I read an item on CNN recently that really caught my attention. It struck me because I knew in my heart it was true, even as I was denying the truth of it in my head.
The item was written by a woman who glanced at her friend's refrigerator and spied a picture of herself posted there. She was most unhappy, because she felt that picture made her look, in her words, "like a chipmunk with mumps." Her eyes were crinkled, her cheeks were puffed out because she was about to burst into laughter - she felt that picture did not put forth the best face she wants to show the world, and she was hurt. And yet, when she complained to her friend about the choice of photos she had posted to remind herself of the very important friendship they shared, her friend was hurt that she didn't value the beauty of her own face.
Well, welcome to my world. Every time I see a picture of myself, I hate it. I look old, I look overweight, my hair is all wrong, my smile is goofy. I hate my teeth, my nose, my face, my body. Simply put, like most women, it's never good enough for me to just be me.
Ironically, my lovely young daughter is the same way. I have a picture of her now, posted in various places around the house, that is simply breathtaking, a photo of a face that anyone would love to wake up to every morning. Naturally, she hates to look at it, because it just isn't good enough. The flawlessness that is her face is not perfect enough to memorialize, in her mind, because surely she could have, should have, looked even better.
Men are a different breed of animal. [I realize that is not ground breaking news, but it seems particularly true in this situation.] Men look at pictures of themselves, and they feel good about the event, the people in the picture, and even themselves. I have noticed over the years that when men look at photos of events, they concentrate on the good things in it, the event itself and the people in them, barely noticing, if at all, their own less than perfect smile, their messed up hair, their goofy expression. Men do not seem to notice balding heads, tubby bellies, pant legs hitched up or other flaws that would send women into psychotherapy to overcome the distress of it all. When women look at a photograph, it is usually with the critical eye to their personal flaw, and they are barely able to see anything else.
What is it about women that forces us to over-analyze ourselves, sometimes to death? No matter how beautiful, how thin, how perfect a woman may be, she wants something more.
Another point that was made in the article was that most women's favorite pictures were taken at a time that we are at our thinnest and most vulnerable. That was a fascinating insight for me, one that I could immediately relate to. The only photograph of myself that is posted on my fridge, which is posted not so I can look at myself, rest assured, but the other two people in it, is one where I was going through a difficult and painful divorce, and people kept worrying about my blowing away.
The only pictures of myself that I am even tolerant of are from when I was so thin, people frequently used the term "anorexic" to describe me, and I had total strangers making unflattering comments on my slender appearance. Even now, when I see pictures of myself from that time, all I can see is a thin woman who looks far better than the one I see in the mirror every morning looking back at me.
When does this process of self-distortion begin, I wonder? At what point do we stop seeing ourselves as valuable, and start to see only the flaws?
My daughter recently saw a photo of herself when she was little, hugging her older brother and smiling, and she seemed surprised to see how cute she was when she was small. She was always beautiful, but while she can apparently appreciate it in herself when she was younger, she cannot look at the same face now and see the even greater, more mature beauty that is there now.
I think that may be part of the reason why I love my pets so much. They validate us as we are, worship everything we do, and they simply do not care what we look like at any given moment. When I wake up in the morning, it is to a face of total delight because I am awake, and good things will now happen. They do not care that my hair is a mess, my breath is not fresh, and I am probably crabby and scowling, because I am not a morning person. They only see that the person they adore, the leader of their pack, is awake, and it is time for the joy of living to begin anew.
I wonder what it is about women that causes us to diminish our own value, from childhood onwards, it seems? While we can overlook all the flaws in our best friends, and forgive almost anything in the women we love, we forgive ourselves for nothing. No matter how others see us, we spend endless hours worrying about the flaws, real and imagined, cutting ourselves down until there is very little left to appreciate in our own selves.
Think how many woman hours a year are wasted in the pursuit of making ourselves more acceptable, not to others, but to ourselves. It's a bazillion dollar business, probably driving the entire economy. It doesn't matter where we are, from the metropolitan city to the roughest hut, we will find women trying to improve themselves somehow, beautifying the masterpiece that God created.
