I know that lately, I’ve been really focused on loss. I dread when a day comes when I actually lose a person to death, about whom I really care. I think I’ve written before that I have been to a LOT of funerals. My mother loves them; me, not so much. Maybe it’s the Scotch-Irish in me, but Aubrey knows that there are only three things that I require when I die: I want Amazing Grace on bagpipes by men in kilts, no one is allowed to wear black, and I want one hell of a wake.
Of course, my mother often threatens that if I don’t go to other people’s funerals, no one will come to mine. Huh? Perhaps I should give that more consideration, as I enter the demographic of people who tend to die of heart attacks and cancer. In the era of facebook, I have a hundred or so people that at least pretend to care about what I think, feel, and do…or at least, about those things of which I post. In reality, I know that most people either have me hidden or skip my posts.
This philosophy drives my best friend crazy. She contends that I am outgoing and friendly, that I make friends easily, that I’m good at almost everything, that I quickly become an expert at what I put more than five seconds of thought into, that I’m a devoted and awesome parent, that my husband is madly in love with me. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could see ourselves through our best friend’s eyes?
I’m creative, not artistic. I’m conversational because I get bored easily, not because I’m outgoing or friendly. I’m passable at a lot of things, and really dreadful at most everything else. OK, I do agree that I can quickly become an expert in something if I spend the time, but I rarely care to spend the time. Once I essentially master something, that’s good enough for me. Depending on who you ask, I’m either a meddling or controlling parent who yelled way too much. My husband loves me, but that’s different than being in love (that debate is topic for an entirely different post sometime).
I’m not saying there aren’t some things I’m really good at…I think I’m a damned good writer, a good portrait photographer, and I love with my whole heart. I’m also really good at seeing things in shades of gray, which is in itself a blessing and a curse. I’m a decent crocheter, pretty good at making chain maille, and I once sewed an entire Little House On the Prairie costume, including the bonnet. I was most impressed that I made the freakin’ bonnet than anything else.
I can make people laught, at least the ones who understand sarcasm. I’m strong in my convictions, and for better or worse, I am an idealist. I love my husband, and more days than not, I am madly in love with him, too. I’m great with animals. I’m a really good listener (mainly because I am a nosy, curious person, and love to hear a story).
But no matter what relatively good things I see in myself, my best friend sees them magnified 100 times, and points them out to me regularly. She doesn’t just give a vague, “Gee, you’re swell!” kind of comment; she gives specific examples of things that I’ve accomplished, and tries to make me believe that I am amazing.
As I wallow and whine my way through all these recent changes in my life, I am forever grateful to her. She has literally saved me from my self, and now, she is working hard to save me from this misery. Even if I never see myself the way that she sees me, it’s pretty damned amazing that anyone sees me that way at all.
“If I had a spell of magic, I would make this enchantment come true; a burgandy heart-shaped medallion, with a window that you could look through. So that when all the mirrors are angry, with your faults, and all you must do, you can peek through that heart-shaped medallion, and see you from my point of view.”