My red hair glows, a flaming copper mane, and I laugh. I pull on my helmet, stoked to lay down my best tricks this time and every time. I drop in.
I swoosh down over the smooth snow of the half-pipe, picking up speed. I am a daredevil, thrilled by the challenge. I fly up over the lip of the wall to perform in the wide open sky. My body twists, spins, flips and rotates. One after the other, I throw down my tricks with style and power. I am the flying tomato, a symbol of relaxed freedom in a fiery marriage with excellence, individuality and the creative spirit. With perfect balance, I stick the landings.
I am not sluggish and inward-looking, wondering what I should do with my day. I do not spend time on repetitive domestic tasks like unloading the dishwasher. Nor do I waste time looking for a lost sock or re-folding clothes in a drawer. No. I do not follow a mundane schedule or walk in a rut, and I am not constantly straightening things up.
Instead, I drop down by helicopter into the Alaskan wilderness, where I speed over the rugged terrain on my board--outracing avalanches and flying over gorges. I cut a path, smooth and fast, down the mountain's face. I know how to dig a body from the snow, and I am unafraid, riding fearlessly through time.
I do not hem myself in, and I am not limited by body or mind. I don't stroll to the bakery, questioning my life's purpose, feeling uncertain and alone. I don't focus on commas and semicolons and rules--or on what others think--to give me legitimacy.
I am the one who comes up with the tricks while lying in my bed at night, the particular flips and rotations. I create them, and friends participate in the joy and applaud. I go big. A double McTwist, back-to-back double corks. I throw down my run. I stomp it.
2/24/10
2/17/10
Glamour-Puss
I hear her in her bedroom making a video tutorial: "I'm going to show you how to get a pretty and fast 'smoky eye.' I know some people only use gray, but I think brown makes it look really pretty--it pops!"
Like a bright child pursuing an exhaustive knowledge of dinosaurs, twelve-year-old Adele studies makeup with passion and intensity. When she's not doing homework, practicing sports or playing with her neighbor friend, she's busy experimenting with a wide assortment of brushes and powders.
My basic rule for her is "No makeup at school." Plus, lately, I've added a few specific restrictions, such as, "No liquid foundation."
No liquid foundation? I wouldn't have guessed I'd need to set this particular limit with a sixth grader.
"Why not?" she protests at the drugstore. "Colette used to have some."
"No. She only used it as a spot concealer. And we threw it out."
"Then how about tinted moisturizer?" Adele bargains.
"No. You have beautiful natural skin."
"Fine," she harrumphs, heading to the loose mineral powders, weekly allowance in hand.
For Christmas, Adele asked for makeup lessons, so I scheduled a floor appointment for her at MAC and bought her Bobbi Brown's Makeup Manual. At bedtime, I read to her from Bobbi Brown: "I used to experiment with concealer on lips to make a pale lip color statement while doing Brigitte Bardot-inspired, dark, smoky eyes...." Adele listens with rapt attention. It's getting late, and I yawn.
"Keep reading," she says.
"The best artists continually want to learn," I read. "Artists who think they know everything don't grow."
When Adele was a baby, I said she was my little Sophia Loren. A fine-featured beauty with a glamorous look, her dark eyes sparkled. Her appeal was magnetic.
When she was two, still toddling about the house sucking a pacifier, her big sister said to me, "When Adele grows up, she's going to be the kind of person everybody knows. I'll ask people, 'Do you know my sister?' and they'll say, 'Adele? Of course!'"
Adele's small dresser now holds a large basket of brushes, mascaras, eyeliners, eyeshadow palettes, blushes and lip glosses, each organized in separate cups and cosmetic bags. The looks she creates are frequently stunning. "Wow!" I can't help but say. "Nice cat eyes! How did you do that?"
Steve and I live in a world populated by academics and vegetarians, so we were at first nonplussed by this developing interest and expertise. Sometimes I fret about it--about the effect of the beauty industry on young girls, about sex roles and stereotypes, about the related focus on appearance. A friend who teaches middle school and whose children are grown reassures me, "It's okay. We all need something to outgrow."