Now, I'm not saying that we shouldn't make an effort. There is nothing wrong with trying to put our best face forward. But in my maturing years, I am suddenly learning that if I am not good enough as I am, I won't be good enough any other way, either. The search for perfection is a fruitless one, because there is no such thing, and never will be.
So instead of trying to achieve the impossible, perhaps we should spend more time on attaining the possible. If we need to drop ten pounds for our health, then we should do it, as much for our families as for ourselves. If we have a bad hair cut, then we should get a new one. If we have let our clothing go, perhaps a new outfit is called for.
But we also need to love ourselves as much as others love us, accept ourselves for who we are, and realize that good enough really is. Beauty has never been skin deep. The most beautiful people I know are not celebrities on the red carpet, they are the people I love, the people who share my own personal world. If they can accept me as I am, flaws and all, who am I to argue?
Everyone knows that all brides are beautiful. Why is it that even the plainest woman becomes the most beautiful version of herself on her wedding day? I think it might be because it is the only time in her life that she actually feels beautiful, from the inside out. When you have that many people coming to your party, and you know that the man of your dreams has picked you out of a crowd of millions, it makes you feel special, at least for a little while. That feeling of well-being is reflected in your appearance, and for a few short hours, you know what it means to feel beautiful.
I think there is a lesson there for all the women in the world who worry about their appearance. If you can be beautiful one day in your life, you are beautiful every day. My own daughter calls me gorgeous all the time, and while I know I'm not, I think, in her mind, I just might be. And who am I to disagree with her? Because if I diminish myself, then I am diminishing her.
Go enjoy the day, and know you are beautiful to the only people who matter.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
The new Edsel...
I have already written this post once, and it disappeared into cyber-space never to be seen again. So I will give it another shot, but rest assured, the first version was better, because it always is!
I learned a startling new piece of information recently, which tells me that change has truly come to America after all. Here in Suburban Bubble World, we have more big vehicles than the Australian Outback, but one of them, the Hummer, is about to go away. I say, better late than never.
I have never been able to understand the fascination with gigantic, oversized vehicles. I just do not understand the need that drives (that is a pun, in case you didn't notice,) some people to jack up their axles and their insurance rates in a quest to look cool driving down the manicured streets of our wealthy suburban county. Don't they realize that in reality, they only look silly? To each his own, I guess, but seriously?
I have noticed a corresponding phenomenon, too. The bigger the vehicle monopolizing the parking space, the smaller the person getting in and out of it. Sometimes I think it looks like a clown car performance, as I'm watching the tiny little owner emerge from the behemoth vehicle she has maneuvered into a parking place like an ancient ship steaming into port.
It could be fairly stated that I, myself, drive a large vehicle. I drive a Dodge Dakota quad cab truck, and I cannot deny that it is bigger than some of the vehicles on the road. However, I also own, way over on the far side, a painting and refinishing business, and my excuse is that I need a vehicle to cart around all my accoutrements for my side business. Since I can't afford to keep around vehicles I'm not using, I am sort of stuck with the truck as my every day driver.
My other vehicle, currently being driven around town by my lovely daughter, is a sedan. I look forward to the day when I can start driving one myself again. [I will just share with you that my entire family joins me in that, since I am not very adept at driving large vehicles. I am the one who spends 20 minutes trying to get into a parking place straight, only to spend another 20 minutes trying to extract myself again when I leave. I will just issue a general apology to the world for that, and we can move on.]
I am not a large vehicle owner, by nature. I do not drive down the highway and pretend that I own the universe. Frankly, I don't have any illusions that I even own my own little portion of it, since my life seems to be constantly careening out of control. I am always amazed by those people who seem to feel that they pay taxes on both sides of the road and want to get their money's worth, judging by the way they hog the center line.
I was hopeful that the gas crisis would signal the end of these gargantuan vehicles, [which are about the same size as the mobile home I lived in while in grad school, by the way,] driving on the road and parking next to me at WalMart. But it seems that the gas crisis has dissipated alongside my retirement IRA, taking away some of the pressure to downsize. In addition, I have also learned that as part of the total financial melt-down of our universe, the credit crisis is apparently preventing owners who are upside down on their credit from getting any further credit, thus preventing them from getting out from under their large vehicles. So it seems we may still be contending them for some time to come, to my immediate regret.
