I’m going to comfort myself by starting with a sweeping generalization on humankind and say it’s fairly common for people to wish they looked different, had different shaped or sizes bodies, or had different strengths and gifts they offered the world. For a very long, solid portion of my life, I had an almost comprehensive laundry list of "improvements" I desired. For illustrative purposes...
- wishing I didn’t have stretch marks on the backs of my legs as a 5th grader (...I wish I was joking, too)
- begging God that my reproductive system wasn't broken
- desperately wanting to shut my mind down and not worry/think about/obsess that someone I - even marginally - cared about was upset/unhappy.
That is not nearly exhaustive or embarrassing enough yet. As additional evidence, other things I've wished for myself at some point (or multiple points) throughout the last 25 or so years:
- a voice that could have made it past 6th grade choir cuts
- brown eyes
- green eyes
- nicer/designer clothes
- blue-er eyes
- straight hair
- blonde hair
- "messy bun" kind of hair
- smaller thighs
- small calves
- hell, average-size calves
- less attention to/obsession with detail
- decreased capacity for love
- less trusting
- bigger breasts (or smaller, too, circa probably around fifth grade and also three months into breastfeeding twins and trying to do burpees...)
- more extroverted
- less awkward
- less empathy
- less prone to dream up unrealistic hopes and expectations for holidays, birthdays, etc.
I could go on. However, (hopefully) needless to say, I have never been shy about seeing greener pastures in things I was not privy to.
Overriding, or perhaps, encompassing all of these things, is how much I “care” - about absolutely everything and anything - including things I should care about, things I shouldn’t, and things anyone who has ever had to live with me begged the higher powers that be I would stop caring about. And to be clear, I don’t mean care in just the kind, thoughtful sense of the word (i.e. towards or for people). I do mean caring about people in the traditional sense (including family, friends, colleagues, and total strangers who are purchasing MLS tickets from me off Craigslist), but also caring - or perhaps “obsessing” - about the things on the list above, and also things like:
“Who cares?” and “Does anyone even care?” do not apply in my world. The answer YES. SO. MUCH. YES. I do. Me. Right here.
- how underwear gets folded,
- the acceptable volume at which one should talk on the telephone, and
- when and how one yawns, chews, and sighs (yes, again, I wish I was joking, too).
So, now that I’ve aired the bulk of the things that make both me and my family grateful I found someone willing to love me anyway, back to the question: What would you give up?
In the “early days” (11 years is 33% of my life, so the length of my wife and I's relationship is not trivial, proportionally), I used to get asked this question on repeat by my wife (well, she wasn’t my wife when she had to he ask me this on repeat, but was asked on repeat by her, as a human, whose identity is now wifey... whew).
When I used to be able to pull myself out of my spiraling tizzies of anxiety, and reflect and process through what the hell just happened, I’d land at something like “Why do I have to be so anal about things? Why do I have to obsess over every detail and fact in such unproductive ways? Why can’t I just not care?”
We’d get done with a fight that I’d pushed us into because I just HAD to know why (and why that, and then why that, and so on... on robotic repeat...), discuss the facts, and completely ignore any kind of discussion of feelings that weren’t rigidly connected to cold hard facts. I am ridiculously, maddening, compulsively obsessed with facts and logic, with little understanding of how or why feelings should factor in (clearly ironic given my passions in life based on and career around human centered design - it’s why my work style and personality assessments always come out conflicting and in the <1% of everyone category - it’s complicated). Usually through sobs, I’d say (or still say, this still happens no matter how harshly self-aware I am on this front), “I wish I wasn’t this way. I know it makes living with and loving me so damn hard. Why did you pick me? You knew this when you signed up for this, but why on earth did you?!”
Yet, even faced with her own real life Sheldon Cooper, she asks me, “What would you give up?” Your intelligence? Your humor? What?” I usually just cry more then. Or force her to say what she’d trade about me, which lands us at her next wise saying she blasts at me regularly, “it’s a blessing and a curse.” And I steadfastly believe it. There is no trait I have, physical or personality wise, that even if it has curse-like moments, isn’t also a blessing, and vice versa. Everything in this world taken to extremes can be toxic and unhealthy, but I have learned to love my quirks.
If I had been the effortlessly gorgeous, super-popular girl in primary school, I wouldn’t have developed the empathy I leverage daily in both my personal and work world as an adult (not saying all those beauties lack empathy in their adult life, just naming it taught me some really important life lessons day in and day out...).
