Be Brave Not Perfect

by

Mario Kart

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“Go, go, go,” I hear the yells and giggles from the other room as I put the last dish into the dishwasher. “You’ve got this Hannah! Faster, faster, you’re doing great!”

“Take that,” Ethan hollers with glee.

“NOOOO, how did you do that? That’s it, I’m coming for you,” warns another voice.

The interaction makes me smile. My stepchildren and two friends are piled in the living room having just returned from Target where they pooled their Christmas gift cards to buy a new video game, a rare show of solidarity and cooperation. They now sit shoulder to shoulder, each leaning forward in an attempt to make their Mario character race just a little bit faster.

Wiping my hands on a towel, I mosey in to join them. I perch on the nearby armchair to see what all the fuss is about. Colorful characters race through the course in their colorful cars through loop-d-loops and twists and turns, tossing turtles and banana peels along the way.  

A checkered flag is waved as the last one crosses the finish line and the scores go up on the screen. As the trophy is handed out to the winning team, they relive the best moments of the race.

“Did you see how I took out your car with that squid ink?

“Oh I saw it,” came the reply, “you’ll pay for that next round.

“I need to make some changes to my car, it is NOT well suited for that course.”

The characters line up again at the starting line and gun their engines as the countdown plays on the screen: 3….2….1….GO. This time the characters begin to race through roads made of piano keys and other musical accoutrements. I sit happily by, listening to their banter, trying to make sense of what’s happening on the screen. I watch close calls, triumphs, frustrations, and power ups. I cheer here and there for the underdog and throw in the occasional, “That’s not a nice way to talk to your sister,” but for the most part I’m caught up in the moment, savoring this moment in time and all it has to offer.

“Your turn Sara.” The sentence catches me off guard.

Wait. What did he say?

“Yeah, you should try it,” another chimes in.

“Umm…I don’t think so. I haven’t picked up a video game controller in nearly 20 years and even after watching you for 30 minutes I don’t have a clue how to play,”

“That’s ok, just push this button here, move this switch there, you’ll catch on.”

A controller is pushed into my hand. Quick directions given. “I don’t know how to do this. I will look like an idiot. What is the slowest time anyone has ever completed a course? These controllers are clearly made for smaller hands. My cool bonus mom facade is about to crumble into a bajillion pieces and they will see the truth. I’m a fraud, carefully hidden behind my perfect mask.”

“Just remember to push the button marked with an X with your thumb, it’s what makes you accelerate. Otherwise you’ll just sit there.”

“An X? Where’s the X? Is this controller made for a left handed person? Why are all the important controls under my left thumb? I’m right handed. My left hand is nearly useless. What about all these other buttons? What do they do? Everywhere my fingers touch there’s a button. What if my car just sits there?”

“You got this. It’s ok if you’re not that good.”

“Easy for you to say kid, you’ve come in first place every single round. No secret shame happening in your head right now.”

On the screen even my character looks nervous, his rainbow mohawk giving him an air of toughness he doesn’t deserve. I can tell it’s a smokescreen, a distraction from the insecurities he hides inside. Just looking at him I can sense his trepidation, feel the sweat drip down his palms as he looks around wondering how he got lined up here among the big racers. I wipe my hands on my legs.

His colorful gokart reminds me of a bike I road in a parade once. I had been so proud of it at home with its streamers wound in and out perfectly between the wheel spokes. I rode with my head held high for miles until I got to the parade starting line and saw the other bikes. Those bikes had every color of streamer imaginable, putting my three colors to shame. They had tassels, and balloons, and bells covering every square inch. They glistened so shiny new my hand-me-down bike paled in comparison, making me feel small and insignificant.

“Oh great. This moment in time will play out just like that one. Once again I’m an imposter among giants.”

For a brief moment I glance at my stepdaughter Hannah. I was holding a controller because she had become frustrated with losing to the boys again and again, bristling even as they gave her encouragement. I could sense why. She’s wired a lot like me. Encouragement can feel patronizing to an overachieving perfectionist when your mind is filled with negative thoughts and self criticism.

“This is a chance for me to model a different message to her. A chance to be brave instead of shying away from something just because the world tells me if I can’t do it perfectly I shouldn’t do it at all. A chance to put my money where my mouth is and act as though I believe I am already enough, regardless of my performance in the next three minutes. I don’t need to make this race about me. It isn’t about me. It’s about having fun, letting go, and enjoying the moment. I can model that. For her, and for that little girl who felt her bike was inadequate for an entire parade because it didn’t seem to measure up.”

The countdown numbers begin to flash on the screen as I square my shoulders and start pushing buttons, familiarizing myself with the controller.

3….I’ve got this.

2…..For Hannah.

1….For my younger self and her carefully woven streamers. She was perfect even then.

