Grandpa

I've been thinking a lot about self-esteem lately. I've always been fairly confident in my appearance, not because I'm exceptionally beautiful, but mostly because I never thought too much of how I looked. Many of my friends struggled with massive insecurities about their bodies, often leading to very self-destructive behavior, but somehow I escaped most of that.

Until I lost weight. I know that sounds really odd, but in high school I had put on a decent amount of weight, so when I graduated I was a tad overweight. I thought my body looked pretty nice that way, though. I had nice, full hips & bottom, and an ample enough chest, with a comparatively small waist. The summer after my freshman year of college, I grew ill and began to lose a lot of weight, fast. Instead of losing weight in a pleasant way, I mostly just became curve-less. My face looked thin and tired and colourless. Plus, I broke my nose for the second time, creating an awkward bump on the bridge. I didn't like it at all. By August, I knew the truth: I was ugly.

I put on a little weight after, only to lose it & more quickly. I'd look angrily in the mirror every morning, wondering what the strange, ghoul-like creature staring back at me was. But every morning, we got a little more used to each other. I'd always been pale, but now my skin seemed translucent, even a smidge blue. This was perhaps one of the single most convincing factors for me that I was no longer attractive. Yet, the more I got used to it, the more I liked it. I liked how, if I dyed my hair darker, there seemed to be something unusual and dramatic about my face. I liked experimenting with blush for the first time in my life. I even became okay with the new size and shape of my body. Still, there was one thing haunting me: my crooked, bumpy nose.

I sat next to Em, examining my reflection in a mirror. He didn't think I was ugly, I knew. In fact, if I had asked him then (or now) he would insist I'm the most beautiful girl in the world. Of course, as it always is with women, simply having someone tell you that you're beautiful doesn't much change your opinion - unless, of course, you're already convinced you're gorgeous. Then it may strengthen it. But on this particular examination of myself, I noticed something, "I have my grandpa's nose."

My grandpa has a long, narrow nose (like mine) that he's broken something like 4 times (like mine). Em thinks he looks like Clint Eastwood. I like my grandpa a lot. He has an odd sense of humor and has retained serious golf injuries (who does that?). He's been a huge supporter of me my whole life and I'm glad to call him my grandpa. And I have a nose that looks like his.

So maybe it is just how we think about things, after all. I think my nose looks pretty regal. Yeah, regal.

Happily

Two weeks ago, I got married. Thus begins the "happily ever after..." part of our lives. And the parts where Em has really bad breath in the mornings and I try to reconcile a 45hr workweek with newlywed bliss. Chicago's weather also seems to think I need more time with my husband, and happily offers 68 degree weather in August, providing me with the opportunity to leave the little froyo shop I work at an hour early at night. Its difficult to say what being married is like. It's like not being married, except now I wake up next to a beautful man who probably attempted multiple times the night before to steal all the blankets from me. I bathe much more than I used to, and have officially made my first casserole, pyrex pan and all. I'm not certain exactly what I thought it would "be" like to be married. In jr. high, my best friend went through a really rough time. She was struggling with depression, the usual teenage angst and hormones, and some family problems. We moved a bed from my grandma's storage locker into my room because there were so many nights she stayed with us. One summer, she stayed with us nearly the entire few months. We stayed up til 4:00am, making things out of clay, watching movies, and talking. We ate too much sugar, went grocery shopping together, and listened to music. All my best memories of my teenage years were during that time. Being married is mostly like that. We stay up too late giggling and talking about the future. We argue in the grocery store about what kind of juice is the best and rent a lot of movies. We try to figure out what superheroes we would be and we do the dishes together. It's wonderful and complicated and sometimes heartbreaking. Most wonderful of all, it's the beginning. If all goes well (and we don't die young), I have years ahead to learn how to be the best friend, best lover, and best partner for Em, and he has years to do the same for me. Happily ever after is a rigorous training school.