I was going to blog about my trip and announce the winner of the surprise gift, but I suck at blogging on command… especially when something else is occupying my mind. So I will tell you all about the Witch and the Piano Man gone wild, and select a winner, on my next post. Right now, I want to share a bit about my friend, Y, and the worthless pile of dung she just divorced. The toxic-heap-of-manure in question felt the need to yell (in front of a group of my friend’s coworkers) that no one is ever going to want her because “her butt is disfigured with stretch marks.”
The insult was no biggie, but the invasion of privacy and the betrayal hurt Y’s feelings… and made her a little nervous. She was married to crap-for-brains for nearly fifteen years—separated for the last three(thank goodness!). Now, she is thirty-five and somewhat worried about dating again.
A few months ago, I would have tried to comfort my friend by saying, “I’ve had stretch marks since I was thirteen. They have never affected my love live. You’ll be fine, too.” But a young lady—Ms Misantropia *cough, cough, cough*— taught me a few things about myself and about how to relate to other people: just because I couldn’t care less about what a jerkwad might think about me, it doesn’t mean that the worthless worm’s opinion won’t affect my friend’s self-views.
I’m a good student, so I’m approaching this issue differently. In a way that has worked in past: the Confess and Share method. I’ve already done it, but here it is again: my name is Magaly Guerrero and my stretch marks have never come between my frolicking and me *cackles witchy style*. And I would mentally spit in the eye of a piece of rotten bastard who might try to make me feel bad about my luscious lady lumps having a scar or three.
I believe—and I could be wrong, but I doubt I am—that the skin of most people over thirty has been kissed by life’s lips a time or thirteen. Like trees, our bark of flesh shows the Turning of the Wheel (storms, giving birth, physical and mental exertion, betrayal, metaphorical and factual fires, growth…). We might not always love the kisses and caresses of Nature… Every now and again we might even glare at them… But without the marks, we probably wouldn’t be who we are.
So, my Wicked Luvs, would you care to share a bit of life-wisdom with Y? Let’s talk about marks… about dating after thirty… about (the courage!) and the freedom of leaving an abusive relationship… about reclaiming our selves… about life and living… and about the symbols such adventures brand on our skins and souls.
One day, daisies will
bloom out of my stretch marks.
Then I’ll claim a fabulously
“Big Flowery Butt…” like Gina’s.
*magnificently scandalous cackles*
Snatched from my Daydream Believer ;-)