I used to bake pies and sort of developed a reputation in my family as The Pie Maker. Then a couple male members of my family starting dating and eventually committing to Domestic Divas. After a family party I missed, I heard rave reviews about a pie made by one of those DDs. I immediately tucked my figurative, and literal, apron away indefinitely. I will not compete.
When I was in 7th grade my mom suggested I apply at Annie Wright, an all-girls Episcopal high-school in Tacoma. I was wait-listed, but thanks to a bad boy taking a joy ride in his parents car on Fox Island and getting expelled from the co-ed middle school, I made it in for the last part of the first trimester in 8th grade. Where I'd come from, the "mean streets" of *public school*, I was a cocky bookworm, at the top of my class. At Annie Wright I was at the bottom of the barrel with girls that wrote math programs in their graphing calculators for fun. Who the hell can I be in this school of Super Brains?! Easy: I will be the goofy, brash, inappropriate "dumb" girl. I didn't win too many friends, save for a few misfits in their own right, but I didn't have to fight the crowd. I will not compete.
For those who know me, I am not a girly girl. I started off that way though. I loved pink, I rocked jean skirts, was known for my love of costume jewelry, I played with makeup, tried to wear my mom's heels around the house, idolized Madonna and Jem! Then came Jellies. Those ultra-trendy PVC bling shoe of the 80's. It was at this time I realized I have feet shaped like a Hobbit: fat, square, and incredibly unfeminine. I was henceforth banned from ever wearing cute, trendy shoes that all the other "real" girls were wearing. Thank the sweet Mother for bringing us the 90's and grunge, because it brought Doc Martens (Hobbit-friendly shoes) and flannels.I could dress like a boy and it was ok!!
I carried that look past its prime, because I knew I could not pull off feminine attire, nor would I attempt to stuff my fat paws into cute sandals at the beach next to svelt, feminine feet in Espadrilles. So I marched forward, choosing instead to tromp through the woods in my Birkenstocks (another Hobbit-friendly shoe). I will not compete.
When I compete, jealousy takes over. I become ugly, mean, and ultimately, insecure. So, I cut my own trail and forge my own mold to be the master of my own universe. I want to be the best pie maker in the family, damnit, and if I can't then I'll just take my apron and go home. Totally mature reaction. Admitting I have a problem is the first step toward recovery, right? Right. I heard a thing Mike Birbiglia said on "This American Life" yesterday about being a comedian: “You have to be delusional. Especially early on. Because you have to tell yourself it’s going well when it’s really not going well. Otherwise, you’d never get onstage and you’d just think ‘human beings don’t like me.’” So, maybe the antidote to my insecurity is delusion. I'll just continue believing I am awesome, even while I make grammatical and spelling errors in this blog, even when my strawberry-rhubarb pie comes out both watery and burnt, even when I snort with laughter when I tell a fart joke and I'm surrounded by members of Mensa, and even if I am dressed like Bilbo Baggins while at Fashion Week (should that ever happen). The delusion is that human beings do like me, whether I fail or succeed. Just do it, better to have loved and lost than to never loved at all, you miss 100 percent of the shots you don't take. You know, those old chestnuts. I found this picture of myself today. Look at that girl, totally stylin' with a stained pink tank top, sweatshirt wrapped around her waist and a Kool-Aid smile. Totally unaware that I look like a scrub, the important thing here is that I love Jem. I may not look like Jem or her entourage, but I believe I'm just as awesome as they are.
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