GO!

by

In the Neon Glow

IMG_7926Outside my window headlights whiz past. Their colors merge and dance through the haze created by the car’s exhaust as we sit hunkered in trying to stay warm. Light snow falls. Gentle flakes falling to welcome December, a month known for joy, hope and optimism. It should be beautiful.

Their beauty is lost on me.

A couple pulls up beside us, parks, and emerges from their car laughing as they close their doors and head inside. The neon light of the sign we’ve parked under casts a pink glow on the dashboard. There’s a slight flicker to it. One I’d rather focus on than the conversation at hand.

Above the heater’s hum he breaks the silence,  continuing our conversation, “For the last few months, I don’t think you even like me. I think I annoy you. That I hurt you often. That I’m a source of pain, not joy. When was the last time we even went on a date that didn’t end in tension or an argument? I wonder if you regret your decision to marry me.”

I hear his words and go still. I see a tear trickle free down his cheek and every hair on my body snaps to attention.

A  familiar skip of a heartbeat makes my chest ache. I tense, straightening my spine and shifting in my seat. Inside my thoughts start whirling, lining up to play defense. The conversation feels familiar. I’ve had one like it years ago. It didn’t end well.

In the ensuing silence, my team of overactive inner workmen jump to attention, scrambling into action to protect my heart. I picture them wielding their bricks and mortar with practiced efficiency as I brace for what could come next. The foreman barks orders, “This is the moment we’ve trained for men. Go, go, go. Overload those wheelbarrows with bricks. Stir that mortar faster. Forget precision, just get that wall up on the double. The bad news is coming, we can’t leave a flank exposed.”

Time slows as my mind races to catch up with what I’ve heard. The heater hums, filling the silence as my nails cut half circles into my palms.

Outside his window the couple returns to their car, parcel in hand. The engine roars to life and they pull away.

Watching their taillights fade, I frantically run through possible responses, digging through my quiver of word weapons. Sarcastic sass. Dismissive impertinence. Defensive argument. Deflective blame shifting. Brooding silence. Self-pitying despair. Wounding guilt.

Each one has been sharpened to perfection by past painful life moments. I need only notch one into my bow, let it fly, and duck down behind my wall. Safe and protected.

I reach for deflective blame shifting, take aim, and lift my eyes to face him.    

I see a second tear slip free and get wiped hastily away. I gaze at his face, my favorite face. I remember his baggage, his past hurts, his scars and pause.

I remember his insecurities, his fears, his hope in me and soften; hands unclenching as I really see him, still beautiful in pink flickering neon light.

Inside the foreman holds up a hand. His crew stops, ears cocked ready for their next order. Behind them the wall around my heart remains only half built, vulnerable.

“She won’t do it. It leaves her too exposed. Too vulnerable. She will appear imperfect,” one bricklayer whispers to his colleague. They all stand to rapt attention waiting for me to speak.

I take a breath, set down my bow, and reach for him.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I grab his hand. “The last few months have been hard for me, oddly emotional and at times overwhelming. You bear the brunt of that because you’re my safe place. The best decision I ever made. Not one I regret. Never one I regret. You are my joy, not my pain.”

I nervously wait, letting my words sink in, praying they don’t precede deeper pain and this instinct is right.

Our eyes meet. The silence is both deafening and oddly peaceful. We are alone in it, connected in a cocoon of warmth as the snow falls outside and the world buzzes around us.

“I love you,” comes his reply. “It isn’t always easy, but we are in this together.”

“Yes. Together.” I reply.

He puts the car in reverse just as the neon light finally holds steady. It won’t be the end of the conversation, we have a number of things to work through, and yet I smile as we pull away, picturing my foreman inside, shoulders slumping as he breaks the news to the crew they may soon be unemployed.

by

Boudoir Bravery

watermark2I set the last box in the trunk, shove it down, rearrange the tangle of Christmas lights and the bag of cardigan sweaters so the door will latch, and slam it shut.

“Well that might be overkill,” I mutter to myself as I look through the window to the overflowing trunk. “I probably didn’t need to take the whole house with me.”

Brushing a stray hair out of my face, I open the door and slide into the driver’s seat, feeling anxious to get going. As I reach to adjust my mirror, I notice the firefighter’s hat is blocking a good portion of my view out the back window. With a sigh I steal a quick glance at the dashboard clock and decide it will have to do.

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this,” I mumble to myself as I start the car. “It’s my blog’s fault, all this be brave not perfect nonsense. People can talk me into anything now.”

I hit play on a podcast, pull onto the street, and settle in for my hour drive.

My wedding is two weeks away and I’m marrying a groom who is notoriously hard to buy for. I had been wracking my brain for weeks for the perfect wedding gift idea to no avail. Out of ideas and nearly out of time, my friend Chris, talked me into a boudoir photo shoot — a hobby of hers and an idea so completely out of character for me I still can’t believe I’m actually going through with it. My car is packed to the roof with gizmos, gadgets, props, and outfits, anything I could find to hold in front of my jiggly parts.