Feeling as I do, you know I saw the news that the Hummer is going the way of the Edsel to be good news. I know it's a jungle out there, especially in urban America, but I don't think a vehicle designed for the army to navigate in a war zone is one that we really need blazing a trail in our quiet corner of suburbia. I wonder at the vision of someone hiding in an assault vehicle, and I'm not just talking about seeing the road, here.
If we want to reduce violence in our society, I think we have to get out of our sheltered cocoons and re-involve ourselves in the real world. I believe that fear breeds more fear. The more we lock ourselves down and shut ourselves away, the more out of touch we are with others whose lives are different and whose experiences don't match ours, the more likely we are to have violence and mayhem, because we will not understand life from any other perspective.
Personally, I think perspective is what it's all about. If you are looking at life through an armoured assault vehicle, everywhere you look, you will see danger lurking. If you are driving down the street in a convertible with the wind blowing gently through your hair, and nothing between you and the world around you, you see things more up close and personal.
When my daughter was a little girl, we used to have a special book, The Churkendoose, which we would read every time we went to visit Grandma. She loved that book, looked forward to it with the most excited anticipation, partly, I think because, in a way, she identified with the Churkendoose in the story. [She also thinks she is Elphaba from "Wicked" but that's another story....]
The Churkendoose was different - part chicken, turkey, duck and goose - and therefore, he wasn't really one of them. They couldn't lock him in a neat little category, couldn't identify him as anything particular, so they were afraid and ostracised him altogether. Only after he proves himself and saves them by scaring the fox away from the coop do they understand it's not about what is on the outside, it's what is inside your heart that really counts.
You can have someone who looks different on the outside be exactly like you in their heart, where it matters. On the other hand, you can live with someone in the same house for years, and have nothing in common at all.
The Hummer is, by its very nature, a barrier to others. In our society, we need to tear the barriers down. I will say so long to the Hummer, without a regret. Don't let the gate hit you in the bumper on your way into the junk yard.
I learned a startling new piece of information recently, which tells me that change has truly come to America after all. Here in Suburban Bubble World, we have more big vehicles than the Australian Outback, but one of them, the Hummer, is about to go away. I say, better late than never.
I have never been able to understand the fascination with gigantic, oversized vehicles. I just do not understand the need that drives (that is a pun, in case you didn't notice,) some people to jack up their axles and their insurance rates in a quest to look cool driving down the manicured streets of our wealthy suburban county. Don't they realize that in reality, they only look silly? To each his own, I guess, but seriously?
I have noticed a corresponding phenomenon, too. The bigger the vehicle monopolizing the parking space, the smaller the person getting in and out of it. Sometimes I think it looks like a clown car performance, as I'm watching the tiny little owner emerge from the behemoth vehicle she has maneuvered into a parking place like an ancient ship steaming into port.
It could be fairly stated that I, myself, drive a large vehicle. I drive a Dodge Dakota quad cab truck, and I cannot deny that it is bigger than some of the vehicles on the road. However, I also own, way over on the far side, a painting and refinishing business, and my excuse is that I need a vehicle to cart around all my accoutrements for my side business. Since I can't afford to keep around vehicles I'm not using, I am sort of stuck with the truck as my every day driver.
My other vehicle, currently being driven around town by my lovely daughter, is a sedan. I look forward to the day when I can start driving one myself again. [I will just share with you that my entire family joins me in that, since I am not very adept at driving large vehicles. I am the one who spends 20 minutes trying to get into a parking place straight, only to spend another 20 minutes trying to extract myself again when I leave. I will just issue a general apology to the world for that, and we can move on.]
I am not a large vehicle owner, by nature. I do not drive down the highway and pretend that I own the universe. Frankly, I don't have any illusions that I even own my own little portion of it, since my life seems to be constantly careening out of control. I am always amazed by those people who seem to feel that they pay taxes on both sides of the road and want to get their money's worth, judging by the way they hog the center line.
