Plain Speak

You know how sometimes you have an insecurity, one that you are pretty sure is a dead-accurate self-appraisal, but about which you also hold out hope that maybe you're wrong?

And your whole life, you choose carefully to whom you confess it, and these lucky few are - completely coincidentally, of course, wink wink! - the kinds of people who will tell you you're insane, that your thighs are actually tiny! and your eyelashes are really thick! and your pores are invisible! and you should probably be a model! you crazy, blind, beautiful fool!

And you know how sometimes, all at once, someone instead confirms that which you've always believed inside to be true? Do you know how much that sucks?

Some examples:
When I was a kid, I didn't know that women idealized full lips. And my lips were kind of puffy, or as I called them, misshapen. And I always hated them, so I never wore lip liner because I didn't want them defined, not even during the fashion-makeup-must phase when liner was SO important that it was meant to be the star of the show - the dark, brownish outline of paler, white-ish lips - a phase that we girls remember all too well. I skipped it, thankfully. I did, however, go ALL THE WAY into the blue-eyeliner-on-the-inner-rim one, expertly applied by a friend in the girls' bathroom in eighth grade.

Then, one day in high school, my friends and I went to a makeup counter at a department store to get mini-makeovers, and the woman doing my face said I had nice lips. And I nearly had a heart attack. I probed her, trying to ascertain whether or not she was kidding, and she said they had a great shape or something, and I was OVER THE MOON. And immediately dove head-first into the shimmery-copper L'oreal Bronze Coin phase that defined ages 16 and 17.

Then there are the other times I mentioned, the times when you find out that you were right about what you thought stunk about you. For instance, I've always had the hunch that I'm a little mean, sometimes, in my cynicism and sarcasm. Growing up, it was the only way to survive in my house. But I've suspected that other people sometimes don't get me, that they doubt I'm joking when I am. A friend whom I respected very much once told me, gravely, that to every joke there was a bit of truth. And I thought, "No there isn't!" I panicked, assuming I was vastly misunderstood.

When Y and I lived in Brooklyn, we were close friends with the couple across the street. And the guy of the two liked to bother me, much in the same way my brother-in-law does now. Anyway, we were once having lunch at their place, and I was extremely pregnant with Elan, a mess of hormones. And the guy, who I'll call Joe, was, for some reason, pointing out negative sides of my personality, and doing it in this really passive-aggressive way where he'd insult me, but then say, "But you know that about yourself, right? Everyone knows you're a mean bitch. You know that! It's nothing new! Ha ha!"

And while I know that objectively it wasn't funny, maybe if I hadn't been pregnant I could have laughed it off, or come up with a fitting comeback.

Instead, I burst into tears, in front of everyone. I had to hit the bathroom, calm myself down, wash my face, and then come back to the table, mortified, like a little baby. Because I'd always thought I was a mean bitch. I just hoped no one else was noticing. Apparently, I was the one in dark.

Our friendship with that couple deteriorated as soon as we left NY. I forgave Joe immediately, but Y never treated him the same way after that. In fact, I'm not sure Y really spoke to either of them again.

Anyway, such is the principle. But generally speaking, normal adults are polite. If you ask if you're fat, chances are, they're gonna say no. And you're gonna go on eating the leftover snake cake - or, uh, something else that's fattening. It's the viscous circle of life.

Then you have kids, who are, by nature, impolite, and are also utterly unaware of social norms, so they just tell it like it is. Whether you wanted to hear it or not.

I've always known I have too many freckles. It's the thing about my skin I have always hated, and yet have never been able to do anything about, other than wear hats in the sun. I used to wish for acne instead, because at least if I had that, I could take that medicine where they scare you on the label by showing you the most hideous, nauseating, inhuman cases of acne that there ever were - and it'd be gone. Not so with the freckles. They're covering my face for life.

