"Why do girls think they have to wear makeup to be pretty?"
This is what he asks me and I stare at him a moment, thinking...
Thinking a much longer moment than I woulda thought I would. Finally coming up with this less than stellar answer: "I dunno."
"'Cause it's sad," he continues. "Girls thinking they have to wear all that gunk on their face. I mean - even little girls. Wearing all that gunk and going on diets at eight years old and dressing like they're twenty-five or something."
And I, being the hip, up to date, oh so savvy mom I'm bein' these days - well, I manage a nod. Still thinkin'.
"It's lame," he finishes up, mouth settling into a thinned lip line. His point made, decision arrived at, judgment done. He takes his bowl of (that god awful ramen I've told 'em not to eat and Scott not to buy but f*ck that 'cause who listens to me?) upstairs and disappears. Leaving me perched on the old (and recently reupholstered and repainted) red combo chair and step stool, staring after him; still thinkin'.
Or trying to at least. Which seems to be the best I can do these days.
Strange that: Of late, I'm unable to think. A major problem for some people, a natural state I fear, for others.
For a person devoted to the Life of The Mind - an unmitigated disaster.
And - not being able to think, well I just can't think of what's happened to cause this dilemma.
I'm beginning to wonder whether I fell on my head a while back, suffered selective amnesia of the event, and damaged something no doubt dreadfully important such as my amygdala or some such.
Maybe this happened and no one knows. Or maybe they do know and decided it best not to tell me.
Or maybe I was sucked into a UFO where I suffered untold indignities via extra terrestrial probings of anatomical places never designed to be probed. (I've seen such things occur on more than one television program or movie - no doubt you have as well.)
Would such an incident cause me to be unable to think I wonder? And if so - for how long?
Because frankly this is getting really, really old.
My October was spent in a bit of travel, a lot of clearing out of closets, bins, filing cabinets, desks, and drawers which I hadn't so much as glanced into for many a long year.
And yes I managed to throw something away. A lot of somethings actually.
(Query: Could this hitherto uncharacteristic behavior be attributed to the above theories of head damage and/or alien probings?
Answer have I none.)
I cleared and cleaned, rearranged, tossed, and recycled. I've a bag of books to take to co op assuming I ever actually make it there at some point. (But that's another tale.)
And yet - though the chi flows better, the cupboard and closet doors open smooth with nary a fear of something falling upon your head - still I remain muddled.
My Life of the Mind more than a bit foggy. Confused, convoluted, just plain ass freakin' strange.
Thus I still don't know why girls think they hafta wear all that makeup to be pretty. And why men don't. Though yeal I think it's definitely unfair and no doubt damaging to the ego of women; while the idea of eight year old girls imagining they should dress as twenty something bimbos (and their parents acquiescing) is revolting. (The subject of those twenty somethings imagining they need to dress that way is a whole other problem - isn't it?)
I don't know why my thoughts are so scattered and my days so simultaneously short and long and why I've developed this weird habit of stumbling over my words whenever I try to talk to people and why every damn self help book or article I read all say the same, lame crap.
So (you may well ask, heaven knows I have): What to do?
Winston Churchill signed his dispatches to FDR "KBO"; it stood for "Keep Buggering On".
Really I can't think of a better response. Can you?
KBO To The Life of the MInd.
(Without it - what have we?)