Another Blessed Pilgrimage

It seems everyone has something about themselves they wish they could change.  Some physical feature.  As many self-help gurus and pop artists will tell you, it’s important to embrace your physical traits because they help make you unique.  Yep, this is one of those self-image posts.  I thought you should be warned.

It’s so much easier said that done.  We all complain about something.  And I don’t mean weight, because we can rationalize that by eating better and exercising, we can lose unwanted pounds.  I’m talking about features that would have to be corrected by going under the knife.

So, I am going to take a brave step and come forward with mine, in hopes that you, Reader, will reconsider the next complaint.  Not only because it’s healthy for your self-esteem, but you might reconsider because mine can be very noticeable and yours isn’t so bad in comparison.

One of the trademarks of being a part of my family is the ears.  A few members have gotten away with normal ears, but there are a LOT of us, with not so much large ears, but ears that poke out from the head.  This is my father’s side.  Now, I’m an exception to my paternal family members because I also have large ears from my mother’s side.  I got a double dose.  So, my father blames my mother and my mother my father, until I reassure them that it is both their fault.  I used to be jealous of people with normal sized ears.  I never pierced my ears.  I really don’t need to bring attention to them.

As a child, I fell into the false belief that I would grow into my ears.  As you all know, our ears and noses don’t stop growing, and I feel my ears really took it as a race with my nose.   I wasn’t teased too much as a kid, mostly because I was such a tomboy that teasing me meant retaliation by violence.  I did get a few “Dumbo” comments, but they were dealt with swiftly, and the other kids knew to back off the ears.  Now, as a kid, I wasn’t really girly.  A lot of my peers worked on their hair and matched their outfits with plastic jewelry and friendship bracelets.  I just wanted to play.  While little girls were getting into their mom’s makeup, I was gifted toy makeup, and found it infinitely more fun to apply it to Dad’s face as he napped.  Poor Dad.  That toy makeup was waxy and very hard to remove.  Also, all my fashion energy went into dressing the dog for plays.  Needless to say, as a young child, I didn’t worry too much about covering my ears.   Mom tried to help by curling my hair for school pictures (that one time, before she learned), but by the time I sat down my hair was stringy and I was disheveled.

Growing up, middle school, high school, college, I became increasingly self-conscious about my ears.  Well, even today, If I make an effort to cover my ears under my hair with new people, and then pull my hair back, the look on people’s faces is one of shock.  I can see them looking left and right of my face!  I would do the same thing.  In fact, I have!  With myself.  Sometimes I take a double take at my shadow because my ears make me think the shadow is something else.   I had a thought, and somewhat still do, that putting my hair in a ponytail was the equivalent of slapping a “Don’t Date Me” sign across my forehead.  I’ve only been on one blind date my entire life, but I remember pulling at my hair incessantly.  He probably thought I had a nervous tic.

Because my job at times requires me to put my hair back because we are loading and unloading material (oh, and happen to live in 80F winters and 1115F summers), I can’t keep from pulling my  hair back because it gets stuck to my neck and gets in the way.  I think my colleagues and friends have figured out that taking a picture of me with my hair back can result in a broken camera and minor blood loss.

So instead of hiding behind my hair, I am taking this opportunity to think about my unique gift from my ancestors and the good stuff about it!

1. When I put my hair behind my ears it’s going to stay there.
2. Like the Fennec Fox, I feel I am better equipped to withstand heat, and am cooler in the summer as a result.
3. The area behind my ears is exceptionally clean, because my ears poke out from my head.  No hard to reach places.
4. I’m distinguishable among shadow crowds.

Now, all you normal-sized ear people might read this list and feel down about your normal ears.  That is understandable.  So, take this opportunity to think of a small list about not only the features that make you beautiful, but the ones that make you cool.  Both figuratively and literally in my case.

I grew up to fear admitting boredom.   Boredom was treated like an addiction.  Admitting it would mean work and a long list of tasks to eradicate the problem.

Even typing it, I still feel the fear and anxiety of announcing boredom.  You see, at a very, very young age, I learned to never say, “I’m bored.”  And to never, ever, EVER precede it with, “Dad.”

I must have been just old enough to put together sentences to express myself when it dawned on me the sixth or seventh time a conversation like this took place that I needed to keep my mouth shut on the subject.

“Dad.  Dad!!  Dad…I’m Boooooreeeeeddddd.”

“Bored, eh?  Well, we can fix that problem!  Grab a hoe and chop all those weeds.  I want to see you reach the end of that fence before it gets dark.”

Now, weeds at a racehorse training facility that bordered a river didn’t mean your average dandelion.  It meant beanstalks.  I would never finish weeds.  There was never opportunity to not have something to work on.  A task for Dad to give.  Almost always weed-related. 

I remember foolishly thinking that if I had a younger friend, someone Dad would not want to see pulling weeds, that I could safely admit boredom without consequence.  I thought of my cute little niece, my dad’s own granddaughter.

“Daaaaad…there’s nothing to do!  What can we play with?

Cut to scene of me and Sweet Baby Niece yanking on weeds sometimes three times our height.  We would come back with green lines across the insides of our palms.

Don’t get me wrong, I was and am a spoiled kid.  I contend I am not spoiled rotten, but spoiled.  I grew up on a ranch full of animals and places to ride my bike and run and I had quite an imagination with all the atmosphere to indulge it.  I just could not admit being bored.  I thought I could whisper it to Mom in the kitchen so she would play with me, but Dad was standing behind me. 

“No, no, no I’m not bored, Dad!  I was just kidding!  I have lots to do.  I’m going to go do it now!  All the lots of things I have to do.  So many.  None of them boring.  All exciting.  So excited.” 

Still, as an adult, I have a serious problem admitting boredom.  I did let one slip while on the phone with Dad.  I didn’t say “bored.”  I said “boring” but immediately realized my mistake.

“Bored, eh?  Well, I’ll get you a plane ticket back to the Land of Enchantment, because I have weeds here that you can start chopping.” 

I don’t believe boredom comes from a lack of things to do to keep busy, but a lack of excitement in the things we do.  Everyone has boring aspects of their jobs, and I have them to, but I do them, and overall my career is very exciting and fulfilling.  I get lots of perks.  Outside of work, there are so many things I need to do, like clean and pay bills, work out and organize my things.  Also, outside of tasks, there (I’m sure) are lots of fun new things to see! 

But I still get anxious.  It’s a wanderlust thing I have, and I think it’s in the genes.  Sometimes it takes three years, sometimes it takes one, and sometimes just a matter of months, but I get itchy to get out.  Jump on a plane on a whim to somewhere fun or make life altering decisions that may result in the former.  Every day I become stiffer, my pupils wider, and my right eye starts to twitch in the corner.  I’m….give me a minute…bor…phew…I’m….boorredd.  That was difficult. 

I need a vacation.  It’s been four years since I took a vacation.  Four years since I got on a flight that lasted longer than an hour!  I don’t have idle hands, I have wanderlust.  And not quenching it makes me feel bored. 

Don’t tell Dad.