“I should have done this in my 20’s, or my 30’s,” I think to myself. “Now I’m wrinkly, freckly, and a tad droopy in places. And that’s not even taking into consideration my ten divorce pounds.”

The road stretches before me and I try to distract myself with an inspiring podcast, hoping its wise words will calm my anxious nerves. Instead, I find my mind wandering to memories and messaging from my life that make today’s adventure so challenging. A whispered judgment in a locker room here, a demanding and glossy headline there. A touch of church propriety sprinkled on top. So much cultural messaging that shaped me into a woman who feels if my body doesn’t measure up to a perfect standard, it’s not sexy, not worth showing. And even if it is, perhaps I better run the idea by someone more pious. The thoughts swirl around, one after another, making my head spin. I try to catch them, address them, ignore them, admonish them, anything to quiet them. But these negative thoughts about my appearance are some of the most resistant. They’ve been with me the longest and are the thoughts reinforced every single day by news articles, tv shows, magazine covers, social media posts, and the world as a whole.

They form the core of my perfectionism.

As such, they are the messages I’m trying hardest to shake on this journey. The messages that keep me bound, afraid, and sitting on life’s sidelines instead of diving in, living life to the fullest, and forging my own brave path forward. So I set my jaw and drive, determined to address them today in a real way, hoping that by doing so, I take one big step towards altering my life’s course and freeing me from their tight and relentless grip.  

Eventually I arrive, pull up in front of her studio, and turn off the car. Catching my eye in the mirror as I check my hair and makeup I murmur, “You’ve got this. Tap into your inner sex kitten.” I laugh at my joke, knowing if there is such a thing inside me, it’s buried under a lot of baggage. My cheesy humor seems to calm my nerves.

The sound of my car door opening startles an antelope grazing nearby. His head snaps up as he assesses me, but he seems unconcerned with my presence and unimpressed by my hair and makeup, returning quickly to his grassy breakfast.

“Clearly he has no idea what’s about to happen,” I mutter.  

Having heard me pull up, Chris and her daughter, Meriah, emerge from the studio calling happy greetings. They’re excited about the project and anxious to help me unload and get started.

Chris and I have been exchanging ideas and images for a week in preparation, deciding what looks we’re going for, what props we need to pull them off. Their excitement should be contagious but so far my stomach remains a stubborn ball of nerves.

“Woah,” my awe escapes me as I cross the threshold and look around. “I wasn’t expecting this,” I say to my friend, leaning to set my armload down on a nearby chair.

The building is comfortable, welcoming. The initial sitting area colorful and warm, the dressing room fanciful and filled with props, jewelry, robes, and furry blankets. I run my fingers over those closest to me, taking in their textures and beauty. Through a nearby door, the studio itself is bright and inviting. My heart rate begins to slow as I take it all in.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

Returning to the sitting area where my pile of stuff cascades across every surface, we begin to lay it out systematically, working through each look. We discuss a tentative order for the day, returning to the sample photos we’ve been exchanging as we strategize, matching poses with outfits. Eventually we are ready. Having stalled as long as I possibly can, I pick up the first outfit and excuse myself to change.

As I pull on each piece of the first look I whisper words of encouragement.

A stocking. “I can do this.”

The other stocking. “I am beautiful.”

Underwear. “I am perfectly imperfect.”

Bra. “I trust Chris to highlight the good, camouflage the bad.”

Garter. “My Kris loves me. He loves this body just as it is.”

Second garter. “It’s a good body, a healthy body.”

Earrings. “It has served me well for 43 years.”

Necklace. “I CAN do this. I need to do this.”

Stealing one last glance in the mirror I turn and open the door.

“Oh you look so good!” Meriah exclaims immediately as I step hesitantly back into the foyer. “Let me help you with the last hooks.” She moves to my side, no longer a stranger as she works to secure the clasps and hooks in intimate places I can’t reach.

“Champagne?” Chris asks, stepping towards me. “I find a sip or two makes the beginning a touch easier. But you’ll see, it will be great. We aren’t here to judge but to help you make something great. You’re beautiful and I’m going to capture that for both of you.”

I accept the glass from her outstretched hand and take a sip. The bubbles feel light and airy as they slip down my throat. I take another sip, smile at my friend. Thankful it’s her and not someone else with me in this moment.

There’s something raw, vulnerable, and intimate about posing in lingerie. And I’ve expertly dodged intimacy, rawness, and vulnerability for years; content to stay safely ensconced in logic, strategy, and my thoughts where I’m protected from failure and the judgement of others. Doing so has allowed me to appear perfect on the sideline much of my adult life. But I’m tired of the sideline, of watching others live life instead of living it myself. It’s why I’m on this journey, yet taking the first step remains challenging. Having a friend take it with me helps.

