It’s a busy, busy day here under the Big Top. It’s Fallon’s second birthday. There was an honor roll assembly at my son’s school. I needed to get my glasses fixed…again. I have a long list of errands to run plus a mountain of laundry to fold, not to mention getting ready for this weekend’s Holiday Boutique at Dance and Cheer Stars in Lodi…all before Fallon’s birthday party tonight because Fallon is two years old today! So in spite of the pounding headache I have thanks to the 5th grade mommy who apparently marinated herself in the most stinky, offensive perfume imaginable and then sat next to me at the awards assembly, I press on.
Not very feminist of me is it?
For what it’s worth, I take selfies too. According to a recent article on Jezebel, that isn’t very feminist of me either.
Now wait, it’s not like I am tilting my head downward at a 45-degree angle, duckfacing, pushing my tits together, and screaming “DO YOU THINK I’M PRETTY!” Not at all. Frankly I think the duckfacing, pushing your tits together looks, well, ridiculous. That look should have died with MySpace.
WHY didn’t it go away with MySpace???
But I digress…
I take selfies because otherwise this is how I look in family photo albums for my children to share with their children and grandchildren someday.
The hazards of being the mamarazzi, I know. But yes, were it not for the selfie, my descendants might wonder why do they have a picture of some photographer because that’s weird. Or they might imagine that I was never real because grandparents tell tall tales all the time. Perhaps I will become a bit of family folklore or a legend.
Hmmm… a legend. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be regarded as a legend to my descendants someday. Then again, maybe not.
So yeah, were it not for my selfies, there isn’t much of me to share with the descendants. But a funny thing happened as I began to take more pictures of myself as mamarazzis do. I began to see myself. Sure I can see myself all the time, every day as I look in the mirror anytime I want to. But that is the image that I grew to loathe. That is the person who was brought up to believe that there was nothing of worth or value in herself. Whether they meant to or not, the adults who brought me up, who gave me life, very rarely have ever offered anything but criticism of me…who I am, what I do, how I walk, how I talk, what I think, what I say…I could never imagine that I was anything more in spite of the people who I have surrounded myself with for the last thirty years or so. That is what I see when I look at myself in the mirror…what I have seen for as long as I can remember. You hear how loathsome you are all your young life, you believe it. You accept it. Sometimes, you even become it.
I like to imagine that I have not become it. I have my darling husband and his affirmations over the years to thank for that. I also have the fact that I have five amazing, talented, beautiful inside and outside children to prove that because loathsome does not make awesome.
Great hair day selfies, bad hair day selfies, selfies before work, selfies after work, selfies after a run when I am all red-faced and sweaty, selfies when I am annoyed, worried, bored, mad, sad, selfies here, selfies there, selfies everywhere. Thankfully no drunk selfies because I may as well be duckfacing and smashing my tits together and putting it all up on my MySpace. All these selfies and more showed me something that the face in the mirror never could: a beautiful woman outside whose eyes reflect the beautiful woman inside. Those selfies display a person who is far from the loathsome creature she was taught to believe that she was. She…I am awesome. I am deserving of all the love, respect and happiness that I have been blessed with. I am empowered. Oh, and yeah, “HERE’S MY FACE!”
Oh, and speaking of selfies, when it is your birthday you can take as many damn selfies as you please
NaPhoPoMo day 22