The overall picture of the book is somewhat related to something we're exploring at work right now, so it's doubly interesting to me; sports medicine and psychology is moving right up my interest ladder.
Anyway, a passage at the very end of the book really stuck with me, and I thought I'd share it. The author is talking about learning to love yourself again, writing a new story, and finding new beginnings. This is one of her new beginnings.
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I am sitting at a picnic table with a chattering gaggle of eight-year-old girls high on their morning Pop-Tarts. They are sprinkling sparkles over pools of glue and telling me stories about their moms and sisters, who "get worried and then eat, like only grapefruit and stuff for days but then screw up and eat chips or something and then feel bad and then eat more grapefruit and stuff." I ask them what they think "pretty" is.
The ringleader, a stocky blonde with a gap between her two tiny, Chiclet-like front teeth, jumps up from the table and practically screams: "You want to see my impression of a prom queen?"
"Yes, definitely," I reply, trying to move my voice recorder so it will pick up her performance.
She puts one hand on her head, palm facing up, apparently symbolizing a crown, and other other on her hip, and then starts sashaying around the picnic table in circles, shouting, "Hey, boys, look at me! Look at me, boys! Look at my royal heinie, boys! Isn't it so cute?" The rest of the gaggle erupts in exaggerated little-girl laughter, throwing themselves on the picnic table and dragging their knotty hair through the pools of sparkles.
One little girl, with a voice as small as any I have ever heard and hair black as the crows perched in the pinon trees surrounding us, leans over to my notebook and writes with a stubby, orange-colored pencil, "You are pretty. I think you have nice hair," and encircles her secret messages in a big lopsided heart.
"Thank you," I whisper in her ear, tears threatening to sneak out of the corners of my eyes. This little girl thinks I am asking these questions because I really don't know the answers. Suddenly it occurs to me that she is probably right. I am looking for wisdom from eight-year-olds with puff-painted shirts and stacks of brightly colored rubber bracelets.
I am not looking in the wrong place. I ask, "What about in the future? Do you think you will worry about stuff like your moms and big sisters in the future?"
A spindly little animal of a girl made entirely of bone and muscle jumps off the picnic table with her arms splayed out from her sides in the shape of wings and shouts, "In the future there will be flying cars! In the future, we will all be beautiful!"
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Hmmm...if only people will believe that. Even the flying cars part. Although I don't know; from my experiences, most people have enough trouble driving cars on the road. :)
As touchy-feely, girl-powery as that passage may have been, it's still a reminder. Don't forget to tell the girls and women around you how beautiful they are (and not just because they're having a good hair day!). And especially don't forget to tell yourself every once in awhile. Heck, why not every day?? I have a friend who likes to say, "I can't wait for tomorrow." To which I would inquire, "Why not?" Their response: "Because I get better-looking every day." A little egotistical, perhaps, but sometimes much-needed self praise.
