The Bitchy Swan

A minister for the church I used to attend died, and I went to the funeral yesterday. There were some people there I haven't seen for 10 years, and most I hadn't seen for a couple. With a few exceptions, most of the women had become mothers and had gained an average of maybe 40 pounds each and they had gotten definitely middle aged. We were a young congregation. At the same time, they had warm, open, joyous faces with a sense of groundness and wisdom. People, for the most part, that I would go out of my way to spend time with. Lovely people.

People were so sweet to me. I was at least a decade younger than most of them, and one of the guys came up and said "you were the baby of the group, and you've grown up SO beautifully! Look at you!" And everyone said how good I looked, and I knew it was true, compared to how I looked then.

But it felt hollow. I had lost about 40 pounds since I saw these people regularly. And I was the only person, in a room of about 100, who wore make-up. (Oddly enough, I was one of the only people wearing black, but that wasn't for fashion--I always thought you wore black to a funeral, but a lot of people were wearing red and pink--it made me feel like my black was weirdly fashionable instead of appropriately somber.) Anyway, I would not go out of my way to get to know me. Maybe once I got to know me, I'd think I was OK under the mascara, eye-liner and little black dress, but my initial reaction of me wouldn't be someone I'd want to get to know. And I think 10 years ago, I probably would have been more likely to want to get to know me.

Maybe not--my youthful enthusiasm had a tendency to talk to much, but too excited, too intense, not always leave room for the other person. Very rarely it still does, but less and less because I don't let her out to play anymore. I know that that side annoyed even John, who in some ways knew me better than anyone, and so if John didn't like her, no one would.

But there is a loss even there--I'm less spontaneous, less open. More reserved.

I think I'm turning more into what men are interested in. Or supposedly interested in. My original title for this blog was going to be "The Ugly Duckling," and even my parents would say "yeah--you were, but you aren't any more." The problem is, I don't really love whom I'm becoming. I feel fake. And I'm scared that even if this new persona does the trick, and I meet someone I like, who is also interested in me, will I be able to accept that? Will I test him to prove what I'm really like? Want him to see the tough chick who can build her own bookshelves and change her own oil? I like being a girly girl about a third of the time. But what if I get trapped as a girly girl? "The little, helpless woman." The good news is, I'd never be cute enough to be a trophy wife, and I'm true enough to myself that I can't be with someone I don't like; I'd change both those if I could, but they will also protect me a great deal.

It was just so shocking to look across this room of lovely warm people and realize I wouldn't classify me with them. They had an openness, an authenticity. Most of them were wearing Birkenstocks. Comfortable in their own skin, laid back. And there was me, trying to be aware of my posture. How funny that I never fit in growing up because I was too much in the laid-back, Birkenstocks category, and now I don't fit in with the people I like more because I'm too accepting of the mainstream.