a starched-white pinafore, strawberry-patterned bloomers and a funny little bonnet. But the most notable thing about her was the fact that if you took a good sniff of her head, she smelled of sweet, luscious strawberries. Yum!! 

   Oh! And did I mention that she had yummy friends? There was another doll that smelled just like apricots and one that was scented with peaches and cream, and I'm pretty sure there was a sister that wore the scent of zesty blueberries, too. I loved these dolls - mostly because they also had the kind of hair your could comb, and you could even wash them without taking away their lovely scents (which is a huge bonus when you are OCD!) But the very best part of all was the fact that they were very innocent and silly, just the way childhood should be.

   So you can imagine my sadness when earlier this week, USA Today revealed that the makers of this classic toy felt the need to "revamp" Strawberry Shortcake to make her more "relevant" to today's young girl. The new and improved Strawberry Shortcake now has a thiner face, longer, more flowing hair, and a more realistic girl-like body. Oh, and did I mention that she also has painted lips and no awkward freckles on her nose?

   I know it's ridiculous, but as I read more about this new, more modern version of one of my childhood favs, I actually felt a sense of sorrow. Why isn't the old version good enough for the new youth of America? Is the doll that inspired me so much that I still remember her at age 36 not good enough for the child of today? Why isn't something innocent relevant to childhood anymore?

   As a younger sister, I used to find myself wishing that I could be in stride with the things my sister did. (In fact, I was recently thinking of how badly I wanted to wear my sister's training bra when my mother finally decided the time had come to get my sister's boobs under control. I think I even remember sitting outside her locked bedroom door, begging her to let me wear one of her tiny training bras - specifically the one with the tennis racket details sewn right into the center - to school the next day.) For my mom and me, it was a constant battle to keep my little mind where it needed to be so I could enjoy being Sonja at every age.

  And, as is the classic case when it comes to my mom, she used to say something poignant and pithy to me during those times when I was a puddle outside my sister's room: Sonja, you can always grow up, but you can't grow down.

   She was right. You can't go back into a time of innocence and blissful ignorance once you start to see too much. When the things you are exposed to rob you of the refreshing freedom of not knowing or fully understanding the cruel realities of the world around you, the layers of happiness start to pull away. When you enter into a time and place where a toy has to be "relevant" to an adult perception of what's important in a young girl's world, there goes childhood.

   So tonight as I post this long awaited entry, I want to send a shout out to my mom, the late Diana Jean Bentley. Thanks for holding onto my youth for me, and for whispering truth in my ear. Thanks for giving me a childhood where a dolly in bloomers and a bonnet inspired me to enjoy my time of innocence. 

   

Starting Small

   I'm sitting here in my office chair and my stomach muscles are literally shaking. I took another Pilates class this morning, and today, we focused on our core muscles. Oh boy! I've always thought I had pretty strong stomach muscles, but the truth is, I think only the larger abdominal muscles were ever taxed in my regular sit-up routine, and today, all of the tiny support muscles came to life as I struggled to balance my back on a small beach ball while I had my legs pointed straight up into the air at a 90 degree angle. (Yeah...that felt natural!)

   After the work out, I felt a bit shaky all over, but as the day has worn on, my abs feel incredibly fatigued and tender. (Can you imagine how sore I will be tomorrow?!) But all of these tingles and shakes have made me think about a truth that has been unfolding in my life lately: sometimes, the smallest things matter the most.

   Anyone who has spent any time talking to me lately knows that I'm all about the big picture, and not limiting your thinking with your fears. I'm trying to live my life by that standard, and I truly believe that having a bigger vision for myself is an important part of who I am becoming as an author and as a person. But the truth is, the big picture for me is made up of the smaller things going on in my life, and if I don't take some time to look at that fact, I may miss most of the life lessons God has in store for me right now. Some of the smaller conversations and personal relationships I'm cultivating may have a greater impact on my big picture than I ever realized!

