So I’ve already reblogged Steph’s marvelous What’s Your Electric Fence? post, but I figured it would be better to share my thoughts in a separate post, rather than try to cram it into the reblog, or in a comment on her post.
It’s my understanding that such is considered polite in the blogosphere. So here I am.
I thought, “Oh dude, don’t mention that– it’s so immature!” Steph was talking about electric fences in a metaphorical sense– anything that holds us back in our lives. But then she mentioned “using the public urinal” and I couldn’t help myself.
The other coincidental connection is more serious, however. A receptionist at the pain center called today to say that pre-authorization (don’t you just love insurance terminology?) had been granted for the trial period for the spinal cord stim procedure and that we could schedule a time to have it done. It will be the 30th, two Mondays from now. So I joked to Steph that I was going to have an electric fence threaded up my spine.
What are my electric fences? Steph listed a few that hold true for me as well. I was never happy with my looks for years– and I mean my face, as well as my body. I hated my Scandinavian button nose, as it seemed there was no one around me that had one. Seriously– I remember years later seeing someone from a Scandinavian country post their picture online, and I thought, “Hey, that dude has a nose like me!” I didn’t like my deep-set eyes or my full lips. Classmates in middle school were actually rude enough to suggest that my mother had to be Asian and my father had to be black for those facial features.
I still don’t like my boyish looks sometimes. So many people think I’m 10 years younger than I really am. I grew a beard to try to offset those opinions, but they still came. When I got my hair cut last Friday, the stylist seemed to act surprised that I had grey hairs in my head. “They look like highlights,” she said. Heh. Nice save there, hun.
Body issues… oh yeah. My mother’s side of the family gave me mixed messages on eating, so I was worried about dieting… in the fifth grade. Wish I could go back to my younger self and ask him not to worry, but he’d probably see my humongous belly now, and yell and cry. Psychiatric drugs, a non-accident back injury, and emotional eating all grew that. Even my belly button is fat now.
I’m not sure how to end this post now. All I can think of is fluffy “I will overcome” statements that just feel insincere right now. But I rather like Steph’s closing thought:
Maybe we can go electric fence trashing together, or at least cause a power outage so they’re just fences and we can jump them together.
She Said What? Oh Yes She Did! I’ll take you up on that, Steph. Thanks again for your post!