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Wednesday, August 7, 2002 I cut my hair Long-time readers may remember that I put highlights in my hair a couple of months ago and began trying to get it to maintain some sort of trendy arrangement, at least during work hours. Recent events have caused me to vigorously renew within myself the sensation of not giving a damn how I look or whether or not I will ever attract a man. Therefore, I fulfilled my decade-long dream of having my hair cut short. Fat face be damned, I said. I cut my hair short and I didn't CARE. And a bunch of people told me it looked cute, and now I wear hair gel and eyeshadow every day because -- well, I can't let down my public, can I? Never mind that I couldn't get a date with a (non-jerky, non-abusively-controlling) man to save my fat-bootied life. No, never mind that, because the women at my work think my hair looks cute, and I have to put on eye shadow for them. Who else deserves such careful detail, if not any random woman I meet? I torture myself A couple of nights ago I read my children the story known, in English translation, as "The Peach Boy". In this story someone had a hammer that, when struck on the ground, would magically create a piece of gold. When I went to bed that night, I decided as I often do to try to lull myself to sleep in some way that did NOT consist of talking on the phone until past midnight. Having sickened myself of every variable of alphabet mind game imaginable, I came up with the scheme of inventing 5 magic objects that I would like to own. Objects not unlike the gold-gushing hammer of Peach Boy fame. It was then that I realized, for the millionth time in my life, that I torture myself. Could I simply come up with a valuable magic item that I would like to have? No, I could not. Did the magic of my items require some not-proverbial effort on my part? Yes, it did. Was this game a soothing pathway into slumber? No, it was not.
I'm always torturing myself in little ways. I'm the woman who agonizes over the purchase of little things like bracelets or tinted lipglosses, and then doesn't let herself enjoy those items once they are purchased with a little money and a lot of guilt. There's never an occassion good enough to justify the extravagance of my blue Taiwanese beads, my blister-pack-sealed root-beer-scented lip balm, or the new blue kitchen towels from K-Mart that cost $2 each instead of just $1. Not even in my mind can I enjoy myself, lately. Not even in my fantasies. I can't imagine getting cut the slack. Why would the shirtless guy on the greeting card want to spend time with me? Why would Rod Serling stop the clock for me to pilfer things from the mall? How dare I have such thoughts in my spare time? Shouldn't I be working some freelance or saving my children from urban decay or scooping some cat litter or something?
It's a hampering habit. I don't know where I get it from -- why I don't think I deserve nice things. Was it growing up poor? Was it growing up Catholic?
I've been reading that book The Artist's Way, and it says not to treat yourself like that. It has a bunch of exercises designed to reveal your stingy self-treatment, to identify what you really desire, and to enable you to give yourself permission to actively seek those desires. A few weeks ago, a few weeks into the Way, I had a very bad dream. I dreamed I was watching myself freeze and starve in an open garage. Specifically, I watched a woman who looked exactly like me cover herself with dried leaves and empty potato-chip bags in an effort to keep warm, her face a stoic mask. The scary thing was that I didn't realize this woman looked exactly like me until after I'd woken up. The scariest thing was that, while I watched this woman in my dream, I laughed at her. I suggested to a friend that we open the window and heckle her. It was only on the stern suggestion of my friend that I felt forced to open the window and lamely offer the woman a blanket. That dream was supposed to be a wake-up (HA!) call to me. The symbolism was crystal fricking clear, no matter how much denial I wanted to use as my own blanket. It freaked me the living hell out. I vowed to change my ways. Have I changed my ways? Sort of. I got my hair cut. I turned down some freelance work, despite the muscle-freezing force I had to overcome in order to do so. I seriously considered buying food that I would like to eat for breakfast and then eating it at breakfast time. I... um... well...
I have to keep striving. I don't want to have a nightmare that trite and obvious again. |
