I attended my first TVC shoot on Friday (the one I’d been choreographing the children for). After two hours of cut! repeat! run around! look bored! dance! dance! dance! the kids became irritable. Personally, I was ready to kick the music system over and my lower abdomen was cramping ominously.
That I hadn’t posted my mumsy outfit and story of the day was making me tetchy, especially because the dress had become streaked with grass stains and what looked like crushed millipedes.
The filming went on so long, I thought I was going to miss the premiere performance of The River and the Mountain. That I didn’t cry at all is a sign that my tear buds are finally getting a life.
Here’s the Friday post:
Today is dull and angsty. Not even the sound of children playing “by shoe I love you baby” at the reception is making me happy. I’ve been considering feeling upset, like deciding on it, but that will violate my resolution to bring more rationality to my life.
My temper flares a lot. I return to happiness quickly, but the flaring hurts feelings (sorry is not magic. People have to feel like forgiving you) and it entertains some very sick people, some of whom are my friends (bastards).
One of the dumbest things I’ve done while irrationally angry is paint “You’re a stupid, stoopid jerk” or some such on the white door of some boy’s muzigo. I even broke some eggs on the veranda and placed roasted beaver feet on the yolks to make him think witchcraft was a-brew. This was in revenge of him finding love and ceasing to like/need me.
The next time we met, he shook his head and laughed. Laughed! And then I had to go around feeling paranoid that he’d blab to our friends and they’d think me silly or lonely or petty or all of the above.
Things had been going OK between us (I thought) when he stopped feeding me attention. I was unhappy about the sudden silence and even more unhappy when I found out that he’d found-found somebody.
The am-I-not-pretty-enough/am-I-flawed questions didn’t spare me. I’d spent so much time battling that shit and was certain I’d made incredible progress until this stuff happened and I found myself standing in front of a mirror, trying to find my pretty. Those were icky, embarrassing days.
Like fashion, beauty ideals change often and a crazily large portion of the world’s population cracks themselves in half trying to fit them. As I was growing up, I was conditioned to believe that I couldn’t be beautiful if I didn’t have: light skin, a small waist, if I was Acholi, if my hair wasn’t treated, if I was taller than the boys around me, e.t.c.
I long slammed my fabulous hand in the face of that silliness, but my reaction to that guy moving on from me and the thoughts that invaded my mind at the time make me fear that my skin isn’t as thick as I believe and I still have many layers of self confidence and maturity to grow.
I honestly wish there was some kind of steroid for this.
Here’s my mumsy outfit of the day:
That’s my little herb garden. Only the parsley is looking promising so far.