La La How The Life Goes On

Lipstick on a Pig

Posted on: June 8, 2010

It’s no secret that I have been hating life on prednisone. I’m 15 pounds up, 42 formerly-fitting outfits down, 1 (potentially 2) spinal fractures tallied, and 16 kinds of crazy as a result.

As we were getting our clothes ready Friday night to leave early the next AM for the Dada’s 15th college reunion, I happened to look at my feet. Now, bear in mind that it has been somewhat impossible for me to actually touch my feet in any real way since the back situation began. It takes me 10 minutes to put on my shoes, so ridiculous are my gyrations and low-rent yoga poses in an attempt to not further torque my back. Therefore any notion of “being in touch with” my dogs is in the realm of fantasy. That said, I finally actually looked at them as I was making sure the flip flops I’d chosen would go with my pants, and those feet instantly became a metaphor for all that ails me. Why? Because, my friends, my feet looked like shit when they really didn’t need to.

Here’s my point: True, I can’t get a pedicure for immunity reasons (nail salon germ issues) and I can’t necessarily (either physically or lifestyle-ly) sit around pampering my feet all day. But–HELLO–I can certainly be sure they’re not so gross that even *I* am taken aback. I mean, a little self-respect, right? So as I was rectifying the sad state of my chiropody so as not to frighten the children at the reunion, I realized that I’d kind of been letting myself go all over. I’d been so bummed at my expanding girth that I just was sort of thinking, “Well what’s the point then?” I mean, I was still bathing and whatnot; I didn’t go totally nature-baked. But I realized that part of me had just been putting less effort into looking remotely decent on the subconscious theory that “Well, I already look so bad so why bother?” It felt like, as that Sarah Palin non-insult said, putting lipstick on a pig.

(Un)fortunately looking at my feet prompted me to look at my arms, which are a mess from the GVH to be sure, but which do not need to look as much of a mess as they do (Ever heard of moisturizer, Mama?). Then I looked at my legs–same story. Obviously owned by someone who does not give a rat’s what they look like. Again, no one will be seeing these legs due to all the SPF stuff I have to do in summer, but still! The leg situation should have been completely unacceptable long before Friday night.

So I decided as I was doing unmentionable things to my feet that as of tonight I was going to follow my mom’s Scottish advice from my childhood and “pull my socks up.” In other words, I realized that it’s important to take care of other people who may need attention more than you do, and it’s okay to not always look like your fabulous self-especially for medicinal reasons. These circumstances cannot be changed. But it’s not okay to have some small part of you telling you “What’s the point?” or “Don’t bother; it’s not worth it.” I’m always worth it, even if “it” is only 5 minutes of moisturizing.

They say you have to hit bottom before you can get better. I’m not sure about the veracity of that. What I do know is that it took some stank feet to help me see the light.

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2 Responses to "Lipstick on a Pig"

Where’s Hannah when you need her!

I thought you looked good and didn’t notice your feet. Which means either A. they were also fine or B. there are bigger things in life than stanky feet.
Like seeing and hearing two very sweet girls whisper and squeek down the halls that i spent so much time in.

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