Spring Has Sprung

In nature we all know that Spring comes in its own time with little regard for the Roman calendar. And each year there is a first day of Spring as we personally experience it. In Ohio that day usually has a few more Winter-like ones that follow it, but that first day is still the first. It's the day when things get a little less grey, the sun shines a little longer and brighter, and evidence of new life begins to peek up from the soil and out from dull pointy branches. Children and teenagers pull out their shorts and flip flops as if 62 degrees were 82, and middle-aged couples start cultivating their gardens. Neighbors come out of their front doors and linger on the porch as I can only imagine bears moseying out of their caves after a long hibernation.

Personally I have so many memories of this particular holiday. I remember this day the way I remember Christmases and birthdays. As a child I always skipped home from school on this day and maybe cut lilacs for my teacher. In college I remember every hipster with a guitar descended upon the quad and as an adult I remember ditching work early with my best girlfriend to sip gin and tonics at a pub with sidewalk cafe seating. Last year there was a brief warm spell in March, but the first day of Spring as I remember it was April 20th. Now, usually I don't remember the date when this glorious holiday occurs, but last year was special.

April 20th is the day that my divorce was final. The finality was slow in coming since my ex-husband and I had been apart for nearly a year and a half at that point, but still it’s a date you can't forget. The day began grey, cold and windy. I remember sitting in the hall outside the courtroom talking to a woman who was the closest thing to and angel I had ever known. She was waiting for court that day to change her name. After her divorce she had kept her ex-husband's name for the sake of her children, who were now grown, thus the impetus for her appearance. I don't remember much about what she said, but it brought great comfort to have her there. My own mother, and countless friends had offered to join me that day, but I didn't want to face the humiliation of divorce with an audience of those I loved. Strangers seemed the best audience. A part of me wished my ex were there, he was there at the beginning, he should be there at the end, but I suppose it happened as it needed to. What was funny to me was that part of the delay in completing my divorce was that I'd filled out the paperwork improperly to begin with and I'd had to start the process over in order to insure that my name was restored.

All of the cases on the docket ahead of me were family court in nature. Divorce asset disputes, custody issues, my new friend with the name change and me. It only takes a matter of moments to get divorced, and no matter how prepared you are, you don't know what to expect. People had told me how cold the experience had felt, but I guess the judge in my case was unusually warm. He asked if the husband were present, I sheepishly said, "No, he lives out of state." The judge said, "That's okay, he doesn't have to be here." He asked if I were pregnant, which I was not, and then verified that I did want to restore my maiden name, and it was done. The judge half smiled and looked me in the eye, somehow acknowledging my hurt and sent me on my way. As soon as I stepped outside the courthouse I called the ex and told him it was done. We briefly chatted as if this were normal. He told me about his date he'd planned that night and I shared that I was joining my ex-boyfriend and some friends for a wine tasting. It was weird at best, but as we were talking the clouds parted, the sun came out and warmed my face and it became a beautiful day.

Following my morning in court I went to a favorite suburb to sit at a sidewalk cafe and have some lunch. My friends were all working and I really felt like peace and quiet were in order. I ordered a salad and a split of champagne. I called my best friend and we talked for a minute or two. Mostly I just enjoyed the sunshine and fresh air. Breathing was easier, life was new, I felt as light as the bubbles in my champagne. There was even a handsome guy at the adjacent table who struck up a conversation and asked for my number. I was free to give it without even a tinge of guilt, so I did. I never intended to see him again, but on principal I gave the number because I could. And he did call, several times, but I never called him back. I didn't need or want to.

That night was the next to the last time I saw the ex-boyfriend, whom I had loved dearly, and at some point he had loved me, but the relationship at it's best was the epitome of bad timing. I had met him right at the time when my marriage fully disintegrated and as much as we were attracted to each other everything got off to the wrong start and we never figured out how to normalize the relationship. At the wine tasting that night he was distant and detached, what I used to see in his eyes was completely gone. I remember telling a friend of his that this was the last time she was likely to see me and I was right. Some things don't grow back in the Spring, some Winters are too harsh.

What is more interesting is that April 20th is the birthday of a little girl I hadn't even met yet, but I had already befriended her father. And this morning it was her voice that woke me from my slumber. And much to my surprise, I've grown to love her as much as I love her father. And this morning as I drove from her house to mine I passed the fields I've grown to know so well and I saw the first little green sprouts indicating Spring. I thought about my earliest trips past these fields, how I had watched this process before, and I realized that this time we'd weathered the winter. This guy is still here and everything between us is still growing and healthy and vibrant. What a joy it is to grow with someone. Yes, this truly is a holiday like no other.

