I’ve Gathered Moss
As I sit here drinking my beer — the beer that almost caused Mini-Meltdown II — I think, “I’m going to shamelessly appeal to my readers for support and butt-kissing.” I’ve got a big butt folks, so pucker up real good. Your facial muscles have had sufficient preparation after all the long-necks you’ve thrown back this weekend. So, if you want to skip reading this long post, just jump down to the comments and leave something like, “My, your hair looks great today!” or “Have you been working out? Your ass looks great in those jeans!” Or just, “I’m behind you and your behind all the way!”
But first: Mom’s divorce proceeding against Jackass I is coming up and he’s accelerated the intimidation and jackassedness. He even went so far as to break into Mom’s house to take things that weren’t his. In his usual, caring-for-no-one-other-than-himself modus operandi, he left the broken door wide open so the neighborhood thugs could do their own broken-window shopping. Fortunately, that didn’t happen, but he just didn’t give a damn whether it did. And yes, as the mascara streaked faces of Susan Lucci or Melissa Gilbert will attest in, oh, just about every Lifetime movie ever made, the police can’t and won’t do anything until he actually, physically harms her.
And now, there is also the Jackass Spy — it would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic — who goes around impersonating Mom. Yes, there is one family fruitcake who, perhaps because she believes Dad’s lies or — giving her credit for some semblance of intelligence — maybe because she just enjoys being malicious, actually goes around saying she is Mom trying to get info to use against her. Jackass Spy, I know you are reading this and SHAME ON YOU!! Oh, and Jackass Spy? Remember that book you wrote a few years ago? The one about integrity? Yeah, um, maybe you should read it in between lying to people about your identity.
So, readers, send all good thoughts Mom’s way this coming week. She got a real kick out of your comments on my Cougar post and I know she’ll appreciate your support this week.
But what caused my meltdown, you ask? (Okay, maybe you didn’t ask, but you got this far into this post.) No, it was not Jackass I or even the fact that my dickhead, may he rot in hell, piece of shit brother Jackass II is back in the picture causing the kind of mayhem you’d only expect from comic book villains. I’m pretty sure Jackass II is out there destroying entire city blocks with breath fetid from devouring the souls of his own children. That is, of course, when he’s not out biting the hands that feed him or turning his back on those who’ve helped him.
So, was it lack of sleep that caused my meltdown? Family drama? School stress? Dishes piled so high in the sink at home that God got worried and made Mr. Dingo and I speak different languages until we washed them?
No. It was vanity. Pure, simple, beautiful, ever virtuous vanity.
While helping Mom organize her home office I came upon my old modeling portfolio in one of her file cabinets — the one Jackass I didn’t ransack — and decided to take a leisurely trip down memory lane. It turned out to be the Autobahn to Hell.
I remembered preparing for one photoshoot and worrying that I was too fat, too ugly, and too old. And now, I would give anything to look like the girl in those photos. Before I even knew what was happening I started bawling. Great, big, heaving, snot-filled sobs. Then I started laughing at how ridiculous it all was. And then crying again.
I had goals for this summer. I wanted to fit into the sassy pink bikini I wore three years ago. I wanted to wear the sundresses I bought last summer. None of that has happened. My skin doesn’t even fit. I am a ten-pound sausage in a five-pound skin. With a couple of eggs and, oh, what the hell, bring me some pancakes, too. Although I’ve run a 10K, I’ve had a successful legal career, and I’m loving my new life in academia, at that moment on that floor, I just wanted to be pretty.
Pretty like you’re pretty. Pretty like all those people in People magazine are pretty. I mean, it’s called People magazine. Those are just people, people. Regular, average people. And they’re all drop-dead gorgeous. You’re all people, too. And you’re goddamn gorgeous, too. Hey, I’ve seen your blogs!
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the biggest hypocrite of all?
I’m always telling my students to accept themselves and love themselves as they are. Many of our class discussions are about cultural conditioning, prejudice, tolerance, and acceptance of ourselves and others. When I am teaching, I truly believe the Deepak Chopra/Dr. Phil armchair psychology stuff I espouse. But when I am teaching, I am not a pathetic puddle of tears because my size eight jeans no longer fit over my thighs without the assistance of our local EMT’s Jaws of Life. When I am teaching, I feel more self-assured and whole than I ever did in my twenties. Teaching also has a way of making me feel young. Except for the occasional chill wind whipping through the generation gap.