If I hadn’t struggled with my weight and eating disorder as a tween, teen, and twenty-something, I wouldn't have had to develop expertise in nutrition, exercise, and balance at early age -- and been sitting comfortably in my thirties, having already had to battle that which comes with your thirties (like not having the metabolism of a hummingbird anymore), my whole life.
Both of those things, for lack of a better or more eloquent word, sucked at the time. But trading those things would have completely altered my life and who I became - and will be.
My obsession with people in my life being happy, fulfilled, and satisfied keeps me up at night... Would I give that up and take being uncaring and flippant in its place? It’d be really (really) nice to be able to shut off that part of my brain, but no, never. It’s what makes me who I am as a leader, friend, and human.
My rhinoceros-worthy calves have been the bane of my existence since as long as I can remember (even before the stretch marks). Would I trade my waistline? My ability to run over 26 miles and have my lungs get tired, but never my legs? Please. Nope.
I abhor that I can’t stand to not get all 12k of my steps every. single. damn. day. ...Even when that means walking in circles in my house at 10pm when I want to be in bed, or going to the gym at 6am in 20 degree weather to get it out of the way on a Saturday morning. I lack the ability to let things go and relax, even a smidge, when it comes to commitments and deadlines. It’s a curse, but it also means I am physically healthy and seen as super reliable, organized, and successful at what I do in life. It means I get high checking things off a to do list (and making them, in the first place). It means I can set ambitious, often ridiculous goals and know I’ll hit them. How awesome is that?
While I don’t think god/the universe gives out finite numbers of gifts to each human, I do think that no one gets it all, no matter what appears to be the case, perhaps, from the outside. We all have our “nice to have” lists and even our “demons” - some are worn more visibly than others, but we all have them. As a 33 year old woman, I’m coming (still very much a work in progress here) to appreciate and celebrate my strengths in such a way that I’m unwilling to compromise on for other gifts or perks, no matter how challenging it can be to hold on to all of who I am at times.
So, as I googled this “aging challenge” thing that's all the rage, apparently, and tried to get hip to it by putting my own ten-year spread together, I was curious to see the point or lesson people were taking from it. Were all the captions about missing that youthful face, or about celebrating older and wiser selves?
Well. A of all, it’s mostly teens and 20-somethings, so it’s essentially baby faces pitted against marginally older baby faces. As such (and B of all), the investigation flatlined with a lot of “omg look at me, smh, tbh idk what I was thinking. ikr?” Which quickly lost my interest. Shockingly.
At that point I halted the Instagram blackhole I was in from swallowing my humanity and went back to 2009 in my photos. Which, candidly, was far easier than I thought... My gut reaction of “gah, I’m going to have to dig into picture files from high school or college” turned out to be deeply humbling. Umm, no. Not at all... Try being in your second year of being an adult responsible for hundreds of children mastering 7th grade math.
I had an iPhone 10 years ago for goodness sake. (Headline = Not that hard. And time flies.)
About 20 seconds of scrolling and 16,000 pictures earlier (not an exaggeration, I’m loose with the shutter button) and here I was. In all my 23 year old glory. As I looked at photos I scrutinized my laugh lines, my frown lines, and all my skin damage. I saw a face free of most of those (but still gray hairs, so there’s that), but also eyes of someone who I knew was struggling in a daily basis with very real external stressors (see mention of being a second year teacher, above), as well as a slew of internal insecurities.
I’m good with the three “huh?” wrinkles in my forehead in exchange for all the knowledge I have gained in response to those “WTF?” moments. Those smile lines demarcate a woman who graduated from a state of constant worry and insecurity. My dark sun spots that used to be distinguishable freckles came with the long walks and time I spent outside discovering the grass is not in fact greener on the other side, usually. No complaints here.
In attempt de-romanticize this love song for skin defects, a bit, let me be clear that I absolutely would trade the less than perfect complexion in exchange for having spent hundreds of dollars in a facial care routine over the last 10 years that I refused to believe was a priority until recently, and now swear by.
10 years ago came with a naive, insecure, anxious, and extremely imbalanced (all or none) self. So nah, I’m good. I’ll even take the not pictured, but very deflated breasts that came with this circus of a thing called motherhood.
Yes, I envy people who can walk into a store and buy normal sized boots off the shelf. I envy people who can not give a fuck about what I might be thinking/feeling/obsessing over while they close their computers and peace out for the night or weekend (or an entire spring break as I painfully recall a few years back). But I’m not willing to give up anything I have for those things, so here I am. Owning and loving (or trying to, anyway) every gift, quirk, and annoying AF trait I have.
Most of the time.