This evening I had to attend a school function at the home of a family who lives just around the corner and has a girl a year older than Lily. So on the mother's suggestion, I brought Lily along. Lily worships this girl, as well as other girls just a little older than herself. I recognize this trait; I do it myself. At one point in the evening, I went to the bedroom where the girls had been playing for an hour or so quite self-sufficiently, and peeked in the door. The older girl was explaining something to Lily, who was looking up at her with shining eyes, shaking her head ever so slightly side-to-side, as if to say, "I can't quite believe my luck."
When I was a kid, a couple of years older than Lily, there were a number of slightly older girls I thought were magical. One, the older sister of a friend of mine, seemed especially awe-inspiring. One summer, and I suspect I am the only person in the world who remembers this, including the girl herself, she had a black two-piece bathing suit with a top that came with instructions. It was two pieces of fabric connected with a circle of elastic and straps that could be moved all over the place. It could be worn in so many different styles that the instructions were in a booklet, not just on a sheet of paper, and each time she wore it she tweaked the design: strapless, one day, haltertop the next.
I remember she seemed like a creature from a different universe altogether. My bathing suits were always one-piece, always worn through on the backside from sitting on concrete, always blue or blue with stripes, and utterly boring. In them, I looked like a little kid wearing a bathing suit. In hers, this girl looked like a movie star.
I still do this, project these otherworldly qualities onto other people, especially other woman, who always seem more comfortable and sophisticated in their bathing suits, more at home in the world and in their lives. I know it often doesn't have anything to do with who they really are, or what their lives are really like, but I can turn any element into this black convertible bikini top, squint and see Marilyn Monroe where a lovely but ordinary person exists.
I guess I've been thinking about how we view other people and how we are viewed by them, how we see ourselves in relation to them. That's all. For now.
3 comments:
It is interesting how we view people and it is intriguing when we unexpectedly find out who they really are. Once I went to an exhibition at work featuring coworkers displaying their hobbies. This offered an opportunity to view people in ways that weren’t demonstrated during our usual work day. The exhibits were filled with talent, one woman’s life sized oil paintings and another’s detailed quilts; there were colorful woven blankets and clay creations. Not being artistic in the slightest, I was suitably impressed with all of the displays but by far what sticks with me was the display I encountered at the end of the tour.
The artist, a woman who at time wore her hair bleached white-blonde complete with black roots, dark eyeliner and copious amounts of blue eye shadow, typically strolled the halls in black stilted pumps. She wore sweaters that were cut low and slightly too tight, as well as short black leather skirts, which she could get away with because she had killer legs. Although I didn’t know her well, she had the reputation of being tough, hard, and unforgiving, and when I saw her sitting behind a table, I couldn’t imagine what her craft would be. On approaching her, I was astonished by intricate and detailed shadow boxes filled with tiny people, furniture, and family scenes. Each miniature was an exact replica of something from real life; tables set with minuscule forks and knives, people in tiny clothes complete with pockets and zippers, floors with individual brick replicas, a minute fireplace. I walked away astounded by the persistence and dedication required create these stunning pieces.
Many years later, I still see the same woman in the hallways. She is about thirty pounds heavier, with natural hair color and these days wears all cotton jumpers, Birkenstock shoes and simple makeup. But regardless of her current style, the day of the hobby display I learned that she is neither the woman I viewed then, nor the woman I see now. She is however, the infinitely patient creator of those lovely dioramas.
Amy, I've never seen better writing than in "Change" (and many other posts)on observing your own children as in "Change." And today it's yourself. I'm still for alternating chapters about being a mother and going back into your own childhood history. It all goes right to the heart. Words do matter. Yours make me think about what our minds do to create our lives. Mostly, your words make regular life so fascinating.
Ahh... the girl crush. I think we have all had it. Noted though: the last paragraph seems uncharacteristic of your writing - almost apologetic. Or maybe I just read it wrong.
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