Getting Over Myself

Princess voluntold me to take her to the pool, so we trudged down with her Neighbor Friend, me with book in hand, and her with goggles and towel. I sat under the shade of the umbrella while the girls squealed and splashed, finally getting through my Julie and Julia book.

When Julie got to the part when she had to cook a lobster (or "lomster" as Princess 2 affectionately calls it, all the while freaking out - literally freaking out - over the distant prospect of ever ingesting one, even though I've yet to see a piece of food she didn't call friend) she got through it with perseverance and lots of vodka, which is pretty much how I tend to get through life. I, for one, have yet to find an alcoholic drink I did not call friend. The realization that Julie was able to conquer one of the hardest things she had yet to do in her life made her decree through a New Year's Resolution that she was going to "Get Over Herself". This got me thinking. (I had brought the motrin and cold compress down to the pool with me, so I was prepared to formulate a thought or two.)

Maybe I should get over myself. This all started about three years ago when I took a trip to Target before Secretly Gay Rollerskater Ex Boyfriend came for a visit. I purchased a bottle of wine, plus a few odds and ends (read: supercute cardigan for $10. Score!) and made my way up to the checkout counter. I was lucky customer #238 who wound up with Happy As Kittens New Checker Girl who was being trained by Rolled Hard and Put Away Wet Senior Customer Service Rep. Yay! So RHAPAW (awesome acronym, by the way) explained what the HAKNCG needed to do to ring up my purchases. She goes through each purchase and gets to the wine. She has the HAKNCG pass the bottle through the scanner and then explains that if the customer is over 35, there is no need to card them. The RHAPAW then looks me up and down and says, and I quote, "And I'm sorry, but you look over 35, so there's no need to card you." If I were 75, this would be understandable. However, at the time I was 31.

Thirty fucking one. Yes, that's three-one. You heard me right.

I mentioned this small nugget of truth to RHAPAW but she seemed unfazed. However, HAKNCG seemed to be coughing up kittens of apologies. It was lost on me. Yes, a quart of Ben and Jerrys was involved. As was the bottle of wine. By noon.

But this has affected me to this day. I've got my doubts about my figure, but now I became uber-obsessed with wrinkles and skin firmness. Most of entire paychecks were spent on oodles of Olay Regenerist and Lancome this and Estee Lauder that. I was in crisis-control and refused to let any wrinkles show up on my 30-some-odd-year-old face. Call it vanity if you want. I refused to ever hear that I looked older than what I actually was.

But in my cocoon-esque pilgrimage to the fountain of youth, I became a little pretentious and almost body-obsessed. You saw it on my last post - it's the first freakin' resolution - and most of the past three years has been this up and down yo-yo of weight loss and gain, feeling good about myself and not. All along, I really needed to just get over myself.

I understand getting morally and ethically upright, and I think for the most part I am. But I still hold back. And for what? Fear. Stupid, stupid fear. I should try new things. I should get out and see and do. Instead I watch Friends re-runs, HGTV, and Food Network and read Nicholas Sparks and Jen Lancaster books. I cook when it's not 400 degrees outside. But shouldn't I be going through my own renaissance a la Ms. Lancaster? Should I not take a tip from my brave, brave friends like my one friend who took on Dr. Phil and Jillian Michaels? Or my other friend who is venturing out on her own, going to law school, and bravely trying to figure things out? Or Mamma Bestie, who is a first-time mom. Or Nurse Betty, who bravely allowed me to help her clean her garage. That took some chutzpah, folks.

I can sit on my high-horse of experience and tell them to quit looking to the future and simply carpe diem! But what happens when I don't listen to my own advice? Hello, kettle, remember me, pot?

So, the mid-year resolutions are getting a small lunchtime lipo sort-of facelift.

I'm going to vow to do the following things:
1. Stop obsessing about every wrinkle on my face. If wrinkles are to wisdom that hair loss is to my dad, I'm a freakin' genius!

2. Begin looking on the bright side of cellulite. I now have places to hold my grapes!

3. Try something new each month. It might involve a gastro-intestinal dilemma-inducing vegetable that my body has never seen, but I think I might survive.

4. Stop calling every driver that pisses me off an Asschole. That's Yiddish for "asshole". It requires an inordinate amount of phlegm and emphasis at the phlegm-y part. Makes me feel all puppies and kittens inside, and it makes Princess giggle til she pees, but it is still bad adult behavior to have around Princess. I still use crapweasel and fucktard with abandon when Princess isn't around, though. No Yiddish accent needed. They're funny all on their own.

Okay, so cellulite is still not sexy and I might still call namby-pamby drivers Asscholes. I'm jell-o. Mold me.