Tomorrow marks ten years to the day that Jonathan and I first met. We always get snickers and quotes from "American Pie" when I mention that we met during band camp. Yeah, yeah, "this one time...at band camp..." we've heard it all. Of course it doesn't help matters that I'm a redhead.
Ten years is a long time, people. That's more than a third of my life.
I'm really proud of us. Both my folks and my in-laws have been happily married since 1971. There are very few divorces in our families and I have to give them all some credit in our success. I don't know if there's really any secret or formula to a happy marriage. It's only been six years (not all that much longer than J-Lo and whatshisface) so I doubt that I am one to be giving out advice. I will say that it helps tremendously pick the sort of person that I did.
Jonathan is pretty much my opposite. I remarked to him the other day that we really didn't have all that much in common. At least we could agree on that. He's one of those analytical types who can sit in front of CNBC for hours, watching that ticker stream by. The price of gold and platinum are the only things on that channel I have much use for. He can sit in a deer stand at 5am, completely motionless, patiently waiting for that monster buck he's dreaming of. I just want the jerky and summer sausage. I am constantly finding little slips of paper with amoritazation formulas and stock picks all over them. Those notes could be in Greek, for all the sense they make to me.
But at the end of the day, I'm glad he's not too much like me. I can be quite a handful to deal with, and a huge pain to live with, so I try to cherish the differences.
I love you, sweetheart. Thank you for choosing that little redheaded flag girl you met at that party on Olive Street. As different as we may be, I wouldn't have you any other way.
19 August 2008
10 August 2008
a tale of two moles
Last month, while Jonathan and I were on vacation in Kentucky, I allowed my mother to have some professional portraits taken of my sister and I. This sort of nonsense is not something I would normally concede to, but I figured we weren't going to be getting better looking as the years pass, so we should "strike while the iron is hot". This particular guy had taken some of my cousins and the results were fantastic, so my sissy and I fluffed our hair, pulled together some coordinating outfits, and went.
It wasn't the photographs that surprised me. It was my reaction to them that caught me off guard. I felt like I looked too good.
At first, I just assumed it was my overly self-critical nature that caused my inital dissatisfaction but in reality, it was quite the opposite. When I looked at myself in the pictures, I saw myself, just minus all my freckles and moles that have become part of who I am. I can say with much certainty that there are very few adult redheaded women who have flawless, porcelain-like skin. Freckles are part of the package. I also have two moles on my right cheek and chin which were noticeably absent in the pictures. When I was an art student, I always included them in all of my self-portraits; I guess I felt that leaving them out would be lying in a way.
As these feelings came over me regarding these photographs, I started to feel something else...pride. I thought about how I would have reacted to these pictures ten years ago and the difference is striking.
1998: OMG...my ears are so goofy. They are way too small and too low on my head. (My husband would later refer to them as "Shrek" ears.)
2008: OMG...I have the same ears as Tony Romo. Sweet. (In case you are a hermit or not from Texas, Tony Romo is the QB for the Dallas Cowboys and is super hot.)
1998: Ugh, I am so pale.
2008: Redheads look skanky with tans. It's just not natural. When it comes time to get an IV or have blood drawn, I say a little "amen" for the big blue veins puffing out of my little white arm.
1998: No one will ever love me if I don't get some boobs.
2008: I prefer quality over quantity. And sleeping on my stomach if I so choose.
I could go on and on like this. In spite of my loving mother's best efforts, I just felt unbelievably insecure about myself when I was a teenager. Of course, so did everyone else. I probably felt as badly as the girl who laughed and pointed at me in the gym locker room in junior high or the one who announced to the class that I was ugly. Coming of age in the 1990s was no easy task; self-loathing seemed to be part of our lives, just like watching 90210 or reading Seventeen magazine. Even now, I still grapple with some of the old criticisms and body issues. I no longer feel that my value in the world is in any way connected with my bra size, although I wish I fit into certain pieces of clothing a little better. I always seem to show a lot of gum when I smile, but I try to see it the way my husband does, as something imperfect but beautiful.
I doubt I am going to ask the photographer to change the touch-ups on the photos. I still look like me and it's honestly not enough of a deal to ask him to give me back my two moles and two hundred freckles. He's a photographer, not a plastic surgeon. Just the fact that I saw an idealized version of myself and prefering reality instead was such an important moment for me. It's a feeling that I will be able to keep with me and can't be blotted out so easily.
It wasn't the photographs that surprised me. It was my reaction to them that caught me off guard. I felt like I looked too good.
At first, I just assumed it was my overly self-critical nature that caused my inital dissatisfaction but in reality, it was quite the opposite. When I looked at myself in the pictures, I saw myself, just minus all my freckles and moles that have become part of who I am. I can say with much certainty that there are very few adult redheaded women who have flawless, porcelain-like skin. Freckles are part of the package. I also have two moles on my right cheek and chin which were noticeably absent in the pictures. When I was an art student, I always included them in all of my self-portraits; I guess I felt that leaving them out would be lying in a way.
As these feelings came over me regarding these photographs, I started to feel something else...pride. I thought about how I would have reacted to these pictures ten years ago and the difference is striking.
1998: OMG...my ears are so goofy. They are way too small and too low on my head. (My husband would later refer to them as "Shrek" ears.)
2008: OMG...I have the same ears as Tony Romo. Sweet. (In case you are a hermit or not from Texas, Tony Romo is the QB for the Dallas Cowboys and is super hot.)
1998: Ugh, I am so pale.
2008: Redheads look skanky with tans. It's just not natural. When it comes time to get an IV or have blood drawn, I say a little "amen" for the big blue veins puffing out of my little white arm.
1998: No one will ever love me if I don't get some boobs.
2008: I prefer quality over quantity. And sleeping on my stomach if I so choose.
I could go on and on like this. In spite of my loving mother's best efforts, I just felt unbelievably insecure about myself when I was a teenager. Of course, so did everyone else. I probably felt as badly as the girl who laughed and pointed at me in the gym locker room in junior high or the one who announced to the class that I was ugly. Coming of age in the 1990s was no easy task; self-loathing seemed to be part of our lives, just like watching 90210 or reading Seventeen magazine. Even now, I still grapple with some of the old criticisms and body issues. I no longer feel that my value in the world is in any way connected with my bra size, although I wish I fit into certain pieces of clothing a little better. I always seem to show a lot of gum when I smile, but I try to see it the way my husband does, as something imperfect but beautiful.
I doubt I am going to ask the photographer to change the touch-ups on the photos. I still look like me and it's honestly not enough of a deal to ask him to give me back my two moles and two hundred freckles. He's a photographer, not a plastic surgeon. Just the fact that I saw an idealized version of myself and prefering reality instead was such an important moment for me. It's a feeling that I will be able to keep with me and can't be blotted out so easily.
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