Why Am I Ashamed of That?

I watch Pamela Anderson on a warmly wholesome gardening show and...

Haven’t had any new Word Nerds in awhile and I know my being in the hospital a lot the last couple of months means… well, I hope I’m still a good investment?

I’m keeping my every weekday promise and it gives me so much to keep striving for.

I care a LOT about living up to the kindness, commitment and investment of anyone. Every one person is helping keep a dream and hope alive. A legacy, on this ever moving planet. So…

Thank You.

And please feel free to share or consider reaching out if you need anything at all!

Yours,

B

I wrote this and then was too ashamed to post it.

The thing I wrote about was the moment when I realized I have a special drawer of “fancy clothes” I revere and wear  - gifted and dotted with my patron, Frida- but now I don’t own ANY “normal clothes” for casual days…

Just dance clothes.

Why am I ashamed of that? Is it because it’s fiscal, or because there is physical shame that I had to pause so much of my life, and am now mid “medical bootcamp”, working my way to something new? (Many surgeries to go but hopefully all scheduled around daydreams, now)

My drawer of clothes must wait… but who am I while waiting?

I watch Pamela Anderson on a warmly wholesome gardening show (only watch Season 2 when she’s happiest) and see her uniform of “casual mom life” clothes in white.

For me, it’d be black, ferociously frugal, cozy. THAT greedy want (to order normal people clothes when I can’t spend) made shame®️.

It reminded me of something that’s easy for many to forget, but that is paved in dumpster’d price tags: Privilege.

Am I the poster child for writing about suffering? No. My milk carton would surely be usurped by the likes of Wutzel and kind …. But do I like to call myself out on my own privilege (and others’) often enough that I know it’s made me a few Sympathy Fatigue Unfollowers? Guaranteed.

I could probably track the times I’ve written about perspective or grief or ableism in a Sister Act like way (“use your nun-powers for good”, they told me) but the grown-up-Catholic guilt runs deep, and I have no shame in shaming… most often, and regrettably: Myself.

I have shame at wanting clothes that aren’t “just dance clothes”.

I have shame that all of my prized fabrics are from digital friends (the Frida collection was gifted by a caring reader Word Nerd, here. In fact, and I will wear for years to come)… or hand-me-downs from dance peers… or from passed between my daughters and I, time and time again.

(Editor’s Note: I don’t have any shame about hand-me-downs. If you’ve grown up the youngest of five children, you actually think the word “frugality” is foreplay, and that saving pennies is practically a practicality that should be taught in Elementary School.)

But I’m not shaming you or I about style, in of itself (although maybe self just a little bit, because you KNOW that women are made to feel silly and less staid for giving a sh*t about seams), but I’m mostly writing about how audacious it felt to “want” something frivolous… When my medical needs have not been (and likely will not be) met. And there has to be someone out there who feel this way. Who wants to feel human, but the first sign of humanity makes the nun in their mind shake her head in disdain because… How dare we have bodies that dare to be broken and then we want to adorn them in anything other than polyester and polypropylene ?

Not all families can pay for the gas to get to medical appointments for pre ops hours away. Not everyone can eat to fuel. Not everyone experiences healthcare the way healthcare seems to assume we all do.

It’s not a real storm, but- for one selfish moment - it felt like a gust of wind at the most disheartening time.

A person whose drawer of purpose has become a pause button.

I danced our spring season with a fractured hip, and entered our fall with an emotional edge as sharp as the bone that was literally sticking out where it used to not.

I gathered scattered scraps of love from these last scary hospital weeks to cloak myself instead.

I was too ashamed to push “publish”…

But now, like wind when it storms, I see the beauty all around… and let it blow away.

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