Pretty Girls

I was a goofy looking kid. My mother is the only one who would argue to the contrary, and let’s face it, that’s her job. I was scrawny and pale. All of my facial features and body parts were on their own separate growth and development plans and as a result didn’t hold together aesthetically as a whole. There were points in my growing up years where my school picture showcases disproportionate facial features not unlike those on Mrs. Potato Head. One family vacation photo reveals knees that seem larger than the thighs above them, arms not unlike toothpicks and yet a perfectly round little belly. It’s almost as if my tummy stole all the body fat that should have been dispersed throughout the remainder of my body. Of course the crowning glory of this particular photo is the bad perm that topped off my “eye catching” appearance. The good news is that we all grow up, but sometimes not as quickly as we would prefer.

I knew I was goofy looking; some of the other kids didn’t look like mutants. In fact my own brother was ALWAYS cute. He never had an “awkward phase.” He always looked adorable. Around 6th grade I was introduced to fashion magazines. Those girls were pretty and the magazine told you how to look just like them. Of course the adults in my life were quick to point out that even those girls didn’t really look like that on their own, they had makeup artists and stylists and talented photographers who made them look that way. Perfect! The solution to my problem was to be a model. Then I would be pretty.

Enter Barbizon modeling school. I discovered this wonderful institution in my Teen magazine among ads for breast growing cream and fat camps in the back of the issue. My mother humored me and made the call, conveniently they have offices everywhere and one was just an hour away. She made the appointment and we headed for Columbus. Unlike typical modeling agencies who take a cut from the fees a model is paid, this place “trains” you to be a model (for a hefty fee) and then help you find work. It was fairly apparent that they would take just about any warm body, including a goofy kid like me. My parents could neither afford, nor did they trust such an organization so my modeling career never took off.

Sixth grade was pivotal for another reason—cheerleading. I was reasonably popular in sixth grade. I got along well with most of the girls in my grade and aside from some academic issues, things were going along swimmingly. At the end of the school year were try outs for 7th grade cheerleading. Every one of us was excited, especially me. I grew up attending high school football games and some of my first “role models” were high school cheerleaders. I had always wanted to cheer. My pals and I were a flurry of activity practicing cheers in all of our free time during the weeks leading up to try outs. Then, the unthinkable happened, I didn’t make the squad. It hurt, but it wasn’t until the following year that the full impact sunk in. I was no longer popular. I was lost. In time those girls became the pretty girls and in time I accepted my fate, I was not a pretty girl.

As I grew older and wiser I developed very sophisticated feminist opinions about all of that. I would much prefer to be recognized for my intelligence and talent. Pretty was for girls who had nothing else going for them. I wore little or no makeup, my clothes were tasteful and professional, well tailored, but never drew attention to me or my body. On a date I went to great pains to give the impression that I hadn’t put any special energy into my appearance beforehand. I wanted to be liked for who I was, not what I looked like. I had a very sophisticated system in place to NOT be pretty. In fact, I probably put as much time, thought and energy into not being pretty as most people invest in being pretty.

Life has a funny way of bringing it all full circle though. My career took off on a tangent that I never expected. After investing time, energy and education in establishing a meaningful career in the nonprofit world, the economy and my life took a huge hit. I found myself floundering and unemployed. I sold furniture for a while, then lingerie and now cosmetics. Cosmetics!? It’s almost comical to those who know me. I pursued the job because there was more money in makeup than bras. It was a pragmatic choice, and I was going to sell fragrance anyway, which clearly is different……..

The job requires that I wear makeup to work every day. At first that seemed like a time consuming extra step to add to my day, but eventually I got used to it. In fact I’ve learned a great deal about makeup, how to wear it, and what products are great and so on. Secretly I started liking makeup a bit. Then one day my fellow “beauty advisors” and I were standing around talking about an open position in our department and one lady commented about an elderly woman who works in another department and had applied for the job. It was comical to everyone that she would even apply; she didn’t fit the image at all. It was at that moment that I realized I had become one of them. I was a pretty girl.

This really sent my little psyche into a tailspin. What had I done? I had become what I reviled. And yet I wasn’t either. I’m smart and capable. What am I doing here? I became increasingly ashamed of what I had become. When people asked me what I did for a living I felt like I was apologizing for myself when I told them that I sold cosmetics. Then I had an unusual interaction with a customer that began to shift my thinking. This woman came in to pick up her usual mascara and I chatted with her and succeeded at getting her to add three more products to her purchase with very little effort on my part. As I was collecting her credit card she commented on my height and asked if I had ever played basketball. I told her that I get asked that all the time, but no I was never coordinated enough. I’ve always preferred running, biking, and hiking over team sports. Her reply was amusing to say the least, “Well, you’re pretty; I guess you don’t have to be good at anything.” She collected her things and walked away. Now I’m sure she meant any sports, not ANYTHING, but even so, she expressed a sentiment I once held. And of course it is untrue; I’m good at all sorts of things, including sales. So good in fact that even though she dismissed me as just another pretty face, I had just sold her $60 worth of things she didn’t plan to buy, and she wasn’t even fully aware of what I had just done. And so I learned a very valuable lesson. There is in fact an amazing power, strength and intelligence in being pretty and maybe that is something worth embracing. Maybe it’s okay to be a pretty girl after all.