Near the end of the last semester, while talking to one of my students about his final paper, he asked me an unexpected question. He asked me if I’d ever heard of The Rolling Stones. The. Rolling. Stones. I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Did he think I was too old for The Rolling Stones? Was Glenn Miller more my speed? Or, hell, maybe he thought I sat around at one time waiting for Mozart’s latest opera to open? Or did he think I was so unhip that I would have no idea who The Rolling Stones were? No, that couldn’t be it. I am most decidedly hip. And hop, too.
Me: Um, yes. Duh!
Student: Really? Do you know the names of anyone in that band?
Me (okay, now the kid is just fucking with me and I’m going to have to give him a smack down): Are you kidding me?
Student: No, someone said that I looked like someone in the band and I was just wondering.
Me: Who did he say you looked like?
Student: Is there someone named Mack?
Me: Mack? No. There’s a Mick as in Mick Jagger.
Student: No, I’m pretty sure it was — Is there someone with a last name McJagger?
Me: No, the lead singer of the greatest rock and roll band in the world is named Mick Jagger. Two names. First. Last. Mick. Jagger. Are you serious? You’ve never heard of Mick Jagger?
Student (still not convinced): I think I’ve heard their stuff on a commercial or something. Is there someone else?
Me: Keith Richards? Charlie Watts?
Student: No, I’m sure it was Mack something or other.
Me (incredulous): Okay, you know what? You’ve failed this course. Off with thee now and don’t return until thou can namest all the members of The Rolling Stones and recite the unabridged history of Led Zepplin.
The fact that at least I know who The Rolling Stones are did not make me feel better as I sat on the floor in Mom’s office. The tears, puffy nose, and wild frizzy hair reflecting back at me from the glass in the computer monitor was a far cry (and cry, and cry) from the fresh, skinny, young woman in the photos I held in my hands. Those should have been size-four tears streaming from my face! Maybe size two! It’s been a long time.
Instead, I looked like one of the Honkey Tonk Women the Stones’ growl about. I looked like a Beast of Burden. I looked like Keith Richards on a bad, bad, bender. Or just normally. Or Mack something or other. Actually, I looked like either one of them. On a good day.
So, that was Mini-Meltdown I. No, there was no epiphany. No realization that I am wonderful just as I am. Just the cold hard fact that should we avoid getting hit by frozen urine falling from airplanes on our way to work or dying from toys made of dog food from China, we’re all dying a little bit each day and sooner or later we all turn to ashes and dust — and some people’s ashes will be better looking than others. And I’ll need a larger than average urn to fit my ash in it.
Mini-Meltdown II was less dramatic and, as this is already a long post, I’ll make it short. I didn’t get carded buying beer this weekend. I know, I know, I am weeeellll over the age limit for carding but I ALWAYS get carded. This time though, the kid at the register gave me a cursory glance, a dismissive nod, and rang up my six pack with nary a raised eyebrow. I was tempted to giggle like a teenager and throw a pack of condoms on the conveyor belt next to an issue of Teen People, but I didn’t. I went home, popped open a beer to wash down my Geritol, and settled into my rocker for the Matlock July 4th Marathon weekend.
Our country turned 232 years old this weekend. And so did I.
Posted on Monday, July 07, 2008 at 12:44 AM.
Tags: It's All Relative, La Vida Loca, Leaps and Pounds, Little Red Schoolhouse
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Comments & Trackbacks
Your ass looks great in those jeans!!!!
No seriously. You have a great ass. And I don’t know how to tell you this, but I don’t love you for your intellect or wit. Ours is a shallow friendship based solely on our dual hotness. So embrace the hotness, Dingo! Because you are it!
Oh, buddy. I think that sometimes the breakdowns are good for us, even if they don’t result immediately in some eye opening moment. Hope you’re feeling better 
Bwahahaha… McJagger.
sunny — Thank you, sunny! Finally, the truth is out. I love you for your body, too!