I was hopeful that the gas crisis would signal the end of these gargantuan vehicles, [which are about the same size as the mobile home I lived in while in grad school, by the way,] driving on the road and parking next to me at WalMart. But it seems that the gas crisis has dissipated alongside my retirement IRA, taking away some of the pressure to downsize. In addition, I have also learned that as part of the total financial melt-down of our universe, the credit crisis is apparently preventing owners who are upside down on their credit from getting any further credit, thus preventing them from getting out from under their large vehicles. So it seems we may still be contending them for some time to come, to my immediate regret.
Feeling as I do, you know I saw the news that the Hummer is going the way of the Edsel to be good news. I know it's a jungle out there, especially in urban America, but I don't think a vehicle designed for the army to navigate in a war zone is one that we really need blazing a trail in our quiet corner of suburbia. I wonder at the vision of someone hiding in an assault vehicle, and I'm not just talking about seeing the road, here.
If we want to reduce violence in our society, I think we have to get out of our sheltered cocoons and re-involve ourselves in the real world. I believe that fear breeds more fear. The more we lock ourselves down and shut ourselves away, the more out of touch we are with others whose lives are different and whose experiences don't match ours, the more likely we are to have violence and mayhem, because we will not understand life from any other perspective.
Personally, I think perspective is what it's all about. If you are looking at life through an armoured assault vehicle, everywhere you look, you will see danger lurking. If you are driving down the street in a convertible with the wind blowing gently through your hair, and nothing between you and the world around you, you see things more up close and personal.
When my daughter was a little girl, we used to have a special book, The Churkendoose, which we would read every time we went to visit Grandma. She loved that book, looked forward to it with the most excited anticipation, partly, I think because, in a way, she identified with the Churkendoose in the story. [She also thinks she is Elphaba from "Wicked" but that's another story....]
The Churkendoose was different - part chicken, turkey, duck and goose - and therefore, he wasn't really one of them. They couldn't lock him in a neat little category, couldn't identify him as anything particular, so they were afraid and ostracised him altogether. Only after he proves himself and saves them by scaring the fox away from the coop do they understand it's not about what is on the outside, it's what is inside your heart that really counts.
You can have someone who looks different on the outside be exactly like you in their heart, where it matters. On the other hand, you can live with someone in the same house for years, and have nothing in common at all.
The Hummer is, by its very nature, a barrier to others. In our society, we need to tear the barriers down. I will say so long to the Hummer, without a regret. Don't let the gate hit you in the bumper on your way into the junk yard.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Jagged Edge of the Universe
It has been a hard week around here, and I took a mental health day today. As I was driving around running errands, I was thinking about how life looks from my vantage point, and the thought came into my head, I am constantly on the jagged edge of the universe. Well, that is surely the title of a book, one I will have to write some day. In the meantime, this poem will have to do....
Jagged Edge of the Universe
Everyone has moments in their lives,
Moments that are frozen in mind,
Moments that they relive
Over and over again,
Almost in slow motion.
Every breath, every scent,
Every movement is there,
Instantly available for recall.
Every time I find myself,
Struggling to find my place,
Hoping for a newer space,
I look for something different,
Than haunting
The jagged edge of the universe.
For me, those moments, every one,
Are not times wreathed in joy or fun
But in crisis mode, hopelessness
Pervading the very air I breathe.
My life, once again out of control,
Shattered by a fate beyond me still.
The first such moment, and the last,
Equally painful to behold.
Those moments take my breath away
I cannot think about them without
Feeling the pain anew.
And each time it has happened,
I have found myself struggling,
Once again on the edge of the abyss
The jagged edge of the universe.
It doesn’t get easier,
Those who say it will have lied,
Or they have never dangled their lives
Over the dangerous drop off.
I haven’t gotten stronger
Or more prepared
Like they said I would.
I am no more able to cope
Than I was when I was a child.
If it gives anyone hope,
I can say,
With clarity and faith,
That I have gotten farther away
From the edge.
It doesn’t own me.
It will take more to push me over.
It wasn’t always that way.
I haven’t always felt this strong.
I have fallen, many times,
And clawed my way to the top.
