Nothing to See Here…

Sure, I have self-image issues.  Doesn’t everybody?  Oh, admit it - you do!  Right?  Tell me you do and I’m not the only one, because I don’t want to be the only one and oh, why is it always me that gets the short end of the stick?  It’s probably because of my weight.  No, maybe because my eyes are too close together.  I just have nothing interesting to say.  No WONDER nobody likes me…

Oh, wait… I got off on a little tangent there.

It all started when I was 5 years old (stay with me, I promise I won’t go through my whole life day by day…)  I used to watch Romper Room.  Do you remember Romper Room?  It was like nursery school via television.  There was my teacher there, Miss Lois.  She was so nice.  Only later I learned there was like a whole ARMY of Miss Loises and every PBS local station had their own person who got the name Miss Lois and Lois wasn’t even her real name!  My nursery school experience was just one big farce.

But of course I didn’t learn that until later.  Let’s try to stay in 1969, shall we?

So Miss Lois was my teacher on television and I even had my own set of Romper Stompers (and if you don’t know what those are, then maybe you’re too young to be reading my blog and you might just give me further self-image problems over my oldness, my antiquity, my seniority)… okay, where was I?  Oh, yeah, romper stompers.  Anyway, at the end of every show, Miss Lois got out her magic mirror where she would see all the children and say their names…

“I see Betsy and Billy and Clara and Mary and Johnny and Susie and Ricky…”

Every flippin’ day I sat right there square in front of that television to be sure she could see me in that stupid magic mirror and she never did!  NEVER.  Now, if you check the Social Security Popular Baby Names website, you’ll see that in 1965, the name Linda was very popular — number 8 on the list.  But evidently Miss LOW-ISS didn’t care about that - didn’t care enough about all the little 5 year old Lindas out there just waiting for their precious names to be called.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure that’s the beginning of my self-image issues.  I blame it all on Miss Lois, that bitch.

Other than that, I progressed pretty much like most teenage girls.  The self-image issues crept in.  My older sister didn’t help, ’cause she liked to call me fat and made me feel like a big dork.  Mike Peterschmidt, in the 4th grade, said “Fatty fatty two by four, can’t get through the kitchen door.”  That didn’t help.

I felt so unsure.  I was always so unsure.  So, of course, I masked my uncertainty about everything in confidence.  Oh, I had them all fooled.

I’m 41 and I still have self image issues.  But I’ve come to learn that for most of us, it’s the norm.  When I’m feeling stupid or unsure, I’m now pretty sure those around me are feeling stupid and unsure, too.  I’ve made a living out of going public with my stupidity and unsurity (yes, I just made up another word, so sue me).

I’m over it.  I’m over my self-image issues.  What I find at my age is that I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggonit, people like me (thank you, Stuart Smalley for giving me my mantra).

But I have these girls, these little girls.  And I don’t know how to spare them the pain of growing through self-image issues.  Of feeling too fat or not tall enough or that they lack enough talent or can’t kick a kickball far enough or can’t sing on key or whatever.  How can I make them know that they are always the most fabulous THEM that they can be?  And that no one else could be them quite as wonderfully as they can be them?

I don’t think I can help them.  I think they have to find their own footing.  I think they have to just muddle through until they are 40 and fabulous (like me). 

Oh, I do my best - I do all my little things I can think of to let them know how special and unique they are.  I point out their strengths.  I help them develop their capabilities.  I deemphasize the physical and tell them that while they are beautiful, it’s not the most important thing and that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes and colors and textures and the most beautiful of the beauty shines out from inside.

I wish they didn’t have to walk this rocky road, but is there a choice?

If only Miss Lois had called my name when looking in her magic mirror, then I wouldn’t be in this mess. 

Bitch.

ps: Why won’t my statcounter app remember me?  each time I log in, I check the box.  ‘Remember me,’ I ask.  But it refuses.  ‘Remember me,’ I beg.  But it ignores my plea.  ‘Remember me,’ I demand but it tells me to go to hell.  My statcounter software is giving me a complex.  I got so distraught I went and ate all my cookie files.  I feel better now.