Maxie — While it felt ridiculous at the time, it also felt good. I got a longer than usual run yesterday and that made me feel better. Let some of those lollipop head supermodels try that! They can’t. I can. So there.
NPW — I know, right? Would you like a shake and a side of fries with that?
Listen.
I have melt downs over my weight all the damn time. It sucks, so here’s what I propose.
Post a picture of your ass and we’ll all tell you it’s fabulous and wonderful and you’ll feel much better.
I did it on my blog and it worked wonders...for like a whole day.
It was awesome.
Crissy — I can take no responsibility for any damage to your retinas. Here’s a picture of my ass:
Beloved Readers — I’ve already gotten one or two very concerned emails from some of you. To dispel your worries, no, that is not me. That is not my ass. Does someone like this look like they could possibly have great tits? Didn’t I say that I had great tits?
I am totally with you on this. I am always thinking I wish I knew when I was younger how hot I was and felt comfortable in my bikini and I always want to go back to that weight. But then I always think is this what I’ll be thinking about myself now five years from now? I finally decide that I better just accept that my metabolism will never again allow me to eat 5 chocolate donuts and still fit into a size two. Then three days later I’m freaking out again. It’s estrogen’s fault. I think.
I’ll play Dr. Phil myself for a moment and say that I don’t think the meltdown would’ve been quite so bad if it weren’t for all the other drama happening. I think it was more of “the icing on the cake” sort of thing.
Yeah, I’m with you. Sucks getting old. “It’s a Wonderful Life” said it best: “Youth is wasted on the wrong people.”
I have been shamefully lax in my reading/commenting recently, sorry…
Adult life is not about being a size 4, and you know it. I can say that because I have kissed size 4 goodbye myself and have worked really, really hard to stop being pissed off about it. It was easier to work at that than to try and become a size 4 again.
The not getting carded for alcohol thing, that still pisses me off. I’m at about 50/50. Buy wine when accompanied by children: no carding. Buy wine alone: usually carding. Order cocktail at bar with similarly aged guests: carded. Order cocktail at bar with 22-year-old assistant: watch her get carded and not so much me. Pisses. Me. Off.
You think her butt looks great in jeans, you should see her in running shorts. Rwwawr!
Okay, several things.
1. Daaaaaaaaaaymn look at that ass in those jeans. Girl I don’t want to say goodbye to you, but I LOVE to watch you walk away.
2. *giggles* Okay, so amazingly fun and immature pick-up lines aside (but seriously though, how fun is it to read that?) it blows to have those days. Sometimes there’s nothing for it but a few good men: Ben & Jerry, and Johnnie Walker. (okay, that’s a totally horrifying combination, but w/e)
3. You are amazing. You kick ass and take names. You did a 10k. That is very cool. Keep your chin up hun and read through the comments when you get down. You are very clearly not only beautiful, but well loved.
Megkathleen — That damned estrogen! Wow, you can eat up to 5 cookies and still fit into a size two? Sigh. I hear ya’, though. I wonder if in another 5 years I’ll be looking back on this time and kicking myself for not loving myself more.
April — I think you may have a point. It was near the end of a very long, stressful week. And while it may have bothered me a bit before, it was just what put me over the edge. Thanks for your wonderful insight. I appreciate it.
Tress — Once I was at a bar with a friend. She got carded. I didn’t. When the waiter came back with the check I told him, “You would’ve gotten a much higher tip if you had carded both of us.” It’s just good business sense, ya know?
Marian — As long as you don’t suggest I sign up for the Senior races you’ll always be my favorite running buddy.
Rachel — Now THAT’s an ego booster! Thank you so much, Rachel. And I’ll have to keep those pick-up lines in mind. You know, in case I’m ever time machined to the 1970s.</b>
Following Rachel’s lead… mainly because I loves me some lists:
1. You are good enough, smart enough, and, gosh darn it, people like you! If I lived in your city, I would run (OK, drive) to your house now and give you a big hug, a slap on the booty, and a sip of my morning martini!
2. Your mom is lucky as hell to have you and, the good news for you is, she knows it. It’s tough being the good kid, but somebody’s got to do it. This just means, when you die, you will be surrounded by dough nuts and massaged by David Beckham daily.
