My last post, which I find to be well-written, and hopefully humorous, has a tone with which I grow increasingly uncomfortable. It feels to me a week later as though I was mocking myself. "Yeh right! Who would ever want to be with somebody like you? Maybe, just maybe if you attain a level of beauty and slimness, that will compensate for the disability and you *might* get a guy. Maybe. But not too likely."
No matter how hard I try to leave behind my "Madison Avenue" worldview, it tags along like a younger sibling one's parents insisted accompany you on a hot date with a great guy. All enjoyment is tainted by the clinging, annoying, whiny presence and the resentment that you can't ditch the brat.
Hey Madison Avenue. Get outta my car. I'm leaving you on the side of the road. I have a great life to lead, and I'm not dragging you around to ruin it anymore. You've traveled with me far enough, whispered your lies long enough, and I'm tossing you on your rear on the shoulder of the highway, slamming the door, and flooring the gas. Eat my dust.
You told me I was ugly and couldn't be loved. I say, "Look at all the people who DO love me and are attracted to my beauty... the inner beauty of love, valor, faith, compassion, humor, and intelligence."
You told me I was crippled and couldn't be loved. I say, "I love myself and others. And have more love now, as an overweight woman with a disability than when I was slim and physically attractive in college."
You told me no man would ever find me sexually attractive. I say, "Balderdash!" or "Poppycock!" or "Oh Pish!"
So long Madison Avenue. I'm off to the dance and you are not invited.
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