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If You Know You're Shallow, Does That Make You Deep?
by Bridgit DengelI'm the black sheep of the family because I don't get naked and I don't get high. My parents were hippies and I rebelled by becoming a Chanel girl. Or at least a wannabe Chanel girl. The truth is you never really escape your heritage, so my perfect little suits with matching slingbacks are all the wrong colors (that I love) like chartreuse and ochre. Growing up, I enjoyed the same pivotal landmarks as most kids - like learning to read. But I didn't recite some version of "See Dick run. See Jane eat." The first words I read all by myself were on a flyer someone handed me. "Kill the landlord pigs," I squealed. My parents were so proud they took me to my first protest. They got mad at me though and had to meditate, because I couldn't find the perfect outfit and took forever to get ready. I never regretted choosing my melon-colored eyelet jumper with matching earrings. I felt it complemented the rage. Growing up I wasn't allowed to do anything unnatural, like accessorize. Yet, our dinner conversations covered fornication, marijuana, hybridization and sado- masochistic- homo- erotic- masturbation. But hair care and manicures were taboo. I was allowed to paint anything BUT my face.
My brother and I definitely rebelled. We both wear makeup and we're very, very shallow. Mom would come home and say, "Today I chanted for world peace and built a safehouse for battered women. What did you do?" I could never match that. "I got some sparkly nailpolish." She was so furious I wasted money on such nonsense, she forced me to do a selfless deed. It figures that a former Catholic girl would make me do penance. I chose to donate my Wet-n-Wild nailpolish to the safehouse. It was gone in five minutes. My mother was livid at those battered women for being fashion slaves. In my mother's quest for betterment, she bears the scars of childbirth and a sit-in that got ugly. In my quest for betterment, I bear the scars of three separate curling incidents that went horribly wrong. I do envy that my folks came of age in such a galvanizing time. I'm way too old to be Gen X and a bit too young to be a Boomer, but like all black sheep (and most humans) I now find myself doing many of the same things my parents did. But once again, for all the wrong reasons (according to them). I've reconnected to yoga, not for inner peace (although I enjoy that benny) but for my inner thighs. I use chopsticks (not to celebrate all things "other") but to slow down my food intake. And I live in sin (which my parents totally approve of) not because we're not committed but because I can't decide what I'd wear to the wedding.
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