Yesterday marked a celebration of sorts. I began the morning with a paper nearly complete - really only final edits and a conclusion to go. By 1 in the afternoon-
ish, I was on my way to drop it off along with the blasted reference books which did little else than give my arms a workout. So much for my strategy of finding basic information in one place. I dropped it off, not into my professors hands (which would have been much more reassuring) but into a folder in a filing cabinet in an obscure mail room in the same building as my class. I didn't even pull out the folder myself, because a classmate was in the room when I got there and had just put her paper inside. Now, normally I'd check everything over, being "anal type-A" from time to time. I'd normally check the folder, check my name, check the presence of the paper in the envelope, check the folder again, check the drawer, check the names of others' papers in the folder, and basically spend a whole lot longer than necessary. I much prefer giving it to a prof, because if the prof loses the damn thing, I'm not accountable. I think, though, by the time I dropped the damn thing off this time I was feeling like an inpatient 5 year old in the department store with mom "Are we DONE yet?" "Can we GO NOW?" So, in the folder (I think) it went, into the correct (I think) drawer, and now I'm done.
To celebrate, I first managed something non-school on my to-do list: renew the drivers
licence. Now, I had assumed based on relatively recent experiences in the passport line, that I'd be there a while. However, the only person in front of me was the young, skinny, over-
fragranced eastern European woman who just entered the door before I did. I almost had to stop, actually. Her perfume was tangibly heavy, like a wall of molasses syrup. She was holding up the line, trying to tell the woman at the front responsible for assigning line numbers about the reason
why she couldn't wait, and assaulting me with fragrance so heavy, I could taste in on the back of my tongue. I felt an insane impulse to wipe my tongue off on the nearest tissue. Bleach. She was dressed, well, much more attractively than I was, and for a moment, felt completely dumpy. I mean, here I was in flip flops, comfy jeans, loose tweedy favourite sweater (specifically selected such that it
camouflages all cat hair), no makeup and wet hair in a braid. There she was in calf-high silvery strap up heel sandals, size zero black knee-length a-line skirt with 3/4 inch tulle trim (no cat-hair to be seen by the way - ANYWHERE), tight fitting dressy black t-shirt and perfectly coiffed ringlets dyed a modern shade of red. For a moment (or two) I felt fat, dowdy, unattractive, and well, lets face it, worthless.
Yup, the self-esteem demon raised its ugly head. Yeah, go figure. I mean, I'm almost 30, a role model for teenage girls (in theory anyhow), well-educated, financially stable, not completely unattractive, in a very happy marriage and yet I still play the "compare game." And the problem is, I set myself up for a game that I almost always lose. I don't get it. Why do I do that to myself. But then I thunk and
re-thunk my position. First of all, my body is what it is - almost identical to my paternal grandmother's body type.
Furthermore, I like food. No, scratch that. I LOVE food when its prepared well, and my husband is no mean chef. Even more, I don't like exercise. I know, runners high, love the burn, blah blah blah. I just find the gym to BORING! And yeah, I know you can read while you bike or whatever, but not the way I like to read. To dive in, to immerse, to enter a new place. I'm half focused on not falling off the damn bike and half focused on not smacking the silly women beside me who'd having an utterly
inane, high decibel, cellphone conversation with her girlfriend about how Judge Judy needs a makeover. So my body is a result of the choices
I've made and make, and quite frankly, I enjoyed making those choices. Secondly, why the hell am I basing my value on how I look?!? How I look isn't who I am - a part of it, sure, because how we construct our image is a form of communication to other. The part of us we'd like them to see. (And don't start yapping about how you don't care what others think about your appearance because if you care enough to argue with me, you care enough to think about it and answer me. And if you don't care, then why did you take a shower today anyhow if you weren't particularly dirty,
hmmm?) Anyhow, I'm not just who I look like, and besides, I AM some of those qualities I communicate to others
through my appearance. Practical, comfortable, approachable, friendly, safe...you know...the person the tourist always approaches to take the picture. I may not be shaped like a supermodel, or even a Sears catalogue model for that matter. But I am who I am. And I LIKE who I am. Well, for the most part.

So there it was. Screw that. I have summer vacation to plunge into and I'm not about to start it feeling like crap. Besides, my mom thinks I'm pretty and my husband thinks I'm beautiful, and that's enough for me. To celebrate my school freedom, we saw Ratatouille and ate popcorn (with butter) and soda (non-diet) for dinner. Dragged in a few parts, but about on par with Cars for overall enjoyment. Besides I'm SO excited about visiting London and Paris in a month and the animated scenes of Paris in this movie were inspiring.
OK, knitting calls. Almost done the sleeves. Then I can clean the bathrooms (and trust me, they need doing after 3 weeks of total school immersion) and start Harry Potter. I'm a little reluctant to start because I know I won't stop once I do, and then it will be done. Finished.