M E E T

Through my tear filled eyes

All I could see was the gaping blouse. The fabric refused to meet across my oversized bosom, and I couldn’t slip the minuscule Mother of Pearl bottom through the loop.  My mother looked shocked, almost horror-filled that the Peter Pan collared button up blouse that every girl in Dothan was wearing wasn’t fitting me. I thought I heard her say, “What’s wrong with you,” as she parted the floral sheeting and left the dressing room.

I’m still asking myself that question.  Is there something wrong with me?

After that day at The Pappagallo Shop, I traded in my aspirations for slim-strapped Lily Pulitzer sun dresses and button up blouses for oversized plaid flannels and denim overalls. Thankfully they were an acceptable style statement of the late 70’s, but I’m not sure my mother approved.

In fact, I’m not sure she approved of much I did.

My laugh was loud, my gait too brisk, my hair unruly and short. I drove too fast and talked too much. So, I stayed out of Mama’s way while I happily made my way through high school.

As I look back

In photos of me in high school, I was more buxom than my slim and slender girlfriends, but I was far from being excessively endowed. I’m still trying to figure out why I was nicknamed Dolly. The name stuck, along with Reisha “Boogie” Behr (bear), and the loud laugh made for quite a comic relief.

It turns out that Mama’s reflection in any mirror was so large that there really wasn’t room for me. She was demure and exotic, slim and proportioned, aloof and hospitable. 

I was told I had other qualities. 

I was voted Miss Congeniality at the high school beauty pageant. And I still proudly embrace that title and accompanying sash and bouquet of roses I received that night.

But that’s where it all began

The questioning, the observing, the exploring.  I tried to make sense of what I couldn’t understand by writing about it or by brooding about it. I spent a lot of time brooding back then and telling myself stories that I realize now may have been only partly true.

I’ve spent a good part of my life seeking acceptance: from Mama, from two husbands, from my own two girls.  And more recently from myself.

Somewhere along the way I abandoned that brazen, buxom girl and took up company with an edited version of the woman I’ve become.

Should I still be asking myself, “What’s wrong with me?” Yes! But only to see that the answer is nothing.

Embracing who I was then is the only way to accept myself today.