Okay so it's been an inexcusably long time blog. It's not that I don't love you. I do. It's just that my interests tend to be a bit ADD and I've sort of been entertaining other interests and too tired for much else.
It's not you. It's me.
But truth be told no matter what else I may be doing (ie. training for a Tough Mudder competition, planning and executing pinterest worthy parties etc. etc.) my first and truest love will always be you writing.
No matter where I go, or what I do, I am -and have always been- and will always be- a writer at heart. I can never stay away for long. And so I'm back. I hope you'll welcome me with open arms.
That aside, I though it fitting (now that I have rid myself of whatever alien virus was trying to kill me in since the beginning of January) to start the New Year off with a cathartic cleansing session of confessions.
And since we are in the New year (and also because I haven't keep track of how many previous confessions I have made), I shall start afresh. New confessions for the new year. These are my failures as a person. I do hope you enjoy them blogger world and one follower.
Confession #1 - I love makeup.
I do. I just do. And I feel really sort of guilty about that. I recently watched a Ted talk that rhapsodized about how high heels and a "mask" of makeup are the confines inflicted upon women by the current patriarchy and I felt sort of inspired to just forget about it all, to just be myself un-adorned and un-ashamed... I thought today I'm going to do it. Today is the day. She was so right... TED- talk- speaker- lady. Today I'm just going to be myself without feeling the need to make myself up!!! TADAHHH! I've had my light bulb moment!!!!
But then.... I got up, looked in the mirror at the exhausted visage that slightly resembled a terminally ill person and I thought... nope... that is not how I'm going to spend the day. Can't do it. Not going to happen.
I find the yoke of looking like I'm about to die (when in reality I'm not) a far more difficult burden to bear, than the idea that I'm bound and controlled by the throes of patriarchy.
Fine. FINE. I'm a by-product of this patriarchy. I've been brain washed to believe that I only look good when the screaming fight I broke up between my youngest kids, the three trips to the bathroom in the night, and the disgusting amounts of dairy I ate the day before aren't all hanging in the bags under my eyes and showing every SECOND of my 33 years.
And yes, I submit. I bend. I pat those dark circles with foundation. Put on a bit of blush and feel just a little bit better.
But whatever. I also just LOVE makeup. Sometimes I look up makeup tutorials on Youtube just to see if I can replicate them. I don't wear a lot every day. I work from home, and my daycare kids don't care. Frankly, most days its an effort to be found in anything but yoga or sweat pants because really who cares? Definitely not the kids who can't keep their bodily fluids to themselves. Athough every time I wear sweat pants there is a small voice in my head that reminds me of Seinfeld telling George Costanza that wearing sweatpants in public is a sure sign that you've just given up!
ahahahah. Oh Seinfeld! There is a grain of truth in that me thinks. But I DIGRESS.
The truth is every once in a while, I love getting dolled up, (or looking at the mirror without recoiling in horror). Whatever that says about it me, it says about me.
I love it. I even got a super expensive (but amaaaazing) make up palette for Christmas from the hubsters. I wandered into Sephora once on a rare kid-free shopping trip we were embarking upon - just to admire it. I knew I'd never justifying spending that much on myself and especially on something as impractical as makeup so I just admired it briefly and then walked with determination back out of the store. And then lo and behold, it was under the tree at Christmas!!! Yaaay. Brownie points for the hubsters. It inspires me to embrace the patriarchal confines by throwing on and a pair of heels, slapping on the war paint and showing him a good time. :) Win. Win. in my world.
If that makes a failure as a woman or feminist, for female feminist, so be it! I'll burn my bra and stop shaving my legs when I turn a certain age anyway. I'll bask in my feminist glory then. For now. I love me my makeup. Thank you Urban Decay. I heart you and your amazing products.
# 2 - My 4 year old daughter can sing Rihanna's part in Eminem's "The Monster" song almost word for word.
Shame fills me even as I write this. It was so cute to hear her tiny voice singing without hesitation all the lyrics, in perfect tune and pitch. The hubsters and I just looked at each other with a wry smile. At the same time it also made me feel like a complete failure as a mother.
What world have I brought my children into and what kind of mother am I when my 4 year old can sing about being friends with the monsters in her head. Uggggh. A horrible, horrible mother who is allowing her children to be seduced and destroyed by popular culture. I started casting about in my mind for how often we have listened to this song. Only in the car I think... and we're not in the car that often are we? What have I done? I'm putting my Hillsong C.D.s on full volume for the rest of the week.
God forgive me. This is how the fall of society begins. Oh Father, help her not to be the kind of woman who thinks the only way to feel good about herself or be successful is to use her beauty and outward appearance, or her power as a sexual being to make her way in this world. Help her to know her beauty comes from you and that she is whole and perfect just the way you made her.
This is my neurosis for 2014. Welcome to my nightmare. Come on in the water is warm.
