Naked Beauty

       Sometimes I like to sit and think about all of the things that I hate doing.  I know that I shouldn't dwell, but some chores are simply no fun and a waste of my life.  Dishes, laundry, vacuuming, working, doing my hair, shaving, applying make-up, painting my nails...wait a second.  At least half of the tasks that I just listed don't REALLY need to be done.  Do they?  As a child I couldn't wait until I was old enough to do all of the "big girl" things like what I saw my grandmother doing.  You really need the full picture here: my grandmother was from Alabama.  She never left her bedroom in the morning until her face was "on", her hair was curled, and her perfectly ironed blouse was tucked snugly into the waistband of her slacks.  This was the same woman who weighed herself everyday, re-painted her nails if there was even the tiniest of chips in the lacquer, and carried her poodle like a fashion statement.  She was high-class country, and my grandpa thought himself lucky to have snagged himself a "Lineville girl".  My grandma, who insisted on being called Grandmother Ellen, was the first consistent female role model in my life.  She would roll in her grave if she knew that I was writing this without a bra on.  So thirty years later, like her, I wake in the morning and put on my face before work, pin back my long hair, and spritz on perfume.  At the end of the day I wash my face and weigh myself and powder my bottom.  ...I think I just made myself throw up a little in the back of my mouth.  You see?  Times have changed, WE have changed, but we're still doing the same old things.  Society's idea of beauty is still skinny, plucked, shaven, polite, and waxed.  Here's the kicker: I know that I don't want to conform and wear makeup just because it makes me more pleasant for people to look at, but I still will because I want to feel pretty.  I hate taking the time to shave my body everyday, but I'll still feel self-conscious if I haven't done it in a while.  It's like it has been ingrained in us to please others by altering our own bodies, and it's so hard to retrain our brains not to think that way because everyone else still does it too.  The first time I ever met my sister-in-law was at a pool party in the late afternoon.  She had just driven in from California, or Colorado, or wherever she lived at that particular time, and it had been a long journey.  Her curly, red hair was uncombed and her bra straps were falling down her shoulders.  She reached out and wrapped her arms around me in the warmest hug that I had ever experienced, and I noticed that she had underarm hair.  Like, a LOT of armpit hair.  And she didn't give a flying shit!  It did not register to her at all that it may be weird for people to see that she hadn't shaved in a few weeks, especially since she was wearing a sleeveless shirt.  I LOVE her!  She likes to creatively paint her face from time to time, almost like a canvas for her next art project, but she doesn't feel the need to wear cover-up daily.  Her hair is so wild that she couldn't tame it if she tried, and I'm so glad that she doesn't even bother.  She is wild and open, honest and FREE.  Other people can see whatever they want to see when they look at her, but when I look at her I see naked beauty and pure reality.  We are all beautiful, just the way we are.  Anyone who thinks differently should probably check their own ideas of beauty.  Let them be the ones with the confining societal standards, I'd rather just be me.
What's your idea of beauty?

"Embracing your true self radiates a natural beauty that cannot be diluted or ignored.  Confident, powerful, untamable, badass you!" - Dr. Steve Maraboli

The Girl I Wouldn't Save

       Heavy hitter alert!  So in my quiet time this morning I noticed that I was feeling sad.  My heart was a little heavier than usual and my thoughts kept wandering to a girl that I once knew in high school many years ago.  I ignored these thoughts for a while until I reminded myself to be aware.  I turned off the radio in the car and allowed each roaming thought to produce a scene in my brain until I knew exactly what needed to be done.  I needed to remember.  This girl whose face was filling my morning thoughts belonged to an old friend, but one that I had not spoken to in years.  She was trouble, put quite plainly.  She was wild, she drank uncontrollably, she went home with strangers after long nights of dancing and often ended up in trouble with the police.  I loved her anyways, but had to distance myself.  Why was I feeling so guilty?  Because I could have saved her.  When I was fifteen I remember this girl coming over to visit for the first time.  She had stolen alcohol from her parents and proceeded to dance on the coffee table in front of my friends.  When they all lost interest and left the room, she admitted to me that her father had been sneaking into her room at night.
       I can still remember how my chest had tightened and my face grew red at the thought of what she was going through.  I immediately told her that she should tell her mom or move in with me or run away or call the police.  She had to do something!  But she gave me every reason she could think of as to why I had to keep it a secret, and I agreed to.  But as time went on and I kept her secret and watched her act out time and time again, I began to feel resentment towards her.  I didn't just resent her flirting with everyone else's boyfriends and flaunting her body, I resented her secret.  You see, she had the nerve to tell me about her secret and let me carry some of that weight.  But I had a secret of my own that I had never been brave enough to share with anybody.  I resented that I had been carrying the weight of my secret all by myself for so long while she seemed perfectly content to burden other people with hers.  I resented that, compared to her secret, my secret didn't seem very big anymore.  Not only was her secret worse than mine, but it was more complicated than mine.  But I think if I'm being completely honest, I resented how scared she made me feel.  It was a loss of control.  If she decided to tell someone then did I have to tell my secret too?  What would happen if people found out?  Would the family be torn apart?  Would anyone be mad at me?  Would everyone hate me?  So I did nothing.
       It's easy to say, "I was just a kid."  "I didn't know any better," is also a good excuse, but looking back as an adult I feel guilt because I should have said something to a trusted adult anyways.  I should have ignored my paralyzing fear and stood up for her.  If I had, then maybe she wouldn't have tried to kill herself only to awaken alone and covered in her own vomit two days later.  No one had tried to call her while she was passed out; no one even knew she was missing.  It's sad.  It's such a damn shame.  A girl as beautiful and smart and wonderful as her had become so wild from her inner pain that other people had trouble being with her.  I'm sorry.  I am so sorry.  I have tried to find this girl, to reach out to her and personally apologize, but I can't find her.  She has no social media account, her phone number has been changed, and her family is refusing to give out her contact information.  All I can do at this point is forgive myself.  But I won't give up on her either.  I wish that I had known back then that no one secret is worse or bigger than another. I wish that I had known that there was always help and support to be found, and I have nothing but overwhelming compassion for any woman who has been though sexual abuse.  You are not alone.
What's your #metoo?