Life has stepped on my fingers,
Forcing me to let go once again,
Falling into the depths.
But peace is a choice.
You can find it
Even in the midst of catastrophe.
You must insist upon it,
Strive for it,
Look for ways to have it.
And then
Every time I find myself,
Struggling to find my place,
Hoping for a newer space,
I will find something different,
Than haunting
The jagged edge of the universe.
Jagged Edge of the Universe
Everyone has moments in their lives,
Moments that are frozen in mind,
Moments that they relive
Over and over again,
Almost in slow motion.
Every breath, every scent,
Every movement is there,
Instantly available for recall.
Every time I find myself,
Struggling to find my place,
Hoping for a newer space,
I look for something different,
Than haunting
The jagged edge of the universe.
For me, those moments, every one,
Are not times wreathed in joy or fun
But in crisis mode, hopelessness
Pervading the very air I breathe.
My life, once again out of control,
Shattered by a fate beyond me still.
The first such moment, and the last,
Equally painful to behold.
Those moments take my breath away
I cannot think about them without
Feeling the pain anew.
And each time it has happened,
I have found myself struggling,
Once again on the edge of the abyss
The jagged edge of the universe.
It doesn’t get easier,
Those who say it will have lied,
Or they have never dangled their lives
Over the dangerous drop off.
I haven’t gotten stronger
Or more prepared
Like they said I would.
I am no more able to cope
Than I was when I was a child.
If it gives anyone hope,
I can say,
With clarity and faith,
That I have gotten farther away
From the edge.
It doesn’t own me.
It will take more to push me over.
It wasn’t always that way.
I haven’t always felt this strong.
I have fallen, many times,
And clawed my way to the top.
Life has stepped on my fingers,
Forcing me to let go once again,
Falling into the depths.
But peace is a choice.
You can find it
Even in the midst of catastrophe.
You must insist upon it,
Strive for it,
Look for ways to have it.
And then
Every time I find myself,
Struggling to find my place,
Hoping for a newer space,
I will find something different,
Than haunting
The jagged edge of the universe.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
That's what little girls are made of....
It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day 17 years ago today. How do I know this, you may well ask? I usually have trouble remembering yesterday, so it is not run of the mill for me to remember a day from years ago. But that day was the most special kind of day - a once, or in my case, twice, in a lifetime day. I remember it so clearly because my beautiful daughter, Erin, was born 17 years ago today, and changed my world forever.
There are lots of opinions on what it means to have a girl come into your life. They are sweet, they are sour. They are perky, they are depressed. They are fun, they are a nightmare. They are all these things, sometimes simultaneously. They will mix you up, and stomp on your heart, and then they will smile, and suddenly, none of it matters. Because they are your world, and without them, the world wouldn't be the same.
My relationship with my daughter has changed over the years, as I moved from Mama, to Mommy, to Mom, to Mo-ommmmmmm, and now, once again, I am back to Mom. As she has grown up and changed, so have I, and so has our relationship.
This relationship with my daughter is one of brutal honesty, one in which there are no holds barred, nothing hidden or tucked away. She doesn't hold back, and neither do I, as we navigate closer to her independence day. But if you have no barriers, you can also love unconditionally, and there is no other love so purely unselfish. But even as she starts to move away from me for real, we are becoming closer in our hearts.
The biggest change comes now, as she approaches adulthood, and suddenly, she is no longer just the student, learning at my feet. As she has grown, there is more give and take, and now, I learn from her, just as she learns from me. We are still mother and daughter, and will always be. But we are more than that - we are becoming friends, and it is that which causes me the greatest joy this day.
I am sad to see her leaving childhood behind so quickly. I don't know where the years have gone, and I don't understand how my little girl is suddenly so grown up. But at the same time, I look forward to seeing who she will become, to watch her move from potential to reality.
My daughter is everything I ever dreamed of, and so much more. I wouldn't trade my daughter for all the stars in the universe, or all the diamonds in the earth. She is priceless, and my heart will never be the same.
Happy birthday to my wonderful, fabulous, most special daughter. Although today is the day for you to be showered with gifts, you are the real gift, and I am the luckiest mom in the world, because you were given to me. That is what I am celebrating on this day.
