Renee, Bono, and you

So, Renee Zellweger got a new face. Megan Garber already wrote what I wanted to say and did it better. But you know whose face no one seems to be writing about with as much criticism and doubt? Bono. Bono who just told us about his face after 20 years. He copped on the Graham Norton Show to having glaucoma. He finally explained how the signature sunglasses he's been sporting to meet Congressmen in their offices and to woo fans onstage are actually his shields against irritating lights.

So Renee, whom most people would likely recognize on an awards show but might not immediately notice in an elevator, becomes a tabloid bat girl overnight. We can't stop looking and studying and doing a fair compare. The?

But Bono, whom most people would walk into an elevator and pass out from the star encounter, gets to throw shade for 20 years. When he finally feels ready to share, we say, Sure, dude. Glad you're getting the treatment you need. Then we go back to eating our Luna Bars and hearting all of Instagram with its filtered pics.

You might say, yeah, but Renee changed her face permanently. Bono just put on a pair of specs. It's not the same.

Or did she? Or did he?

Why don't we want to believe the stories people tell us about themselves? Why do we believe ourselves an authority on others' lives? Why is there only one acceptable narrative, until the better, truthier one emerges? What if Renee is just really taking better care of herself, getting more rest? Do I believe it? Why does it matter?

I asked my newsreporting students: [tweet bird="yes"]What is the question you get asked that immediately puts you into a box?[/tweet]

Women and men alike responded...

"You're so tall--why don't you play basketball?"

"You have a disability--will you be able to get a job?"

"You're from Nigeria--do you know my cousin from the Congo?"

"You moved here from New York--how has your adjustment been?"

It made me realize: Sometimes we don't like the answers we're given because we aren't asking the right questions, or we aren't waiting for the right time.

Or maybe--maybe the answer isn't ready yet. Maybe it's going to take another 20 years.

Dairy Queen, 15 yrs. old

I ride a red-hot mountain bike to my shifts at Dairy Queen. Parents, if you want to safeguard your children against delinquency, ensure that they have to ride a wild hog like that around town. Transportation by two-wheeler does not a mischievous adolescent make. I leave my house a half an hour early for my shift at the DQ, having completed the story problem in my head: If Kendra wants to reach her destination three miles away and have both hands off the handlebar and she pedals at a pace of…. [tweet bird="yes"]Coolness: there was no app for that.[/tweet]

After I get my driver’s license, I am occasionally allowed to borrow the mini-van to drive to work. One night, while mopping the floor at DQ, I accidentally hit my head on the corner of a stainless steel prep table. I continue mopping until I see red droplets falling on the floor, coming from my head. I want to go tell my manager that I think I am bleeding but as I approach her, the information and the blood cross circuits and I stand there smiling creepily at her, pointing to my head.

“Why did you squirt Mr. Misty syrup on your head?” my manager asks, slightly annoyed.

My mouth is moving. The words are not.

“Oh my goodness! Oh Oh, sit down. Oh, that’s blood. Okay, hang on, let me call your parents.”

Both of my parents arrive in my dad’s car, wearing their pajamas. One to drive me home, one to drive the minivan home since I am too disoriented to get behind the wheel.

I totally hope my bloody slush story is part of the folklore of the Bay Village Dairy Queen.

***

The official uniform of high school evenings and weekends includes navy shorts two sizes too big and a beige polo with the DQ insignia. Weekdays I wear the navy pleated polyester dress code of my all-girls Catholic high school factory. Either a nun or a corporate queen dictates my high school wardrobe. You should see the fascism I overcome with a pair of socks.

(above: In spite of the fact that I look 9, this is actually my 16th birthday). 

I know teens today are busy texting their bosses GUNNA B L8 as they drive barefoot to Hollister, listening to Howard Stern full blast on XM. But one thing that has not changed is the misguided usage of “teen” as a noun or adjective. Open a Teen Cafe or launch a Teen Scene website and you are a teeny bit going to guarantee no one below the age of 43 will think it is the hippest. And remember I consider myself an authority on these matters, since I am the epitome of high school hip.

Author, ready for close-up

Last spring, precisely during the height of the season when I was writing exams and collecting exams and grading exams and generally sitting on my booty for hours on end and practicing peanut M&M therapy on my exam stress, I asked one of my students to take some author photos for me. Net net, it didn't happen. Too stressy of a season. Also, I would have all summer to get back to my fighting weight, to achieve that sun-kissed glow on the apples of my cheeks, to rest and recharge and to generally appear like I fell out of a Hanna Andersson catalogue, wearing brightly colored Dutch clogs to boot.

Net net, it didn't happen during the summer either.

So here I was, back in exam-dispensing land and not at my goal weight and generally feeling haggard about my appearance and searching in vain for that elusive twinkle that fell out of my eye sometime when I wasn't paying attention, when I was probably pinning Dutch clogs onto a Pinterest board named "Footwear Fantasy."

Then my friend Foxy wrote something on the social media about stepping onto a scale and realizing she was 20 lbs. lighter than her heaviest ever and it was not due to a crash diet or a wicked case of mono. She had just practiced eating healthier over a period of time. She had, in so many words, learned to love the body she'd been given and was seeking to live a life more abundant through this body mind soul gift.

I decided right then and there to book my portrait session with my wonderful student Jordan of JCorr Photography. That mystical moment where all the smoke would clear to reveal my size 4 self was never going to arrive. The best I could do was spare a little love for this lady and take a moment to capture the blessings of this season, because there are so many.

I'm pleased with the results, not because of my own vanity, but because these represent one woman whose time is rarely spent by herself, whose goals are often riding on the shirttails of others', who woke up one misty morning and felt fully alive and blessed and a little bit sassy with her lucky ladybug helmet.

P.S. Book a session with Jordan. He's amazing.