Art is subjective. While some may look at Picasso’s Guernica and see the bombing of the city of the same name, feel the fear and destruction, others may tilt their head and question why both eyes are on one side of the head. Monet’s Water Lilies? It’s just a bunch of dots!!! We can instinctively get that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean. Well, you get the point. We are willing to shrug and say, “it’s not to my taste, but I get why you like it”. Why is it so hard, then to cut ourselves the same slack? My husband thinks I’m beautiful. Fat, thin, in his eyes I’m perfect. I, on the other hand, never think I look beautiful. When, I was younger, smoother, thinner, I wanted to be younger, smoother, thinner. I look at old pictures and wonder why I thought I was fat and ugly I and wish I looked like the person in the photo. As I ponder the foolishness of the younger me, I realize how much I have learned. Absolutely nothing. My body has changed with age. Everything seems to have shifted and I am a beach ball with legs. I don’t look like my younger self. I don’t look my profile picture on Facebook. I feel fat, and old and I hate my hair. And yet, someday, when I am 100, and scooting around town in my Hoveround motorized wheelchair, I will bitch and moan about how good I looked in my 50’s and ask myself why I didn’t take better care of the artwork that is me.
The Art of Design
Alarm goes off. Entire body hurts. Contemplate suing Lindsey Wagner who promised the Sleep Number bed would cradle my entire body in comfort. Gather greens and fruits for my morning green juice. Throw away green juice because it’s not green, or coral or golden or any of the other tantalizing colors it is on the Nutribullet commercial. It’s brown. Muddy brown. Opt for coffee. May have to sue the Nutribullet people. While brushing teeth, notice grey roots in hair and pillow marks on face. Slather on serum, face cream with sunscreen, 2 different eye creams and a tinted moisturizer, also with sunscreen. Wonder why I don’t look like the women in the commercials. Contemplate suing them as well. Apply half a can of mousse to my hair, pulling and tugging to no avail. Question whether the pillow creases are actually from the pillow at all. Add mousse and pillow manufacturers to lawsuit list. Ponder several healthy options to bring for breakfast and lunch, knowing full well I will end up with a scone and pizza. And a second cup of coffee. And maybe a donut. Or two. Get dressed, trying to figure out how to look funky, age appropriate, young and thin, knowing that no matter how good I think I look in my mirror at home, at some point I’m going to catch a glimpse of myself in a plate glass window and gasp in horror. By now, I’m late. Frantically change from one pair of orthopedic shoes to another in an attempt to look hipster, not geriatric. Race to catch the two subways and one train I take every morning. Catch a glimpse of my self in the subway door window. Yikes! Work, drink coffee, answer phones, drink more coffee, think about donuts. Reverse commute. Face away from subway door. Home in time to prepare dinner for my husband. Order in. Watch TV. Eat an entire box of Skinny Cow ice cream bars. Wonder why I’m not getting skinny. Think about suing Skinny Cow for false advertising. Brush teeth, floss, making sure to get under and around all of the teeth which are no longer mine. Slather on more serum, night cream, and 2 eye creams, go to bed hoping to look like Andie Macdowell when I wake up, but pretty sure it’ll be Andy Rooney. Toss and turn, attempting to find a comfortable position where my neck, shoulder, knees, don’t hurt. Curse Lindsey Wagner. Lie awake for hours. Curse menopause. Fall asleep just in time for the alarm to go off. Curse. Repeat.
Here Comes the Sun