I swallow the last sip as Meriah slips the last hook in place and declares me ready. Chris reaches for her camera on the nearby counter and adjusts the lights in the studio space.  

“Be brave not perfect right?” she asks me.

I take a deep breath, look her in the eye, nod my ascent. “Be brave not perfect,” I reply, as I set my empty glass down firmly on the counter and step into the studio.

Cheers to taking the life journey together
Boudoir Bravery

To see more of my friend’s work or to reach her for your own session, visit: https://m.facebook.com/ChrisGentryPhotography/

by

Joy Comes With the Morning

paintingThe sun begins its slow ascent above the horizon. Just the barest whisper of light. A rooster next door crows.

“Uggggghhh. It’s too early. It’s so dark, how does he even know it’s morning?” I think as I roll over, adjusting my pillow in a feeble attempt to block the noise.

Unsuccessful and awake, I lay in bed, wondering why God wired roosters to crow at such an ungodly hour. At times he sounds like a sick dog. Or maybe, I realize, this is just what a sick rooster sounds like.

I crack an eye open. The room is pitch black with the exception of the faintest of glows from the skylight in the adjoining bathroom. I could almost make it to the toilet without a flashlight. But it feels far away this early in the morning. I close my eye again, focus on the sounds around me. I can no longer hear the squeak of bats from the earlier hours. I imagine they’ve tucked in for the day, though how they can sleep through the rooster’s incessant howling is beyond me.

I hear the quiet breath of my fiancé sleeping beside me. Later today he will become my husband. I can hardly believe it. Most days it feels like an impossible dream. Listening to his steady breathing, my mind drifts, tracing the road I traveled to get to this day. The rooster provides an odd soundtrack, cock-a-doodle-doo-ing exclamation marks and commentary as my mind winds its way through the twists, turns, peaks, and valleys of the last six years. Memory upon memory. Some good, many challenging, and a select few I’ve shoved into hidden places deep inside.

I let them come now and find that the most painful don’t sting as they once did. Instead, I feel as though I’m wandering through an art gallery of my life, stopping at each memory captured in time, experiencing the lingering feeling attached to it, marveling that the feelings have both dimmed and remained vivid.

I play back the nights I sobbed on the floor in the midst of my separation, curled around my faithful dog, certain I would never feel worthy of love again. The recollection is so real I reach my hand to my cheek, surprised to find it smooth instead of imprinted with tears and the pattern of my carpet.

I replay the day my finalized divorce decree blindsided me in the mail, picturing the envelope sliding to the kitchen floor while I stand staring at the judge’s seal wondering if I am supposed to nestle this document next to my marriage license in a safe place or shove it into the darkest cupboard and slam the door.

I relive the time I was here in Mexico with another man; remembering how I picked up the tab for a week of lousy treatment, lies, and sleepless nights. I recall how I added to my own misery by endlessly berating myself for being so stupid, chasing each negative thought with a drink to numb the pain.

I remember them all, dragging each hidden moment into the pale light of dawn, a gentle time of day when they are easiest to bare.

While not the first time I’ve relived them, it is the first time I’m able to move past the negative thoughts that accompany them and clearly see each memory’s influence on who I am today.

As a neighborhood dog begins barking with the rooster, I realize the nights on the floor wrestling with my self-worth brought clarity that it didn’t matter what others thought of me, only what I believed about myself. And I was worth something better.

And while shocking in its stealthy arrival, my divorce decree closed a door firmly behind me, one I had stubbornly kept cracked. A door that had to close so I could look forward rather than back. And once I did, I took the first tender step towards this new life.

That miserable week in Mexico became my painful rock bottom, a jarring turning point. Without its brutal lesson, I would have chosen similar men for years, hanging on to the illusion I could love the broken to wholeness. After all, that’s what every Disney movie had promised me. Instead, fed up and angry, I looked for something new and was now lying next to my own Prince Charming.

As individual challenging moments rearrange themselves, my journey down memory lane turns peaceful. A beautiful mosaic emerges. A portrait of a new me. A stronger me. A better me.  IMG_0477

A version of me who exists not in spite of but because of those painful moments.

A door slams suddenly on the street outside, breaking my reverie. My man stirs beside me. I’m aware of more sounds on the street. A truck rumbling by, the scrape of a gate opening. Two women call to one another, the neighboring property so close I swear they are in our room. The first ray of direct sun finally cracks through the curtain, beaming across the tile floor, tracing a path across the bed.

My fiancé’s eyes open. He sees me looking at him. Smiles. Reaches for me as he often does. Squeezes my hand.

“You ready for today?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I answer.

“Me too,” he responds.

I stare at him, tracing my hand down his cheek. Catching my reflective mood, he whispers, “I love you, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” I answer, “I finally do too.”