In earrings….

For some women that “finishing” touch that makes them feel complete when they’re ready to face the World-is their trademark shade of lipstick.  For others it’s a scarf, a ring or maybe a necklace.; but for me… it’s earrings.

They complete me.

Without my earrings, because of my short hair, challenged looks and mannish hands (thanks to what I refer to as a double dip of male hormones from my fathers DNA contribution) -I resemble Bill Murray way more than I care to admit. For me, I need that dash of flair to offset my comedic doppleganger. So I put a lot of attention towards my ears.

When it comest to earrings, or “Ear-rangs” as we say in Kentucky, I usually make my own. Found objects from closeouts at the craft store, homemade beads, charms or doodads fashioned onto hooks that will never be found in an aisle at Wal-Mart or even behind the fanciest glass cases in the most expensive jewelry stores. While none of them are expensive or costly, to me, they are priceless and I remember when and how I felt when I made each pair or placed them on the hooks they now hang from.

So, for me, when I recently got sick and took my earrings off for a week or so…I was definitely not feeling like myself.

It seems almost pitiful that I am so simple that a missing pair of seahorses or antique keys dangling from my ears could alert the world to my mood or my state of mind. But it’s true.

It’s true and I didn’t even recognize it myself until today.

These past few weeks, I have had such a hard time finding myself at peace.

Just finishing a week of the flu, then having a close family member hospitalized was difficult. I felt as if I had hit the ground running after a really difficult illness and then moving  down to the basement guestroom temporarily for a houseguest brought  up emotions I thought I had rid myself of years ago when I spent two weeks in quarantine there after radiation treatments kept me isolated from my family.

I had some serious self inventory to do.

After getting dressed today, I found myself looking for my earrings. I couldn’t even remember when the last time I had worn any and even which ones they were. Sometimes I tuck pairs of seahorses or silver hoops in the corners of the junk drawer or my side table drawer, where I will pick them up the next day. But I couldn’t remember where I had put my last pair, which made me realize the extended time line of my lack of  auditory fashion.

Today I made breakfast for the first time in a long time. I had my two iron skillets out, one with sausage and one with eggs I was ready to whisk into a scramble. It felt good to be back in my apron and in front of the stove. Life seems at times as if it exists in the kitchen more than anywhere in the house.

My husband walked in rubbing his eyes and checking out what was cooking and with a flip of my spatula I smiled at him and said, “I’m Baaackk” …. He knew exactly what I meant. He knew I had been struggling some and he smiled back at me and gave me a sweet pat on the back as he passed to get a coffee mug.

It felt good to realize that I knew myself so well that I knew when I had returned, when I had worked through whatever I needed to, just to arrive back at simply me.

Whatever it is that makes us retreat to our dark corners for a bit; Whatever it is that God places on us to work out and figure out, I’m thankful for it.

If for no other reason than because this sidestep into the shadows passes. It comes in and it shakes us up for a moment and just when we think we may break, we find out we bend and in no time… we’re in our earrings again.

 

 

A fumbling, tumbling, food addicts confession….

I eat my feelings. I know I do. Sometimes after a hard day I will catch myself physically “stuffing” my face with food. More than once, I’ve answered the phone and tried to say “Hello” and not even realized I had my mouth to maximum capacity +4. I exercise, I go to the gym and I try so very hard to shave these hips and he-man thighs down to a respectable size, but they just love me. They won’t leave.

I never imagined I would be this large woman that I am. But even though I was average size in high school, because I was tall I just always thought of myself as the “big girl”. I think I just became my own self fulfilled prophecy. I even do low carb most of the time, I don’t consume sugars or high calorie foods, but I will even take eating lettuce to a new level…and eat nearly an entire head in one or two days, all by myself.

I grew up thin. Long and thin. “Gangly” is what my mother called me. She said I grew too fast, that’s why my legs ached so much in the middle of the night. I stumbled, fell down steps, ran into walls and spent half of my fifth grade Summer sleeping in a Lazy-boy because I fell down the second floor steps and broke my ribs. My tween years were like living in a remote controlled body, one that was operated from the next room by a blind man with missing thumbs.

Awkward– didn’t even begin to describe my constant collisions with stationary objects. I spilled my milk almost every meal, to the point that my sisters avoided sitting where the crack in the center of the table was, because it would consistently head in that direction and leak cold white moo-juice onto their knees.

Still my mother gave me a glass of milk every night.  Each dinner she would say, “Now watch this glass, be careful” and most of the time I managed it, but inevitably I would reach and tumble the amber glass onto the table and scatter sisters. But over time, I mastered the glass and they returned to the great divide with dry knees. I think back on this and imagine that my mother either had the patience of a Saint or a prescription for some.

I’m not sure why I find so much comfort with food. Perhaps it’s the memories of the times shared at the table with my family. Maybe its reminiscent of the aromas my mother flavored our nostrils with thanks to her fine country cooking. But I have had an affair with food for what seems most of my adult life.

My husband loves me like I am. My kids always referred to my lap as “comfy…like a pillow” and they seem to think there is no greater place on earth than feeling a wrap in my flabby arms when they’ve had a bad day, but I really need to get myself in order and figure out exactly what makes me feel so good about feeling so full.

But everyone has a cross to bear I suppose. I just wish mine was edible, then my problem would be solved.