Conley and I went to the AT&T store the other day for a new phone. Gil, the associate who helped us, was young and friendly. As he was checking out our account, he joyfully told me that we could save some money. Considering that a phone bill for a family of three somehow now costs the same as one of those vanity space shuttle rides, I told Gil, “Please, tell me more.”
And, he did. Unfortunately, Gil was unaware that instead of saying words, he could have saved us both some time by simply spitting directly in my face. You see, when Gil opened his sweet little baby mouth, he said, “Yes, if you have your AARP membership handy, we can save you a good bit every month?”
What did you say, dear lad? My what? My membership to the American Association of Retired People? Did he think I had made a bundle in the stock market, retired before I was legally old enough to run for POTUS, and I now fill my days with exciting adventures like getting the best deal on my daughter’s phone? Then I started questioning myself; did I accidentally get dressed in elastic-waisted polyester pants and a snappy cardigan, despite the sweltering heat? Did I pinch him on the cheek and offer him a hard candy?
I assured him that I wasn’t just a mom, I was a cool mom and was years away from retirement. He just shrugged and said, “Ok, what about triple A? Are you a triple A member?”
“Why yes, Gil, yes, I am a triple A member!” Why wouldn’t we have just started with the membership whose main goal is to provide roadside assistance and towing services in case of an emergency, rather than the one that is for those who are headed toward the leisurely days of not punching a clock?
When we got home, still with a phone bill that is about the same amount as the gross national product of a small Norwegian country, I lingered in the mirror for a second. I noticed the lines on the side of my eyes were a little deeper and the skin around my neck was a little looser than it once was. I don’t look like I did on my wedding day or the day Conley was born. I know the wrinkles will increase and the elasticity will decrease. Furthermore, I wish that I could tell you that these were things that didn’t bother me in the least. However, that would be a lie. Admittedly, I am a fairly vain person and take a certain amount of pride in my appearance. Perhaps that makes me somewhat shallow, but I’m ok splashing around the swallow part of the pool sometimes – as long as I remember to spend most of my time in the deep end.
However, as I took inventory of the new lines across my face, I started to think about how for the first time in my life, I was comfortable with myself. I know who I am and I like that person.
To paraphrase Brandi Carlile, the lines across my face tell you the story of who I am.
They whispered that I have been ashamed and tormented. They stated that I clawed my way out of a cycle of abuse and addiction and poverty. Those lines told me that I was once filled with so much doubt that all I knew to do was mask it with boisterous cockiness. They proclaimed that it took me decades to believe that I was truly worthy of love, and that not everyone would leave me.
Then those lines started telling me how I was happy; how I was proud of the life I had made, and the person I had become. They reminded me that I love deeply and protect fiercely. They told me that I am loved, liked and respected. And, they reminded me that there is nothing better than deep laugh lines because a life filled with joy and humor is the only one worth living.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