3. Did the student look like McJagger?
4. You weren’t carded because you are simply too hot for mere mortals to address you directly. I bet when you left, the kid was like “I’m gonna drink beer so I can look just like her!”
Have a good day, love!
Is McJagger anything like McLovin?
Your ass is so great you shouldn’t even sit on it. It’s like two gorgeous, supple, ripe melons. It’s asstastic. And that bodacious rack, sheesh, it puts tatas all over the country to shame.
It’s really not even fair that you are so smokin’ hot and funny on top of it. I think I hate you now. Oh but I can’t because you’re an awesome daughter and a runner too. Damn you, Dingo. Damn you for being perfect.
Trust me my friend, despite whatever I may have written in the blog, I am far, far, far from gorgeous.
I have no doubt that you look, if anything, probably better than the pictures from way-back-when. A couple months ago, I re-upped my passport and the 10-year difference was startling. Yes, I weigh more than I did then, but I’d also grown from a kid into an adult. For you, I’m sure, the same thing has happened, and the girl you were before has transformed into the beautiful woman you are now.
Besides, I have no doubt that Mr. Dingo is a man of impeccable taste.
First, I’m sorry for your mother’s Jackass situation. That is so wrong and damned scary. Do the neighbors know about said Jackass’ tendencies? Do they look out?
Re: Meltdowns. They suck. I don’t know why we have them, and I don’t know why we can’t stop having them. No matter the level of my weight or muscle tone or fake tan covering my frightening whiteness, I seem to always find a reason to criticize something. And it’s usually something that matches absolutely no one in People magazine. I need to walk around with an airbrusher at my dispose. And if not that, then a very large man to lift me on command thus proving my light-weightedness to the world.
What I’m saying is a sympathize/empathize/want to drink beer with Geritol with you. I know no one that has the body they had at 20, of course, and so far the only consolation is that I no longer have that brain, either.
We should go for a run together. It would be hilarious.
Sista friend, I’m right there on the floor bawling with you!
I’m so sorry for your pain, but I just laughed my ass off (jeez, I WISH) during the last part starting with your student.
I hate what your Mom is going through and I hope that she gets through the week intact. So sorry that you’re all going through this!
Man, we all wish we were the young things we once were… it’s so tough. I was talking with a friend today about seeing a professor that was the “it” guy - you know, the dashing professor that all the undergrads have crushes on? Well, he came back to town for a reunion in the fall and he looked like, I swear this is the EXACT description of him - a garden gnome. Yes, he’s changed that much.
Then I had to admit, and here’s the rub, that none of us were the nubile young things he remembered, either.
Sigh.
Aging bites the big one.
And your ass looks great in those jeans! 
thecoconutdiaries — Lists. Where would we be without them?
1) Just a “sip” of the morning martini? Day-um! Share the hooch, woman! I would say something about drinking and driving but since you’d be coming over to see me, I’ll let it go.
2)Donuts and David Beckham? I’m ready to keel over right now and claim my heavenly reward!
3)No, he looked like Mack something or other.
4)Yes, I choose to believe that is exactly what happened.
Rachel — Hee. If I weren’t in shock from his lack of Rolling Stone knowledge, I probably would’ve cracked a McLovin’ joke and had a grand old time. But really, Mack who?
Mel Heth — How do I love thee? Not only to you coin clever turns of phrases such as “asstastic” but you are a runner too! And you are a bundle of awesomeness your own day-um self!! Don’t hate, appreciate.
GeekHiker — Again, I ask: how in the world are you still single? Why hasn’t someone snatched you up? You need to stop wandering around in those woods of yours and mix it up in civilization! Soon, we’ll be calling you the “You missed out on all this, Be-otches! Geek Hiker.”
I like the person I am now much more than the girl I was many moons ago. And Mr. Dingo has impeccable taste. I’ll remind him of that when he gets home from work.
justrun — Um, the neighbors are Odd Boy and Odd Man. Not much help there. We should definitely go for a run together. Two gorgeous chicks with their air-brushes and burly men to lift them would make great blog fodder for someone.
Let me know if you are ever in NYC. We’ll definitely dine on beer and Geritol.
