Ever have one of “those” days? You know the ones – those 24-hour-capsules…
… when the shit you have to deal with just seems to keep piling up faster than you can handle it.
…when you get pissy with even your best pals
… when you don’t even try to take one step forward because you know you’re just going to have to take two steps back so why bother
… when even a glance in the mirror makes you sad
Yeah. One of THOSE days.
I’ve recently had a whole run of “those” days. My self-esteem was shot. Nothing I did was right or even remotely easy. I was in a very “I’m disgusting and ugly and repulsive and the only reason people are nice to me is because they feel sorry for me because I’m the pathetic mother of a special needs child” place.
Yeah. It was bad. That stuff is on the tapes that run in my head when the blues get the better of me. It happens.
And yesterday – ah, yesterday – was the day when I was finally going to fight my way through it. Or so I thought.
A non-working air conditioner and an up-creeping temperature in the house gave me big pause.
I hate being hot. Like really hate being hot. It’s not my best look. At all.
And then there was the woman who yelled at me in the parking lot at Will’s school for parking where I did because another car had double-parked alongside me, making it impossible for her to get her big SUV into the handicapped parking lot.
I cried. Before 9 am. Not good.
So, after a while, when things started to even out (but not after I went to the pissy side, which didn’t last long mercifully, thanks to the patience and coercion of good friends) I began to believe that there was hope for me, my day and life in general.
Until I was mistaken for Will’s grandmother. By some dude who spoke before thinking.
Talk about an ego-killer.
This sort of thing happened to me once before, when I was asked if I was the mother of a good friend of mine, age 33. I was but 10 years older at the time. That one I laughed about. The grandmother thing – not so much.
The timing of that ill-advised comment was probably the toughest thing. Dude. Really? Way to kick a chick when she’s down – even unintentionally.
I spent a looooong time looking in the mirror last night, trying to reconcile that comment with the actual visual. Didn’t work. But I did come to one conclusion.
Gotta be the hair. My gray hair.
Again – dude? Really? Is the color of one’s hair the prime indicator of age? (That’s not rhetorical, y’all – I really want to know…)
I had a moment (OK, several looooong moments) where I was ready to throw Will into the back seat of the car and head to the drugstore with Preference by L’Oreal on my mind.
Didn’t do it.
I yam who I yam, y’all. Blue moods and green envys and gray hairs and pale skin and all. And while I think a new hairstyle will help boost my spirits (got an appointment next week!), the color’s going to stay.
It defines me. It’s different. And I like it. My hair is my crowning glory. It’s not the norm.
And neither am I, for better or for worse. I'm seasoned -- not old. (And I'm a MILF -- nowhere near being a GILF. So there.)
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.