This morning Z posted a picture of me and C on facebook while we were all hanging out on the porch. I had just made a little instagram video of C humming the Star Wars theme while wearing a truly awesome astronaut helmet on his head and was uploading it. C was standing beside me and being twelve kinds of adorable. Here, I’ll just go ahead and show you:
So I don’t tend to be a terribly photogenic gal. And Z has a knack for taking unflattering pictures of me. But this one is particularly awful.
I was embarrassed and told Z so. He dismissed me by pointing out I hate all photos of myself. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t stop imagining all of Z’s facebook friends (and my friends and friends of the three other people he tagged) seeing the picture. They would pity Z for being married to such a blobby and ugly woman. They’d think I was pregnant because of my doughy stomach. They’d remember other pictures posted of me where I didn’t look like this and realize that the ugly woman was the real me. They would feel sorry for me and wonder if I knew how unfortunate I was as a human. And all I could think was, “I KNOW! I KNOW ALL THE TERRIBLE THINGS ABOUT HOW I LOOK!” I didn’t want everyone to be laughing at me AND thinking I was stupid for not knowing how gross I was, I wanted to prove I did know. So I crept the the kitchen and posted this comment– “FYI–not pregnant. Just a food baby. And um, a food baby in my thigh. C sure is cute, though.”
Come on, the food baby in my thigh part was funny.
My response was major league backsliding. I thought I was over this level of loathing and self-obsession. It becomes a cycle. I hate myself. I realize I’m being unreasonable. I hate myself even more for being unreasonable. The anxiety wins.
But ten years ago I wouldn’t have recognize that I was being bat shit crazy. There would be no cycle. There would just be a cesspool of self-hatred. Realizing I’m being unreasonable is actually huge even if it means I’m disapointed in myself. Realizing that Z’s facebook friends, or mine, or the friends of the other folks tagged don’t give a flying fuck what I look like. Realizing they didn’t spend any time at all considering me this morning. Realizing when they looked at the picture THEY WERE LOOKING AT THE CUTE KID not the kid’s mom. Those are all really big steps. Ok, the anxiety won this morning. Well, maybe I should cut myself some fucking slack for immediately realizing what was going on. For being able to move past the stupid picture and have a pretty great day with my family.
So, how about looking at the adorable video of C humming the Star Wars theme? That’s what this morning was about. Not me and how I look.
More cute C. Taking off his shirt before feeding him ice cream was one of my better parenting decisions.