There are lots of opinions on what it means to have a girl come into your life. They are sweet, they are sour. They are perky, they are depressed. They are fun, they are a nightmare. They are all these things, sometimes simultaneously. They will mix you up, and stomp on your heart, and then they will smile, and suddenly, none of it matters. Because they are your world, and without them, the world wouldn't be the same.
My relationship with my daughter has changed over the years, as I moved from Mama, to Mommy, to Mom, to Mo-ommmmmmm, and now, once again, I am back to Mom. As she has grown up and changed, so have I, and so has our relationship.
This relationship with my daughter is one of brutal honesty, one in which there are no holds barred, nothing hidden or tucked away. She doesn't hold back, and neither do I, as we navigate closer to her independence day. But if you have no barriers, you can also love unconditionally, and there is no other love so purely unselfish. But even as she starts to move away from me for real, we are becoming closer in our hearts.
The biggest change comes now, as she approaches adulthood, and suddenly, she is no longer just the student, learning at my feet. As she has grown, there is more give and take, and now, I learn from her, just as she learns from me. We are still mother and daughter, and will always be. But we are more than that - we are becoming friends, and it is that which causes me the greatest joy this day.
I am sad to see her leaving childhood behind so quickly. I don't know where the years have gone, and I don't understand how my little girl is suddenly so grown up. But at the same time, I look forward to seeing who she will become, to watch her move from potential to reality.
My daughter is everything I ever dreamed of, and so much more. I wouldn't trade my daughter for all the stars in the universe, or all the diamonds in the earth. She is priceless, and my heart will never be the same.
Happy birthday to my wonderful, fabulous, most special daughter. Although today is the day for you to be showered with gifts, you are the real gift, and I am the luckiest mom in the world, because you were given to me. That is what I am celebrating on this day.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Sarah with an h...
Shakespeare would have us believe that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Well, I beg to differ. I'll bet if it had smelled less sweet, it would have been named something else, because names, more often than not, describe the thing for which they are the moniker.
What is in a name? Well, when your name is Sarah, it has an h, at the very least. Or it should, anyway. But all too often, that h gets left off, misplaced right out of the picture, sort of like a train without its caboose. And we all know that the caboose is the fun part with the guy who waves as he goes by. So, in short, my h is important to me.
I was always under the impression that this was a personal quirk of mine, but it seems that I am not alone. I found this out the other day when I met my boss for a mid-week meeting at Starbucks. I breezed in a few minutes late, as usual, and rushed to the counter to make my order. When she asked my name, I replied as I always do, "Sarah. With an h."
She looked at me sort of funny, then laughed right out loud. Since I don't think there is anything really funny about the name Sarah - it's not my favorite name, but it's mine, so I live with it - I couldn't really see any reason for her to laugh out loud at me or it. I looked back at her quizzically, and she responded by telling me that Sarahs are generally obsessed with that h. I asked her what she meant, and the answer was intriguing to me.
Apparently, whether you have an h or not, if your name is Sarah, (or Sara,) you are worried about it. She said it's not even just the Sarahs with the h that talk about it. She said the ones without the h will say, "Sara. Without an h." So apparently, regardless of how we spell it, we all have that h on our minds. How entertaining!
The really intriguing thing she told me, though, was that no one else seems to have that same obsession with getting their name spelled right. For example, she said her name is Sherry, and it gets spelled all kinds of ways, but she doesn't care. She said, neither does anyone else, at least not to mention it. But every Sara or Sarah brings up that h, for some reason.
I am rather intrigued at the idea that we are all worried about our h. The economy is crashing and burning, the world is a mess generally, but by golly, we are not going to lose our h along with everything else.
It makes me wonder, what is it about our name, in particular, that sets off this possessiveness of all our letters? This desire to leave no h behind? What is it about all of us Sarahs, that we are tied together in the desire to hang on to all our letters, and not lose any of them somewhere along the line? I am fascinated at the thought that somehow, we have all had some common experience that leads us to be possessive, or dispossessive, of all the letters in our name, showing up exactly where they belong, in a nice neat row.
