STFU

I can go from regal to ungainly just like that.

If you haven’t met me, the only thing you need to know for the preceding sentence to make sense is that I am fairly tall, if you think 5’8” is fairly tall. So when I’m in a good strong mood, I feel regal. It only takes the slightest whiff of just about anything to knock that feeling down into gangly.

This morning I happened to see a total stranger in silhouette. No big deal, that happens whenever any of us goes outside on a bright day. August in Los Angeles counts as a bright day, etc etc ergo sum.

The thing about this stranger is that his silhouette was exactly that of an uncle I used to have. Okay, this uncle is still alive, or he was last I heard, knock on wood…

…but we’re not exactly on speaking terms, so there’s that. Also, my uncle is neither tall nor Asian and the total stranger turned out to be both.

Stop going off on tangents! We were talking about the silhouette.

The silhouette was exactly the same as my uncle’s circa the late 80s when he was still capable of making me feel inadequate. Thus, and for no other immediate reason, I suddenly felt much less adequate.

(Also ungainly, but that’s not relevant despite its appearance in my lead.)

And so bringeth the lesson, my dear ones. Forsooth here it is:

Sometimes you just have to tell the voices in your head to shut the fuck up.

Oh sure, there’s the voice that says not to get fries with that, and the one that prompts you to turn off the computer and go to bed so you won’t be a total zombie tomorrow. I don’t mean those voices. Listen to those voices. One of them might be mine.

I mean the mean little petty voices. The ones that do nothing other than make you feel bad or stupid or just plain wrong. Tell them to shut up.

Auntie thinks you’re a good person, you’re definitely not stupid, and as for wrong … well, wrong is relative and often immaterial.

Speaking of relatives, if you see my uncle, feel free to tell him I said hi.

Put On Old

This happened:

Tonight @RealBobWilson and I took my 87 year old mother Melva to a fabulous new Indian place we found. Turns out it wasn’t new, she used to eat there years ago, but it’s still fabulous.

Anyhow, while Robert stepped away from the table for a moment, the charming, doe-eyed handsome young busser from Mumbai packaged up our leftovers for Melva to take home. We were making the usual chitchat, and I happened to mention that Melva is my mother.

“Really?” exclaimed the charming doe-eyed etc, “I would have guessed you were sisters.”

I didn’t roll my eyes. It’s a good thing, because he added, “That’s because she looks old but you look old too.”

Pow! Zap! Right in the kisser.

Oh, I laughed it off in the moment, and then had tremendous fun at Melva’s expense because she was fuming for half an hour at the insult to her widdle princess. (She’s my mother, if she wants me to be a little anything, well, she can dream.)

But pity poor Robert for the catechism he had to suffer in the car once we dropped Melva off. The conclusion of which is that since he loves me, he also loves how I look and that I don’t look 87.

Then again, neither does Melva.

The picture you see above is a few months old, but it’s only a few months old. If I put makeup on and stand in good light, that’s really me. The busser isn’t 20 yet. Of course he can’t tell the difference between 50 and 80, or in this case 53 and 87. I shouldn’t take it personally.

And that, my darlings, is today’s lesson. You can tell yourself things like “Consider the source” and “What goes around, comes around” and whatever the hell else you like, but in the end, we’re still superficial, we’re still vain, and we still care about the stupid stuff.

They have truly stupendous chili naan, though, so I can’t wait to go back.