REALly.

Well, blast.


It's come to my attention that there's been a trend among the blogging elite as of late. It seems that many blog-hers have decided to get all awesome and brave and post "real" pictures of themselves sans makeup (eek!) and tell the "real" ugly truth about their lives in an attempt to feel liberated and to let their readers know a little more about who they are.

Now, I'm pretty content with the fact that I can edit my posts a million times- transforming every humiliating line until it doesn't make me openly gag with contempt. (I know what you're thinking. If this is me "editing" than what could possibly have been left on the cutting room floor that would make me look like more of a doofus? You'd be surprised. I have a large capacity for all things doof.)

Why then, would anyone want to forsake the great power of the delete button and the divine beautification of photo shop to put themselves out there for the world to see.......all nek-ked n' stuff?

Because they are earless.

They are without ears.

Not really- but I missed the "f" key while typing "fearless" and it made me laugh to think of a gaggle of earless bloggers. *giggle, snort...... sigh*

(See? Major doofus. This is where I would usually do some mad editing. I'm pretty sure you're begging for that delete key now, aren't ya?)

Ahem. *clears throat*

Sorry. I'll try that again.

I'm lucky enough to know some incredibly fearless people. (All of whom have their ears.) So often I just observe their bravery and never do anything to emulate it. It's pretty comfy being the official observer- but also pretty stagnant. I really want to be more like the people I so greatly admire.

Therefore, whether it's the fact that all the sugar that usually courses through my veins has been ousted by a 48 hour stomach bug (my body is so confused without cake that it's shutting down) or the womb-like comfort I'm receiving from my Christmas "Snuggie" (aka: Blessed "blanket with sleeves" that allows you the freedom to type, read, get a perm, play backgammon, or attend your High School reunion while being cradled by fleece.) I have stupidly decided to play brave and join the "Real" movement. I hope I'll still have a friend or two when this is all over. If not- my Snuggie is a good cuddler and a great listener.

Step #1 of Project Real:

Post a picture of yourself "au natural"- without a stitch of make-up.

Sure! No problem.

Here it is! Aren't you so proud of me?

What's that you say? Too small?! Doesn't count?! Fair enough. How 'bout this?

You don't want to see what the hand is covering. It's quite possible I'm earless.

ACK!

This is hard.

Why is such a stupid thing so stupidly hard for me to do?!

(This brings me to the second half of the challenge: Step #2 of Project Real: Post the deep, dark, REAL tidbits of your life that are hard- maybe even excruciating- to admit.)

Well.....

*I suppose it could be because I've been wearing the comforting mask that is "make-up" since 7th grade.

*There's a chance it's because I've come to rely on that mask so much that even my own family hasn't seen me without it except for the very rarest occasion such as a 5am airport pick-up or because I cried it all off watching The Notebook.

*Perhaps it's because I'm one of those weirdos who needs to apply the full mask for things like: trips to the ER, camping, working out, and giving birth (both times).

*It's possible that it might have something to do with the fact that I'm so neurotic, my girlfriends have strict instructions that if I should ever fall into a coma, they are to visit me daily with my Kaboodle (remember those?!) of make-up and dutifully paint, pluck, and preen my gauze wrapped face, so as not to offend the attending doctors and nurses.

It's pathetic, no?

But this is me. The "real" me who hides behind a wall of bronzer and lip gloss because she's too afraid to be real. The ugly truth of the matter is that if money was no object I'd probably be one of those scary "Cat Ladies" who has her plastic surgeon on speed dial and injects baboon booty fat into her cheeks.

Growing old gracefully...

Yeah. It's a scary thought. (Rawr!) But what really scares me, is that I'm suppose to be an example- nay, THE example- to 2 beautiful little girls. Little girls who haven't yet been influenced by the billboards, magazines, movies and TV shows that have me reaching for a paper bag to hide what I'm convinced is the opposite of what "they" think I should be.

I'm approaching 30, and I have to be honest, I thought I'd be over this social angst by now. I've been told since I was 20 how much easier it is to be "in your 30's". How self assured you become. How comfortable in your own skin. I fully expected to be floating around in my "Mama Cass" muumuu, barefoot, face scrubbed clean, preaching of the "natural beauty of the natural woman."

Instead I remain a scared, shivering little girl with a bag over her head.

Some example! (She says sarcastically.)

Fortunately, there is one pebble of knowledge that has wedged itself securely into the heel of my "twenty something" shoe as I travel to the "thirty and beyond" off ramp. And that is: with hard work and courage, we are capable of change. The good kind too! Not just the "change into stretchy pants because I was hard at work eating pecan pie" kind of change. Yum! But-no. I'm referring to the wonderful and fulfilling,"venture into the terrifying unknown and come out even stronger than ever" kind of change.

I know this because I have living, breathing examples of bravery all around me. My mother, who has never met a challenge she didn't like and/or master. My father, who left everything comfortable and easy behind so that his family would have a better life. My husband, who took a leap of faith on a silly Mormon girl and the religion she loves.

I have known people who have lost babies, been close to death with sickness, endured concentration camps, abuse and poverty. But the endings have been the same- with hard work and copious amounts of courage- they made a change for the better. They fought back, and flourished.

Some example. (She says, thankfully.)

With this knowledge- it's laughable that such a trivial challenge would cause my palms to sweat and my heart to palpitate. Perhaps it's because I know that if I can make this first baby step in the direction of change, I'll be that much closer to removing "the mask" for good.

Maybe some day soon, I'll see it less as a wall to hide behind and more of a way to enhance the beauty that is already there.

That's the lesson my little ones deserve.

The paper bag is off. The cosmetic crutch, nowhere in site. Without even the safety net of a side swept bang to hide behind- I give you the remnants of a stringy haired, pale faced, flu-torn, almost "thirty something" in full view.

Baby steps.....

I'm tearing up at the very thought of my tens of elevens of readers seeing this.

And yes- I am aware that my lips have the pigment of saran wrap.