Yesterday, my daughter was being pestered by her younger brother to play with him. Her older brother had just finished fussing at her for some trivial tidbit, most likely respirating. Her younger brother’s issue must have sent her over the edge. I hear her grumble, blowing her bangs out of her eyes with an air of exasperation, “Sometimes its really hard being a big sister.”
And you know, she may be onto something. In fact, there is a long list of things that are sometimes hard being. In fact, sometimes, just being is hard.
I was ruminating on just this notion as I was shaving my armpits. Now, I shall not go into some trivial diatribe over the social constraints of female shaving. I am willing to save that for a different day. But, I do want to explore a particular angst of mine. If you suffer from this same issue, please let me know I am not having a pity party of merely one.
In cold weather, my armpits chap and peel.
The first time I came to this realization, it was my first winter in lovely Minnesota. It happened to be a horrific winter (in my Minnesotan Winter Virginal Perspective) that included freezing temps dipping into the double digits below zero for months at a time, and inches of frozen ice covering everything until May. It was truly not for the feint of heart. But, you know, you can dress for horrid weather and still manage to have a good time. Buy better tires. Get “choppers” for mittens and pretty much eradicate all sense of fashion. However, the first time you jump into the shower to go about your hygiene routine and realize your armpits have reached a new low in attractiveness, you truly might think to yourself, “Sometimes its hard to be a Minnesotan.”
And, of course, the first time you try to fit your mama shaped physique into the pants found to be of this decade, you might ponder, “Sometimes its hard to be shaped like something other than a toothpick.”
In fact, to continue this theme, you might shake your head in wonder the next time you flip through a fashion magazine while waiting for some medical type appointment, and think to yourself, “Sometimes it is truly a challenge to appreciate the fashions of today. I mean, who really dresses like this – a bow the size of a VW Bug across my ass? I don’t think so.”
I realize that my personal list of challenges may be longer than pretty much anyone else in the human gene pool. It seems I may actually make life harder on myself with some of my peccadilloes. Imagine my surprise that not all people have such stringent standards for things such as keeping the car’s gas gauge at an acceptable level at all times? Apparently my DH doesn’t even notice it until the light comes on. And as a mother of three, pet owner of six (oh, alright, 4 of those are fish, but there is maintenance involved!), and spouse of one, I am quite challenged on most days.
I am hoping that Christmas morning I get up to a true Christmas miracle. I will have slept a full 8 hours. The power will be functioning (not a given due to the severe weather we’re having these days), my hair will somehow be looking a bit normal for the holiday photos that ensue – it is bad enough to be filmed in my pajamas, let alone with hair at all angles, sleep marks on my face, and that “I just woke up” look. And most importantly, I’ll somehow look wonderfully appreciative as I unwrap the gifts my children have chosen for me. Case in point, one year my oldest son gave me a stuffed toy skunk. He still pouts if it isn’t on my bed…and demands that I sleep with it. Sometimes its hard to effectively act appreciative – unless you like skunks.
Yes, sometimes it is very hard to be me. But then, I have been me for so long, you’d think I’d be figuring out some tricks one of these days.
And in the big picture, being me isn’t as bad as it could be. I mean, surely other people’s arm pits chap and peel as well?