   There are two very different women in my life that I had the chance to challenge this week -- one is a seventeen-year-old girl, and one is someone I consider to be my contemporary. Both women are tentatively seeking the "big picture" vision for themselves in their lives, but the bigness of the possibilities are almost too massive to get their arms around. It might be easy to say what you think you want to be or do in this big picture of your life, but it is certainly a lot more daunting to consider all of the things that have to happen before you can get there!

   For me, acknowledging this truth in my own life helps to center me. I have some very big ideas for where I'm heading and what I'm about to do, but would it be worth it to do any of it if I a) didn't enjoy the journey, or b) didn't celebrate the smaller accomplishments along the way? 

   Maybe if I treat the little things -- like having an amazing chat with a woman or girl who is seeking something new and empowering in her life, or getting excited over a phone call where someone shared a minor triumph with me -- as the most important parts of my journey, the big picture will just take on a shape and greatness of it's own. Just like my Pilates instructor assured us today that developing the tiny core muscles will better support our larger muscles, I think that truth is universal in my life when it comes to what I'm doing. Don't forget to start small. Don't be in such a hurry to leap-frog into a future that you might not be ready for without all of the little lessons taking shape in between!

   It is difficult to ratchet down my bigger visions for myself, but maybe it is a good exercise for me right now. I really can't see myself shelving any of  the big dreams or things I have in motion, but maybe I just need to re-balance things a bit in my life, and let the tiny growth muscles in my life have center stage for a bit! Yeah... That feels like the right thing to do!

PS - If you are reading my blog, and you had a chat with me this week, you might be wondering if you are one of the women that I'm savoring at the moment. Well, I can give you a hint. Your bum is a bit sore from a mid-week Pilates class, and I'm so excited to find out about what you've been thinking about for your life this week after our little chat!! Whoo Hooo!!

   

Shallow thoughts...

   I went to a funeral a couple of nights ago. It was for a man in our country club who played golf with my husband. From what I knew of him, he was a fantastic guy, who was always the life of the party, and a pretty terrific golfer, too. As about 250 friends and family members crammed into the club house to pay their respects, I found myself thinking all sorts of thoughts. As I watched the deceased's family struggle with grief over the loss of such an important man in their lives, I of course thought about my own loved ones. Funerals have a way of taking you to all sorts of places with your thoughts, and maybe they are important to attend for that very reason. 

   Unfortunately, my thoughts sort of worked their way up to the shallow end of the thought pool as I contemplated some things about my life and how things might play out in the event of my own untimely death. For some reason, it dawned on me that if I died today, people might find out a few things about me of which I'm not very proud. As I sat there in my seat, listening to the family members offer up various types of eulogies, I started to really zero in on how I would feel if people knew that my underwear drawer is a mess! In fact, it's not just my underwear drawer, but all of my drawers really. 

   I am such a stand for tidiness in my world - my house is basically spotless on the surface, and I strive with all that I have in me to make sure my husband's clothing is always pressed and clean. But when you start looking through my underwear drawer, and then drop down to my workout clothes, and on into the drawer with all of my sweat pants and long-sleeved shirts, you might have to wonder if the same girl used these drawers! They are horribly messy - I mean horribly! I literally just dump handfuls of my clean underwear into my drawer and then shove it shut with my hip. And my workout clothes - well, they are incredibly tricky to fold, so I generally just kind of roll them up and shove them in the drawer, knowing I'm just going to be pulling them out of the drawer in the next day or so and sweating up a storm in them!

   So maybe by confessing this fact on my blog, I have one less thing to worry about if I were to die suddenly and without warning. I guess you always need to be prepared for these kinds of things because no one knows for sure when they will be called home. And instead of actually trying to tidy up the drawers and live a life I know I can't maintain, I will confess my closet secret about my messy underwear drawer and live with joy! Boy that feels great!

   (Man...I can really be shallow sometimes...)