Tara R. — As long as I don’t have to share my Kleenex, there’s more than enough room down here for both of us.
Jen of a2eatwrite — The McJagger comment came from one of my brightest students. I blame MTV. Ever since they stopped playing music vidoes and focused on reality TV, no one under 18 has ever heard of The Rolling Stones.
My Mom’s one of the gentlest, kindest, but toughest women out there. I hate to see her going through this but the strength and resilience she’s shown has been amazing. I hope that I have just a teeny bit of the courage and strength she does.
Gnome. Hee, too funny. Did you guys talk about the Travelocity guaranteeeee!
And thanks. But you should really see my ta-tas.
Yeah, it hurts my soul too. Please don’t lose faith in all of us youngins. I’ve seen them in concert. It was bad ass.
I was all gonna come here and say “if you have an effing PORTFOLIO”, then you have nothing to cry about.....then MY armchair Dr. Phil appeared and REMINDED me that it’s all SUBJECTIVE........we see ourselves in a wayyyyy different light than others see us. For instance...I’m overweight (I was going to say fat, but that offends the sensibilities of those that are politically correct). I hate to be overweight, I boo hoo about it all the damn time...but what am I DOING about it other than boo hooing? NOTHING...NADA...ZIP. So, I’ve learned to be ok with me some of the time which is a big improvement over NONE of the time....my husband loves my pendulous ta-ta’s and size 20 something ass, and really, why do I CARE if anyone else agrees? (I do, but I pretend sometimes I don’t) So your meltdown was fine--meltdown all you need to so you can be ok tomorrow.
I was reading your comment on my blog (thank you, by the way---I wish everyone who reads me would comment) and I was worried for a sec that you were my first NEGATIVE comment....I’m a negative virgin so far........you said you had to stop reading halfway through--and I figured it was my bizarre use of punctuation or my droning ON AND ON about absolutely NOTHING that did it. Whew, am I glad it was only internal frustration at the customer service of the world. I sweated THAT one for a sec.....
LOL - Did you not read the first line of my comment? Besides what if, in fact, I am in real life a total a-hole?
Thanks for the compliment, though. Damn you, you made me blush.
Rachel — The hopes of an entire generation rest on your shoulders, grasshopper. And wow, I haven’t seen them in concert. You lucky, girl, you.
Shelly — The effing portfolio was from YEARS ago. I would like a mirror that would allow me to see myself as others see me but I’m afraid, so very afraid. I will work on being okay with me some of the time.
As for your blog entry...technology frustrates me to no end yet I can’t live without it. So I expect the people who are supposed to know how to fix it to fix it, like RIGHT NOW! I feel your pain.
GeekHiker — If Mr. Dingo ever begins to doubt my loveliness, I am so headed to So. Cal. I’m all yours, baby! If you are a total a-hole in real life, I can tell everyone about your secret hiking spots to wreak my revenge. See? I’m not all sunshine and roses.
That skinny ass made me blow my tea through my ears, so thank you very, very much. I agree that it seems the most heinously obnoxious family dynamic you are currently enjoying - my mother has a saying that the Devil shits in a big pile - may have something to do with meltdowns 1 and 2. Aging, laugh lines, sagging butts - the joys of adding on years, pounds and inches. However, at least WE know who the Stones are, for chrissake.
I think that body image is a lot like money; you can have a great body/be financially well-to-do but there will always be someone out there who’s better looking or has a bigger trust fund.
I think the secret is to just accept the physical imperfections and keep healthy. Oh, and read Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Birthmark over and over and over until you realize that if you’re love-handles/cellulite/crooked nose/insert-imperfection-here disappeared then you would be swooped off the face of the planet for being too perfect.
O’Mama — I like your Mom’s saying although it seems as if the Devil has quite the case of diarrhea lately. But at least we know who the Stones are, indeed! And to quote some obscure band, “you can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need!” Sing it with me, everyone!
Steph — You are so right. Better looks, more money, it would be a never ending cycle of want. As for Hawthorne’s The Birthmark, I haven’t read that story before until now (i just Googled it)! It’s excellent and I’m adding it to my syllabus for this summer and fall. Thank you!
