Cowboy Take Me Away
A friend of mine posted this picture to her Facebook profile last week and it was one of those things that I thought was just too, too awesome not pass along (and I'm not sure where she got it, so I cannot properly source it).
Side rant: I'm actually starting to hate using terms like "awesome" or "amazing" because I believe that they are wildly overused in our culture and their frequent appearance in our daily language really downplays the impact and meaning of the words. The definition of the word "awesome" is something that is awe-inspiring, breathtaking. God is awesome. The Grand Canyon is awesome. Sure, the steak you had for dinner was really good, but it wasn't "awesome". Your new stilettos are adorable, but they aren't "amazing" because they didn't do something unbelievable like breathe the universe into existence. (Actually never mind, I'll give that one to you. I don't care who you are, stilettos ARE amazing.)
But I digress ...
I wanted to share the above quote with you because it perfectly summarizes the one thing I wrestle with the absolute most. My blog has had many a post about my hobby of comparing myself to other women and feeling as if I always come up short. And Steven Furtlick put those feelings into perspective for me in the neatest way possible.
Of course I feel inferior to other women! Why? Because just like me, every other women on the planet wants to put their best face forward and appear as if they have it all together. Why would you want to be anything but your best?
I've been viewing these glossy, gorgeous women as only what they want me and the rest of the world to see, but I compare it to everything about myself that others can't see. I know my faults, but I don't know theirs. I know what I'm insecure about, but I don't now what they're insecure about. I know what I need to work on, but I don't know what they need to work on. I only see the pretty finished package of these women, not their own inner struggles.
And other women probably see me that way too (imagine my shock and horror when I stumbled upon that revelation!).
For example, sometimes I feel like I'm not lady-like, like I'm missing the specific gene that makes a woman elegant, graceful and sweet. So if I see another women who seems to possess all of those qualities and more, I start beating myself up for being such a bumbling gorilla. Never mind that, like all humans, that particular woman burps and farts int he privacy of her own home juuuuuuust like everyone else. And she probably has horrible morning breath and snaps at her husband occasionally, but is she going to let the public be aware of that? Of course not. She doesn't want the world to know she's not perfect any more than I do.
I feel like women, particularly American women, need to put on a show at all times. We know we're not perfect, but we have to pretend like we are. Even if we're tired, PMS-ing or nursing a broken heart, we're expected to perform our daily activities like we're happy, sparkling Barbie dolls. What example are we setting for each other? I think we're only furthering reiterating the stereotypes of how women are expected to act and look. By being a slave to our cultural and societal standards, we're inadvertently keeping the ever-rising bar high for other women, too.
Sorry, it's far too early in the morning for such a deep revelation, but I started writing this last night after I dipped out of a Super Bowl party early to come back home and spend time with Joey (he was alone a lot this weekend and I felt bad abandoning him for more than few hours).
I honestly wasn't too invested in the big game this year because I was mostly bitter that the Super Bowl was taking place in my state and my beloved Indianapolis Colts weren't even close to being contenders. But, so long as Tom Brady didn't win, I didn't really care. At least one Manning got to be there ...
Ugh, and let's not even get started on the "is he or isn't he coming back?" debate that's been plaguing our home since September.
Clay, my mom and I headed to Super Bowl Village on Friday night and somehow in between kicking beer cans that were littering the street out of our way and avoiding drunk people, we accidentally stumbled right into the center of the LMFAO concert. I'm not sure if I was more shocked that little kids were singing along with the lyrics to "Shots" or that my 62 year-old mother news the words to "Party Rock Anthem".
I have a super busy work day ahead of me, so I'm going to sign off now. But, before I go, I'll leave you with the latest and greatest email exchange with the hubs:
Me: "Listening to the Dixie Chick's "Cowboy Take Me Away" makes me wish that you were a cowboy."
Clay: "Yeah, sorry about that. Big disappointment, huh?"
Me: "Yeah, you suck. Thanks for letting me down."
Clay: "Love me ..."
Me: "Is there like a cowboy certification class or something you could take?"
Clay: "I just need to move to southern Texas for a few years. That's certification enough, I think."
Me: "Sounds great! See ya in six months."
Clay: "Ok. Well ... I guess I'm just gonna go then?"
Me: "Yup. Pack plenty of underwear."