I imagine there's a high likelihood that our pre-teen daughter will outgrow this current focus. But I intend to leave room for the chance that she won't. In the meantime, we're involved in it with her, honoring her flair and spirit, giving her the tools she needs to grow, in this case a round contour brush with dense bristles. I pick up a few tips for myself in the process. I buy eyeshadow primer--something Adele taught me about--and I ask the woman at the Lancome counter to show me a couple of eyeliners, something with a little zing, something that pops.
Like a bright child pursuing an exhaustive knowledge of dinosaurs, twelve-year-old Adele studies makeup with passion and intensity. When she's not doing homework, practicing sports or playing with her neighbor friend, she's busy experimenting with a wide assortment of brushes and powders.
My basic rule for her is "No makeup at school." Plus, lately, I've added a few specific restrictions, such as, "No liquid foundation."
No liquid foundation? I wouldn't have guessed I'd need to set this particular limit with a sixth grader.
"Why not?" she protests at the drugstore. "Colette used to have some."
"No. She only used it as a spot concealer. And we threw it out."
"Then how about tinted moisturizer?" Adele bargains.
"No. You have beautiful natural skin."
"Fine," she harrumphs, heading to the loose mineral powders, weekly allowance in hand.
For Christmas, Adele asked for makeup lessons, so I scheduled a floor appointment for her at MAC and bought her Bobbi Brown's Makeup Manual. At bedtime, I read to her from Bobbi Brown: "I used to experiment with concealer on lips to make a pale lip color statement while doing Brigitte Bardot-inspired, dark, smoky eyes...." Adele listens with rapt attention. It's getting late, and I yawn.
"Keep reading," she says.
"The best artists continually want to learn," I read. "Artists who think they know everything don't grow."
When Adele was a baby, I said she was my little Sophia Loren. A fine-featured beauty with a glamorous look, her dark eyes sparkled. Her appeal was magnetic.
When she was two, still toddling about the house sucking a pacifier, her big sister said to me, "When Adele grows up, she's going to be the kind of person everybody knows. I'll ask people, 'Do you know my sister?' and they'll say, 'Adele? Of course!'"
Adele's small dresser now holds a large basket of brushes, mascaras, eyeliners, eyeshadow palettes, blushes and lip glosses, each organized in separate cups and cosmetic bags. The looks she creates are frequently stunning. "Wow!" I can't help but say. "Nice cat eyes! How did you do that?"
Steve and I live in a world populated by academics and vegetarians, so we were at first nonplussed by this developing interest and expertise. Sometimes I fret about it--about the effect of the beauty industry on young girls, about sex roles and stereotypes, about the related focus on appearance. A friend who teaches middle school and whose children are grown reassures me, "It's okay. We all need something to outgrow."
I imagine there's a high likelihood that our pre-teen daughter will outgrow this current focus. But I intend to leave room for the chance that she won't. In the meantime, we're involved in it with her, honoring her flair and spirit, giving her the tools she needs to grow, in this case a round contour brush with dense bristles. I pick up a few tips for myself in the process. I buy eyeshadow primer--something Adele taught me about--and I ask the woman at the Lancome counter to show me a couple of eyeliners, something with a little zing, something that pops.
2/10/10
Go Speed Racer, Go!
"You take Adele sledding," I told Steve last Saturday morning, the day after the girls had stayed home from school due to snow. "I need some time to myself."
Like tastebuds that dull over time, my inner drive for excitement and stimulation has dwindled some. For example, I no longer want to spend hours tumbling in the surf when I go to the beach. I'm happy enough to sit on a towel in the warm sand and keep an eye on the girls while they experience firsthand the roiling, cold and mighty ocean.
That is why I chose to drink tea by the fire and fill in a crossword puzzle while Steve took Adele sledding. When they returned, wet and snowy, he showed me the pictures he'd taken. As I stuffed their ice-caked socks, gloves and coats in the dryer, I realized I'd made a mistake. In my resistance to the cold and my desire to be free of their needs, I'd missed out on the experience entirely.
So I invited Steve and the girls to go back out sledding with me in the afternoon. On a steep, snow-covered street busy with sledders, I found an old wooden Flexible Flyer, the kind I'd used when I was a girl, propped against a tree and waiting for a rider. I pulled it up the hill, lay down on it and pushed off. Then I flew down the long street on its thin metal rails. Exhilarated, laughing loudly, I felt the ground whistling beneath my body as I sped down the hill. At the bottom, I rolled into the snow, got up and brushed myself off for another run.
