Mystic Metals Body Jewelry
Story Time About My Mom
Yeah, I know. It's been a little while since the last blog. Life has been difficult, and I've been more broke than a gutter wino during prohibition. I think I'm going to post every two weeks now, just so you devoted fans (all nine of you) know. It's only a money thing, not an interest thing. So you know I'm not slacking or being a slacker or having some involvement with slack. Also, I have a stack of movies I've yet to watch and I really want to get to that.
So Easter was last week. I very much enjoy Easter. It's a vitally important holiday for Catholics like myself, and Christians all over the place. Yes, I did watch Passion Of The Christ this week, and yes; it's still the second most disturbing horror movie I've ever seen. (See also; Funny Games.) As always, I spent Easter with my family. We're not a huge family, but we're getting bigger. My mother is one of four (one doesn't count, though), and with cousins and their wives and husbands, there's a little bit of a crowd. I'm blessed also to have all of my grandparents. I'm at the table ready to eat. My dad is telling a story in the brilliantly hilarious way that he is more than capable at doing, and on my left is my aunt, and on my right is my mother. They are twins.
Needless to say they are equally beautiful. Of course I favor my mom because she's my mom and there are special benefits therein. My aunt asked about my new tattoo, so I showed and explained. (Thanks to Tim Pangburn of Art Machine in Philly.) My mom then began to talk about the procedure she was to undergo the next day. Micro-dermal abrasion. My aunt is a nurse, and quickly she showed excitement and shared some knowledge. To my other aunt, my mother explained the procedure. "Why?" aunt two asked. My mom explained.
My mother is a beautiful woman. All Vidal women are, and my sister is very much a Vidal woman. My grandmother, my mother, both of my mother's sisters, my sister, my cousin, my cousin's daughter. All beautiful. Vidal genes don't fuck around. But for a very long time now, my mother has had a mark on her cheek. A darkening brown spot, like a birthmark or a skin stain. She covered it with makeup. Dealt with it for a long time. I never really noticed it. That's not what I look at when I look at my mom. And it is a very small spot, smaller than a dime. But after so long with knowing this little spot, my mother decided that it was time for one of them to go. She chose the spot to go, and I'm glad because losing my mother over a spot that I really didn't know was there would be stupid.
She explains this to her sisters. My dad tells stories to my uncle. My grandfather makes silly jokes. I eat ham. During my mother's explanation, she talked about how that little spot was the only thing she ever looked at in the mirror. How much she hated it. How much of a distraction it was. There was a sense of shame in her voice when talking about it. Her twin listened, briefly shared about her dislike of her nose and how she got it fixed. Aunt two made mention of certain aspects of her body that were displeasing to her. I ate ham. So using the micro-dermal abrasion technique, my mother was to blast the little brown spot into the ether of where other sandblasted little brown spots go.
I was happy for her, and I am happy for her. But it is always interesting to watch the strongest person in your life have moments of weakness or displeasure with herself. There are two emotions I felt. First was, Wow. My mom is going to have a much heavier modification that I have ever gotten. (Save the cutting open my spine thing.) She has some balls, and I'm proud of her for using available techniques to put her body into the comfort her mind has sought. The second thought was my distress that my mother had, for quite some time, thought she was unbeautiful. Made so by a little dime sized dark spot. How long had she thought this? How could she possibly be distracted by this brown speck's insignificance when the quantity of her beauty eclipses everything like Saturn against the moon.
Then I chastised my thoughts. We all have those things that demanufacture our comfort and perception of our own beauty. Of course, some of them are whiney and stupid. I wish I were seven feet tall. Stop it; that's stupid. But the little bump in your nose, or the crooked tooth, or that scar on your knee that only you and the doctor who put the stitches there when you were six have seen. But we focus on them, and we think others do too. It's like that mangey baboon who has lost a lot of fights and has a big scar on his face and a chipped incisor. We think we're like him sometimes. That the females won't mate with us because of the torn lip and missing fur, and the males won't socialize with us because our bodies are ripped and torn from apparent weakness. (I've been reading a lot about primates lately.)
But we're not baboons, not all of us anyway. Still, maybe we are hardwired to think those things. Of course that example isn't perfect because I have about as much education as an underdeveloped hagfish, but the point is there. At any rate, since we are the top of the food chain and the most intelligent thing in the known universe, we have a means to change these things about ourselves which we don't like. Some of us see the plastic surgeon. Some of us see the hair stylist. Some of us see the nail lady. Others of us see the mod artists. We use tattoo, piercing, implantation, suspension, scarification, bifurcation, pocketing to arrive at our bodily comfort and beauty. Thing is, we face the 'what will you think in thirty years' question more than people who see the MD who modifies our bodies, but that's not the point. The point is we have the means and we find our comfort, and though the canvass was beautiful before the paint, we have now learned and found a way to enjoy that canvas even more.
I am proud of my beautiful mother. She also has two tattoos, by the way. I am glad that she is closer to her comfort and closer to the beauty that those around her have been seeing for [my mom's age] years. (C'mon. I'm stupid, but not stupid enough to reveal a woman's age.) Then I ate ham. Stay beautiful, kids.
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