Seriously. Are you me? Did I write this? Not that I ever had a modeling career, but I looked at some old pictures while in Chicago this weekend and I was so skinny and pretty. ANd not only that, but my Mother gave me a pair of her pants that she wore the day before that she decided she didn’t like and they FIT ME. This is a travesty. I am having a meltdown, too. We can meltdown together. If you come to a realization and acceptance of yourself, please share. I need help. You are not alone.
Jane — I had to respond to this right away because it seems we are living parallel lives. Last week at Mom’s she came out with a pair of shorts (elasticy, stretchy, cotton knitty things) and said, “Can you believe I used to fit these? Look at how big they are!” as she stretches the waistband to gigantic proportions like an accordion. Then she says, “Do you want them?” I love my Mom but there are times...
SNORT! “McJagger.” HYSTERICAL
Ohhhh, honey. I have definitely been there with the vanity meltdown. They are the worst! Also, please tell me the Mick Jagger exchange didn’t really happen. McJagger? What has the world come to???
I think I might have to get you to distract me from the pain of running a 5K by telling me stories about Jackasses I and II.
Mrs. Chili — Once I picked my jaw up off the floor (several days later) I could see the humor in his ignorance. But not at the time.
Lara — I wish I could tell you it didn’t happen or that I was exaggerating but it did and I’m not. As for stories about Jackass I and II, Mr. Dingo would be relieved that I have another source to whom to vent my outrage and anger. His ears need a break.
I can’t comment on your arse, being that I have never seen it (but I am sure it’s nice and perky and hott) however I CAN comment on this post.
I’ve actually had quite a few discussions about this with my boyfriend recently. I HATE, hate photos of myself. Head shots ok, only if I have vetoed them first. If it’s what I determine as “ugly” - Delete.
I have no idea what I look like, I feel ugly, so I see ugly. Or I see old photos that, at the time, I thought were nice, and now I think “How could I not see how fat I was?”
I have massive body issues. I feel massive.
My boyfriend, understandbly, gets frustrated with me. Asks me to remember the fun I was having when the photo was taken, but all I see is fat.
I can’t explain to him that it’s been around 26 years of conditioning myself to dislike myself that has led to this.
And yet, I look at other people in photos and I only ever see the beauty in them.
I feel your pain.
I think you are beautiful. You write beautifully. You send me beautiful emails. And I am positive you are just beautiful, inside and out.
The good news for both of us is that we have made some positive changes this year. We’ve both stopped smoking, we’ve both started exercising. You’ve run a bloody marathon thingie.
It’s ok to have a bump in the road, especially when you are facing stresses in your life like what your Mum is going through.
And when dickheads have no idea who Mick Jagger is.
xx
PS Cannae be bothered to spell check and stuff, so fingers crossed this makes sense.
I’m always hearing people in my age group (early 30’s) saying they wish they’d realized how great their body really was, how pretty they really were as a teenager or young adult. Makes me wonder if in another 20 years I’ll wish I’d realized how pretty I was at 32. And so on.
LaLa — Missus to you (and if my Australian slang is completely wrong, blame Mr. Google, he told me it meant “hugs and kisses"). First, I have seen your photos on your blog and you are beautiful. But that just emphasizes your point and the point of other commenters—I wish we could see ourselves as other see us. Your boyfriend makes a great point, remember the fun. But I’d also like to add that sometimes we miss out on fun because we are so self-conscious about how we look. At the end of my life, I don’t want any regrets about missing out on life because I was afraid of how I’d look in photos. I have to work on this. Oh, and spell checking on this blog is not required, unabashed adoration is. 
Marie Wignall — I wonder about this myself, particularly after this incident. And I wonder why I just can’t say, “Wow, look at all I’ve done by 38 years old!” instead of “Wow, look at how I look!” because my looks did not enable me to accomplish everything that I have, I did. We should all have James Blunt singing “You’re Beautiful” in our ears as we go about our lives.
I’d rather have Christina Aguilera’s Beautiful if you don’t mind. James Blunt gives me the creeps.
BTW my captcha code for the last comment was “ima75age.” WTF?
Memarie Lane — Done! I’ve had her people talk to your people and you should wake up tomorrow with her “beautiful” voice in your ears. Ha! Even my captcha is a snarky bitch!