But, of course, I've tried to keep vanity in check by promising myself that nobody notices them as much as I do, and that they're probably not even that bad. This is what I tell Margo when she starts going all depressive on me. This is what Y assures me of, when PMS hits and I start complaining.

Then I had Elan. Elan, who, from a baby, loved me with a love more pure and unadulterated than any I'd ever known. He just loved me for who I was, and it never mattered what I looked like, whether or not I'd blown my hair dry, or wore contacts over glasses. It was all the same to him. Right? Isn't that how babies work?

But one day, when he was about two, he gazed up into my face, running his hand over my cheek, and earnestly asked, "Mommy? Are these buggies all over your face?"

It was completely innocent. He really just wondered. He wasn't judging - I mean, to each his own - but he had to know. Once and for all.

Was his mother's face just covered in tiny insects? It seemed the only logical explanation.

Y fell off the bed laughing. And laughing and laughing. I'm not sure he stopped at all that day, tears streaming down his cheeks, clutching his stomach in effort to snag a breath. Finally, when he calmed down, I forced a straight face and answered Elan just as seriously: "No, honey. Those aren't bugs. They're just freckles."

"Oh, fuckles?" Elan replied, obviously relieved. "I hought they were buggies. But they're just fuckles," he finished, nodding, talking it out to himself. As if both possibilities were equally plausible.

Okay, I thought. So my freckles are as obvious, and as upsetting, as I'd originally suspected. Okay. No biggie. So what if they scared my toddler into thinking they were ants? Or ticks? So what! Looks don't matter anyway! I'm a grown-up now. I found someone who'd marry me. Who cares?

I congratulated myself on having handled the situation so maturely (compared to Y, who, for the next few days, tried to get Elan to say "fuckles" as often as possible), and frequented sunglasses until I felt brave enough to re-expose the world to the science experiment between my jaw and hairline.

Unfortunately, it didn't end there. Elan decided that, now that he could finally sleep nights again, he'd better let everyone else know that things were okay, too. So no matter who it was, if I was having a conversation with them, Elan would interrupt suddenly and say, "See those hings on my Mommy's face? They're not buggies. They're just freeeckles!" (We'd corrected him, finally)

Like, I know what you're thinking right now. Hell, I used to think the same thing! But you thought those were nasty little bugs multiplying on her face? Like maggots or something? I was in the same boat. I thought she was just disgusting, too. Anyway, DON'T WORRY. No need to freak out. Because I finally confronted her about it? And they're just these ugly spots? Called Freeeckles? So they're gross, yeah, but at least they aren't alive!

I was so appreciative for the disclaimer.

Since then, the years have passed, and Elan has become my staunch advocate, my ultimate defender, when it comes to my freckles. So when Y feels like pissing him off, he'll go, "Look at those buggies on Mommy's face!" And Elan goes, "THEY. ARE. NOT. BUGGIES. They are FRECKLES!" and then proceeds to kick the crap out of him. Which Y loves. And is fun to watch.

Nevertheless, I do sort of wish that the laughter wasn't all at my expense. After all, I've spent hours of my life wishing the butt of those jokes away. So when Ariel came up, recently, with the same question as Elan with regard to my freckles, I was less than pleased.

When Y informed little Ariel that I was, indeed, covered in bugs, it made perfect sense to him. It was like, HELL YEAH my mommy wears bugs. She can KICK YOUR ASS too! While I appreciate his unconditional acceptance, his unwavering support of anything me-related, I'm less thrilled when he fixes me one of his smoldering stares, ready to go in for the bear-hug, and then suddenly his face goes quizzical. And much like his brother before him, he runs a finger over my cheekbone, sighing, with sweet resignation, "Mommy da buggy face."

I love my children. Even if I didn't, we can't just cut them off for speaking the truth. And I know that, coming from Elan, a "buggy face" is probably the epitome of beauty. And coming from Ariel - who the hell knows what goes on in that crazy little head, anyway?

But insecurities can run deep. So the shades are back on.