"How is it?" Steve called, taking pictures.
"Fantastic!" I yelled. "Dangerously fast! These old sleds are insane! Do you want to go down on it?"
"No way," he said.
On one ride, I barreled down the street so fast I had to deliberately ditch myself in a front yard to avoid running into the intersection at the bottom of the hill. The sled hit a snow-hidden curb, and I shot forward as if from a cannon, landing face first in the snow. I did not attempt the jump that the neighbor kids had set up, wisely determining that my spine might not be as flexible as theirs. When it was time to go home, I returned the sled to its tree, thrilled.
I spent the following day, Sunday, sore from wiping out, hobbling around the house taking Advil. One afternoon had been enough for me, but Adele went back out with friends. Happy and invigorated by my experience, I made a mental note to continue to push myself to directly partake in life's pleasures and possibilities.
On Monday, Becki, who is just my age and who comes every other week to help clean our house, let herself in with the key. I heard an uncharacteristic, lumbering limp as she made her way up the stairs to our study. When she reached the landing, I saw the raw and scabby wound covering the length of her nose.
"Oh, no! What happened?"
"Don't ever go sledding at night," she warned, "and especially not after two margaritas." She described how she'd run off the road into a concrete drainage trench and was lucky her head hadn't hit the culvert wall.
I couldn't help chuckling at her deadpan admonition, but it was a serious matter and solid advice, so I made another mental note, knowing that two margaritas could still have the power to stir in me a foolhardy desire to do just such a thing.
Like tastebuds that dull over time, my inner drive for excitement and stimulation has dwindled some. For example, I no longer want to spend hours tumbling in the surf when I go to the beach. I'm happy enough to sit on a towel in the warm sand and keep an eye on the girls while they experience firsthand the roiling, cold and mighty ocean.
That is why I chose to drink tea by the fire and fill in a crossword puzzle while Steve took Adele sledding. When they returned, wet and snowy, he showed me the pictures he'd taken. As I stuffed their ice-caked socks, gloves and coats in the dryer, I realized I'd made a mistake. In my resistance to the cold and my desire to be free of their needs, I'd missed out on the experience entirely.
So I invited Steve and the girls to go back out sledding with me in the afternoon. On a steep, snow-covered street busy with sledders, I found an old wooden Flexible Flyer, the kind I'd used when I was a girl, propped against a tree and waiting for a rider. I pulled it up the hill, lay down on it and pushed off. Then I flew down the long street on its thin metal rails. Exhilarated, laughing loudly, I felt the ground whistling beneath my body as I sped down the hill. At the bottom, I rolled into the snow, got up and brushed myself off for another run.
"How is it?" Steve called, taking pictures.
"Fantastic!" I yelled. "Dangerously fast! These old sleds are insane! Do you want to go down on it?"
"No way," he said.
On one ride, I barreled down the street so fast I had to deliberately ditch myself in a front yard to avoid running into the intersection at the bottom of the hill. The sled hit a snow-hidden curb, and I shot forward as if from a cannon, landing face first in the snow. I did not attempt the jump that the neighbor kids had set up, wisely determining that my spine might not be as flexible as theirs. When it was time to go home, I returned the sled to its tree, thrilled.
I spent the following day, Sunday, sore from wiping out, hobbling around the house taking Advil. One afternoon had been enough for me, but Adele went back out with friends. Happy and invigorated by my experience, I made a mental note to continue to push myself to directly partake in life's pleasures and possibilities.
On Monday, Becki, who is just my age and who comes every other week to help clean our house, let herself in with the key. I heard an uncharacteristic, lumbering limp as she made her way up the stairs to our study. When she reached the landing, I saw the raw and scabby wound covering the length of her nose.
"Oh, no! What happened?"
"Don't ever go sledding at night," she warned, "and especially not after two margaritas." She described how she'd run off the road into a concrete drainage trench and was lucky her head hadn't hit the culvert wall.
I couldn't help chuckling at her deadpan admonition, but it was a serious matter and solid advice, so I made another mental note, knowing that two margaritas could still have the power to stir in me a foolhardy desire to do just such a thing.
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