Self deprecation has always been a hobby of mine--and a defense mechanism which allows me to slam myself before someone else even has the chance to think it, much less say it.
I love to tell stories on myself--to get a laugh. Truly, over the years, I've really tried hard to "care less" about what other people think of me, but I've not quite been able to master this skill. Deep inside, others' opinions have always mattered way too much. As I've gotten older, though, I've come a long way. Far from developing an absolute "devil may care" attitude, I'm coming into my own, slowly but surely. I've gradually been gaining a realization, thanks to loads of therapy and my husband's wise advice, that other people don't think about me nearly as much as I think they do. They have better things to think about. (That hurts. I'm relieved, but it hurts. What could possibly be more interesting to ponder than ME and absolutely anything about ME?)
The ego is hilarious when thrown into the universe's giant pot to simmer along with a little irony, some bad timing and lots of stupid, spurr-of-the-moment decisions. Oh-- and God. I suspect He's got all the ingredients in this particular recipe down pat and has a pretty firm grip on the mixing spoon.
This all came clear to me during Lent this winter. As a family* we decided to give-up "all forms of media" = anything electronic. "What about the fridge?", asked my ever-literal Frankie. I wanted to slap him for asking such a smart-alliky question, but since we're against physical punishment in our house, I had to settle for shooting him a major glare. GGggrrrr. No, I said, it means stuff like 'game boys', TVs, computers (except for homework purposes, (and NO, "www.clubpenguin.com" is not homework--don't even try that on me, Frank), Wii, etc. Insert a catastrophic sigh here; the children did, when they heard the official declaration.
One of the reasons I decided we should give up these things was because, secretly, I had been spending too much time with my friends on daytime TV. My husband says he worries sometimes that I think they are my real friends. Like, if I ran into Bonnie Hunt on the street, I'd go up to her and say, "Hey, Bon, it's ME! How ya' doing? Let's grab a wine and chat!" I had been thinking he might be right, and thought it was the perfect time to put some distance between me and these pals of mine and maybe devote some more time to the needs of the household. I felt ever so disciplined.
Now, I trim my own hair on occasion. (Lest you get whiplash, let me assure you, this fact is important to the story. Just try to stay with me--hopefully it'll be worth it.) I sport this hairdo that I call "someplace between Sharon Stone and Phyllis Diller". So, when I felt like it was getting a little too Phyllis Diller, a few months ago, I got out the electric trimmer we use on the boys' hair for their "summer buzz cuts". As there is no outlet in my bathroom (I know! Can you imagine???), I had to plug the trimmer into an outlet in front of the mirror in my bedroom. This mirror happens to be right next to the TV set. Well, one thing led to another (nobody home, what harm could a little 'ELLEN' do?, a brief angel-devil dialogue, etc.), pretty soon there I was, trimming, willy-nilly, and watching and trimming and glancing and trimming. All at once, I caught a glimpse in the mirror. Even without my glasses, I could tell I'd done something beyond drastic. I dropped the running razor and threw on my glasses, only to discover a gigantic, 8 foot wide strip of BALD running from my bangs clear down the back of my head: a reverse mohawk. (Okay, it wasn't exactly that big, but close!). Stunned, I just stood there for a bit and then started to laugh.
If you knew me as a teenager, you would stop reading right now and double check to make sure it's actually MY blog you're reading. See, I was the world's most hair-obsessed teenager back then. My best friend promised me that, when I die, he would make sure my headstone read, simply: "LOOK AT MY HAIR!!! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH MY HAIR???".
Well, I've grown. I stood there, looking and laughing. I had to be somewhere in 15 minutes and had just, accidentally, shaved a bald spot on my own head. Who does that?
I threw on a scarf/headband and finished the day. That evening, after sharing the story with my family and, having removed the scarf before bed, my daughter and I were talking. She was devastated. In her pre-adolescent mind, how was I ever going to survive this calamity??? There she stood, at the foot of my bed, talking about her day when she suddenly stopped and covered her eyes, saying: "Mom, I have to leave the room right this minute or I'm going to say something VERY disrespectful." I asked her what was wrong and she repeated herself, insisting that she needed to leave immediately. I assured her that she could say anything and I would not take offense. Finally, she relented and said, "It's about your hair. You look like an IDIOT!!!!". We both burst into tearful laughter and I told her that indeed I was an idiot. This was an idiotic thing to do. Then I reminded her that I wear scarves and hats a lot, anyway, so nobody would even notice. I wasn't worried about it, and neither should she be.
She seemed comforted and relieved of the burden. About 10 minutes later, there she was again, at the foot of the bed. "Mom? Since you don't seem to care too much about it, is it OK if I tell my friends?". Of course, now I was juicy news. Fifteen minutes ago I was embarrassment incarnate. No problem, I said--anything for my little girl.
Fast forward 2 months. The bald spot is hardly noticeable now, the hair has continued to grow along with the story. The way I tell them, stories continue to evolve and take on a life of their own.
Anyway, for what it's worth, here's my advice: Don't break your Lenten resolutions. Friends: God is watching and he doesn't care about your daytime TV addictions. He DOES, however care about your ego. He'll go on ahead and mess with it (or allow us to mess with it on our own) because we need to shave ourselves silly sometimes to realize that the hair and the make-up and the clothes are all just props, helping us to keep getting into character--trying to be someone we think other people expect us to be. We just don't want to believe that we're not even on their radar 99% of the time. God's just going to sit back in his heavenly recliner, and let us do stupid stuff until we learn to laugh it off rather than freak out about it; until we can admit that we are the only ones who really see the bald spots. He's just going to continue to shake his big, holy head and giggle a bit, then grab the remote and enjoy a little Ellen.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Me. I decided completely on my own, without consulting absolutely anyone else in the family.
