I thought about forwarding the email to my daughters, but thought better of it. My older one has heard it all and, even if she hasn't, knows it all, or at least would claim to. My younger one has heard most of it (I've reserved the one about sex being fun for a later date) and probably knows enough of it to be true, but hearing it from me would be counterproductive. No matter how credible she may have found any of the advice, receiving it from me would give her great pause. She would have to rethink it all, knowing that with my stamp of approval the reasoning must be fatally flawed. Why risk it.
This morning in the car, we actually had a pleasant conversation. Well, we had a conversation, with two people actually uttering words, which already puts this morning's ride to school up there in the top five. But we actually agreed on something. She was reluctant to agree that she is scary, so we're still not seeing eye to eye on that, but she admitted (as an alternative position) that she is nowhere near as mean to her sister as she is to me. No contest, I'm thinking, but the admission was a small victory and I'll take it. The issue came up because she had been trying to convince a friend that a meal with our family was nothing to fear. Her argument? That her family is just like her. "Well, no wonder the kid is terrified. You're scary!" I blurted it out before I had time to calculate how much this would cost me in therapy for her, but, scoring much higher on self awareness than judgment, she barely flinched. On balance, I am feeling a renewed sense of optimism about her post-teen years -- if I make it.
Among the items on the list that I hope my daughter sees without ever deeming it guilty by association with me (aka incompetent boob and all around she devil) is the age old admonition to girls that superficial beauty is not important. It's what's inside that counts: character, brains, talent. Yeah, try telling that to a woman of any age, especially when she is trying to squeeze herself into a pair of jeans priced so high that the only justification for them is they will change her life for the better.
Case in point the other day: "You know that pretzel has about six hundred calories," my coworker told me as I stuffed in my beloved daily treat. Buzz kill. I kept eating. She persisted. "I thought you said you wanted to reduce your mid-section so the jeans would fit better."
Now I was pissed. I stopped chewing so I could clarify. "No, I said the pants were tight and my stomach was hanging grotesquely over the top. I never said I intended to do anything about it." She seemed shocked, but not as shocked as I was that I had actually said that. The truth is I can't afford the jeans anyway, and the pretzel tasted really good -- as it always does -- so there was precious little incentive to switch over to celery. But, again, the truth is I'd probably love myself far more if I could look good in those jeans.
As luck would have it, a customer came in soon after that, presenting me with a chance to redeem myself, prove that I am neither juvenile nor shallow. She needed something to wear to a gala the next evening. As "first chair violinist," she would be a V.I.P. at this event celebrating the orchestra of which she was such an essential and impressive part. On the outside, she was short, dowdy, and a bit unkempt, a tough customer under the best of circumstances. But she was also very critical of her appearance, and very rigid about what she thought would look good on her. Frankly, nothing did look particularly good on her, but I found her to be very beautiful. She was kind and intelligent, and had a beautiful smile, the kind that can only come from deep within. I found it hard to believe how much she cared.
"You are a gifted and talented woman, a woman who has accomplished much and deserves to be honored," I told her as I accompanied her, empty-handed, to the door. "Throw on a pair of black pants and a plain top and you'll look great," I told her, and I meant it. Well, what I really meant was you'll look fine, but what matters most is how fantastic you are on so many other levels. In my wildest dreams I would never even have enough talent to be "first chair kazoo" at a suburban block party; if I had even a fraction of this woman's talent, I wouldn't care a whit about those damn tight jeans.
Would I?
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