Musings of a Wench

I'm totally going to read this in the morning and erase it all

Man, I got an actual compliment from my mother second hand through a business acquaintance today. And a direct compliment from her last week.

I, to be totally honest, don't even know how to react it's so unusual.


Seriously, how fucking sad is that? The only time in my life that, if this business contact who had no real reason to butter me up isn't lying, my mother has called me pretty. (My brow is furling as I type, to be honest.) You see, I'm neither, generally speaking, the pretty one or the smart one - that's Courtney. I'm, um, the practical, bookish one, I guess. (My sister is at UBC doing a double major in food science and the science of nutrition, thus totally clinching the smart one title.) And so then, to get this random comment, "oh, it's so nice to meet you, your mother talks so much about you, you're the pretty one, the smart one, the one who's doing so well" or whatever just floored me. I mean, my sister worked for them last summer, so they know the difference between us - she wasn't getting us mistaken.

I don't know. I'm 26 years old. I am deeply surprised that my mother would ever make such comments, and that's pretty sad, I think. A million years ago, as an angry, angsty teen, I wrote a scrawling diary entry in response to a dove ad, that she's never called me pretty (or derivative) and that on the few rare chances someone else did, she immediately shot them down. Forcefully. In front of me.

Look, I'm not the prettiest girl in the room, and I'll never be considered beautiful. But I'm cute - I'm the girl next door, and I am learning what looks best for me. I'll never be a true stunner, but I can turn a few heads if I try, you know? If you're anyone but John, I'm the girl you take home to your parents, the one whose face is always alive and generally laughing. I know I'm not court beauty, but nor am I bag over my head territory. My mother is unlikely to be jealous of my looks, or trying to stop me from getting an inflated head.

See, my mother is a pretty good mother, but the flaws are pretty glaring. We'll ignore the Darryl issue, and I'll mention that my mother is one of the most critical people I've ever met. Towards me, especially. Not towards my sister, of course, but at me. At about EVERYTHING. Two days after John left, I'm still a wreck, and my mother? She's all, "why did you wear you hair in pigtails to the airport? It looked bad. and that outfit! I saw you a few days later and you looked far skinnier. You need to learn to dress better, you know." Some shit like that. I wore pigtails because they make me look cute, and John likes them. They make me feel cute, too. The shirt was new, and I will ashamedly admit I haven't worn it again, and that's sad, because i bought it because I thought it looked good.

Fuck, whatever. Let me just say that I got two compliments from my mother this week, one direct and one via someone else this week, and my world feels like it's spinning slightly askew.

Labels: body, family, holidailies, twisty

posted by Morgan @ 12:05 a.m.