Peas of the Pod 6: Self Image

Self image, such a fragile thing. Like a baby's demeanor, this image of self can darken or brighten in a matter of seconds.

Sometimes the smallest comments can carry the biggest ammo. You know those comments, the ones made in passing...innocently…. And at the time those 'comments in passing' are passed, you laugh them off with a shrug, a giggle, perhaps an eye roll. But then, sometimes, the comments, well…linger. They grow. Take on new meaning. Haunt you. For hours…days...weeks...even MONTHS!

Time of divorce, reasonably, can be a sensitive time. It is a time, in fact, when friends and family, should, well, lie to you. Little ones, white lies. To push you forward, instill hope and inflate the divorcing ego.

But not everyone you encounter will be that 'sensitive.' Innocent, yes, ego propping, perhaps not.

Not too long ago, my five year old, cuddling next to me in bed, early morning, gazing at me with awe and adoration, in a way, only a young child can offer, tenderly touched my face. It felt so good. Worth it all. And then she whispered, "Mommy, you grew another chin."

If life had sound effects, the slide whistle ending in a crash would be heard.

And then there was the time, not too long after the aforementioned epiphany, that the same five year old told this writer to cover her legs more, to prevent the babysitter's boyfriend, from seeing these 'fat legs.' For that would offend.

Offense taken.

A few weeks ago, I hauled my two girls, dog and self off to my parent's beach house for a little R and R. "Nana will take care of us," I declared. Within the first hour of arrival, "Nana" defiantly noted, "oh look, you have stretch marks. I didn't know you had those."

Some comments just can't be commented on back.

For my 41st birthday (ouch) my babysitter gave me a day at the spa. Luxury for the soul the certificate promised.

As I'm wrapped in warm towels, serenaded by Enya and the essence of lavender, my facialist (is that what they are called?) tells me what creams and oils she is applying to my skin. I'm at peace. But she continues. In her thick Russian accent, she declares what her obstacles are. For a bigger tip? She thinks aloud? She is cruel? I hear things like "broken capillaries," "dark circles", "blotchy red skin" "whiteheads," "blackheads." These dirty words of hers are followed with a "tsk, tsk, tsk". On my birthday, no less.

My grandmother taught me that every cloud has a silver lining. A motto I truly believe. I have to, afterall.

The manicurist at the spa delivers the birthday promise. I tell her this spa day is a gift from my babysitter. She says, also with a Russian accent that sounds more mellifluous than the former beautician's, "You have children? You're too young." "Oh, I'm older than I look" I assure her. And then to push my luck I ask, "How old do you think I am?" She studies me with a discerning eye and offers, "Twenty-six?"

And I'll let that comment in passing linger and soothe my soul for a long, long time.