I, personally, have been known to insert the h where it belongs on all kinds of pre-printed items. If it's spelled wrong, rest assured it will be corrected one way or another, and you will see an h awkwardly added somehow, even if it's falling off the end of my name like the afterthought it obviously was.
Of course, there are some people, when you tell them you want your h, who get flustered and discomfited, and don't know where to put it. I have had my name spelled in the most amazing ways - from Sarha to Shara to Saraha. For some reason, that h just seems to confound.
Then there is my cousin who nicknamed me Sahara Desert when we were young, but that's another story altogether. Although, come to think of it, that might explain my rather unnatural need to have water available at all times. And I answer pretty readily to "Des" even now.
As I explained to the barista at Starbucks, there is nothing wrong with the name Sara. It's fine, if that is your name. However, it is not my name. My name is Sarah. They are different. You might as well just call me Dave, as leave off my h.
All in all, I am entertained that the Sarahs of the world are united by something more than name only. It seems, from somewhere deep inside of us, we are also a little crazy. At least about our h.
What is in a name? Well, when your name is Sarah, it has an h, at the very least. Or it should, anyway. But all too often, that h gets left off, misplaced right out of the picture, sort of like a train without its caboose. And we all know that the caboose is the fun part with the guy who waves as he goes by. So, in short, my h is important to me.
I was always under the impression that this was a personal quirk of mine, but it seems that I am not alone. I found this out the other day when I met my boss for a mid-week meeting at Starbucks. I breezed in a few minutes late, as usual, and rushed to the counter to make my order. When she asked my name, I replied as I always do, "Sarah. With an h."
She looked at me sort of funny, then laughed right out loud. Since I don't think there is anything really funny about the name Sarah - it's not my favorite name, but it's mine, so I live with it - I couldn't really see any reason for her to laugh out loud at me or it. I looked back at her quizzically, and she responded by telling me that Sarahs are generally obsessed with that h. I asked her what she meant, and the answer was intriguing to me.
Apparently, whether you have an h or not, if your name is Sarah, (or Sara,) you are worried about it. She said it's not even just the Sarahs with the h that talk about it. She said the ones without the h will say, "Sara. Without an h." So apparently, regardless of how we spell it, we all have that h on our minds. How entertaining!
The really intriguing thing she told me, though, was that no one else seems to have that same obsession with getting their name spelled right. For example, she said her name is Sherry, and it gets spelled all kinds of ways, but she doesn't care. She said, neither does anyone else, at least not to mention it. But every Sara or Sarah brings up that h, for some reason.
I am rather intrigued at the idea that we are all worried about our h. The economy is crashing and burning, the world is a mess generally, but by golly, we are not going to lose our h along with everything else.
It makes me wonder, what is it about our name, in particular, that sets off this possessiveness of all our letters? This desire to leave no h behind? What is it about all of us Sarahs, that we are tied together in the desire to hang on to all our letters, and not lose any of them somewhere along the line? I am fascinated at the thought that somehow, we have all had some common experience that leads us to be possessive, or dispossessive, of all the letters in our name, showing up exactly where they belong, in a nice neat row.
I, personally, have been known to insert the h where it belongs on all kinds of pre-printed items. If it's spelled wrong, rest assured it will be corrected one way or another, and you will see an h awkwardly added somehow, even if it's falling off the end of my name like the afterthought it obviously was.
Of course, there are some people, when you tell them you want your h, who get flustered and discomfited, and don't know where to put it. I have had my name spelled in the most amazing ways - from Sarha to Shara to Saraha. For some reason, that h just seems to confound.
Then there is my cousin who nicknamed me Sahara Desert when we were young, but that's another story altogether. Although, come to think of it, that might explain my rather unnatural need to have water available at all times. And I answer pretty readily to "Des" even now.
As I explained to the barista at Starbucks, there is nothing wrong with the name Sara. It's fine, if that is your name. However, it is not my name. My name is Sarah. They are different. You might as well just call me Dave, as leave off my h.
All in all, I am entertained that the Sarahs of the world are united by something more than name only. It seems, from somewhere deep inside of us, we are also a little crazy. At least about our h.
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