MarLa Sink Druzgal

Last weekend I went to Sephora for a makeover. I thought it would be a fun blog and they were great to let my nephew (who I tortured into coming with me) take photos of the process. I told them I wanted (a) a day look; (b) an evening look; and (c) a porn look. I thought since they were located in the upscale Shadyside area, they might be reluctant on the third request, but I think they found it a fun and entertaining mission.

This “porn” look thing has been an odd request of mine lately. I also asked it of my hairdresser. It’s not even like I’m an expert on what a porn look is, or should be (because I, um, er, don’t watch it?) But I’ve noticed as I’m starting to shed my younger, insecure skin, I’ve been going after some strange ideal of what I was conditioned to both loathe and envy: irresistible, drop-dead gorgeous, blow-up doll-looking, man-slaying women. It’s like as I begin trying to carve my own path of what I’m “allowed” or not allowed to be, going for the most extreme will somehow allow me to find a middle ground more comfortable.

It’s both the most humorous and ridiculous parts of my self lately, and as with anything new I learn, I like to call myself out on it, publicly, with photos, so I hope you enjoy both the photos and the insight…

I thought the makeover would be entertaining, because I have no clue how to wear makeup. I’m uncomfortable with beauty for a couple reasons: (1) My self-awareness is often still stuck in photos of myself in the “awkward” years (example here);

(2) I’m one of those people who feels guilty about everything—whatever I was born with, whatever I’ve accomplished, whatever I have materially; (3) I’m married, and I have those protestant church-lady voices in my head that say things like “That lipstick makes you look like a whore” or “You don’t cut bait if you aren’t going fishing” and a few worse ones having to do with what women are “asking for” by painting their faces or dressing in anything but buttoned-up tops and leg-hiding skirts.

Of course the logical part of my brain has moved beyond #3 (mostly) and I’ve been working on #1, but #2, the guilt factor, is the most difficult battle. Guilt, in fact, is probably the most powerful motivator when it comes to every decision in my life. I feel guilty that I was born white, guilty that I went to college, had a good career, got to change to a better career, married a nice guy, and yes, guilty that I’m conventionally pretty.

How Arrogant!!

Guilt is colossally arrogant! It has taken me a lot of years to understand that feeling guilty for something you haven’t done “wrong” comes from a place of ego: it’s presumption that the rest of the world runs around envious of one or more of those “special” qualities you’re afraid of possessing.

The irony of that guilt is that it simultaneously resides with envy. I envy women who were able to have children. I envy people who have one or both parents, who have grandparents. I envy blondes and red-heads and people with jet black hair. And of course, I envy women with those porn star looks I was taught to be disgusted by.

I even have “black/minority” envy. Yep, you heard that right. Ever since I was little and my dad constantly sang “Out in the west Texas town of El Paso, I fell in love with a Mexican girl…” I wanted to be anything but white. I wanted desperately for our three drops of Seneca blood to boil to the surface of my skin and bronze me like a goddess. His penchant for Native Americans, Mexican and Spanish women instilled an envy of all things brown.

When I was in Viet Nam, I was surprised to learn that those gorgeous women with their sun-kissed skin cover it all up in order to try to be more white. They wore masks and gloves and long-sleeves and long-pants, in 100+ degree weather.

I was thinking about this a couple days ago when reading one of my favorite blogs, “The Dancing Professor.” She was referencing the ridiculous extremes of beauty in reference to beautiful black women who are being air-brushed to fit a different notion of beauty. Please read her great blog here. It’s much more powerful than I could try to explain it.

But my point is that if light women are trying to be dark, and dark women are trying to be light, when do we ever embrace being ourselves? (I don’t know the answer. I’m only asking the questions.)

My new trainer actually just called me out on my ego. He might be even more trouble for me than poor Gary (meow!)

It started because I admitted that I’ve worked on my physical body a number of times in recent years, but that each time I get to what starts looking attractive to others, I self-sabotage, or quit and hide behind dowdy clothes and weight again. I stop wearing makeup, throw my hair in a ponytail and hide behind an ice cream cone and several pounds of chocolate.

When pressed for why (I know, I know, my new trainer appears to be annoyingly and possibly salvationally psycho-analytical) I said it’s because I don’t want to be attractive to other men. Since I’m married, I don’t want random guys hitting on me, and worse, I feel that I get along better with other women if I’m fat and “non-threatening.”

His response was something like “Wait, so let me get this straight: You think if you get in good physical shape that suddenly every man in the universe will sniffing at your backside, and every woman will want to be you or intimidated by you?”

Isn’t it amazing, when your words are rephrased back to you in snarky hyperbole, how quickly the chaff is stripped away until you see the grain for what it is? And what I saw wasn’t the ego I thought I had.

I realized it was still all about fear. I am afraid that if I work hard at my body or apply makeup to my face, men won’t notice me anyway, that it will still be me who is envious of the women who are sexier (whores! 😉 ) or more fit, or younger. In other words, I’m afraid of my “self” – the self who still hasn’t learned to be comfortable or confident in who I am, who hides behind dorky photos and self-deprecation because I am afraid success won’t be “good enough” for whoever it is who determines what is “good enough.”

Maybe “fear,” “guilt” and “shame” are all different words for the same issue of self-acceptance.

In analyzing my own guilt, I realize it’s hiding behind layers of misplaced shame. But there is no shame in being attractive or white, or middle class.  There is no shame in being able to travel or have a loving husband or have an interesting life. But the guilt, the self-sabotage, maybe, the fear, comes from feeling I didn’t earn them and therefore don’t deserve them.

And I realized that moving beyond that fear masked as ego will actually address this other issue of “earn” and “deserve” from the perspective that I don’t feel I do enough in this lucky life I have to be worthy of any of it.

And I read a phrase yesterday in one of the regular blogs I follow that I want to begin to internalize:

“As women we are born people pleasers and for a time I may have lost my way; spending too much time trying to make others happy at the expense of my own hopes and dreams. But this life is too short and way too precious; and I have realised that you are cheating yourself if you waste a single moment feeling wretched.” – A blogger friend of mine known as “Crazy Train to Tinky Town”

She has given voice to my internal inhibitor. I waste so much time feeling wretched that I never enjoy or celebrate the life I’m in. Success is only selfish if I fail to use it to make the world better, and to elevate the good people around me. Beauty is only wasted if I over-celebrate it in vanity, or hide it in shame.

I know. The words are easier than the actions, and I have a long way to go before I really internalize the notion that success can be healthy, being attractive isn’t being a whore and that my life isn’t more or less special than any other. Each person has something unique, beautiful, healthy or intelligent to contribute. Not wasting what I’m given can remove guilt or fear. Not presuming I’m given anything “luckier” than anyone else gives me a healthier ego.

The makeover was fun, and I would love to do it again sometime, maybe even push my boundaries on that final look even further, pair it with a plunge bra and some cleavage (whore!) But more importantly, I realized the real makeover I still need is internal.

And now (at least, until my next neurotic break or break-through) back to your regularly scheduled blogs.

Love, Marla