I believe words have power. We can let them victimize, define or empower us. We don’t have control over the words people use. We don’t have control over our initial emotional responses to the words, good or bad. However, we do have control over how we will internalize them.
I spent 13 years in a mis-fit marriage. He was your mother’s prized rose and I was the wild tiger lily. He was gourmet Italian coffee and I was the Starbucks seasonal blend. He was a polished business suit and I was denim cut-offs and a comfy t-shirt. I often equated us to a business man holding a balloon. The business man keeps the balloon grounded. However, it is ultimately an illusion. If he holds onto it forever, the balloon will eventually wilt and sink. If he lets it go, the balloon will fly off and never return.
Most of the time, I tried very hard to be the perfect Mrs. Businessman. I was quiet, respectful. I taught Sunday school, and had the perfect conservative neutral make-up, perfect hair with the ends neatly curled under. I wore polo shirts and khakis. I baked cookies, kept the house clean, and raised our two wonderful little boys. I had an 8-5 job that provided mad money, but that also allowed me to always be available to our children while he traveled and became more and more successful.
I was classy. I was miserable.
Occasionally I would venture outside the acceptable Mrs. Businessman role. I dyed the underside of my red hair platinum blonde. I wore overall shorts made from patchwork fabric I bought at a boutique in Saugatuck, Michigan. Mr. Businessman was not pleased. He would call me “crazy” and demand I fix my hair and discard my beloved overalls.
By the time of my 30th birthday, I was becoming more bold. I went to a tattoo parlor (a place that had always seemed a bit scary and intimidating in the past) and I got *gasp* my nose pierced. A tiny diamond stud. Mr. Businessman was not pleased. Later I went so far as to get a tattoo on my shoulder – of course in a place that could be covered at any business party or other social situation where such things would be disproved. Mr. Businessman was furious. Again, I was “crazy”.
However, by this point in my life…so much else had transpired…so much that needn’t be aired on a blog that is really supposed to be fun! Something changed in me and I realized, I *LIKED* being crazy! If crazy meant fun hair, silly clothes, tattoos, nose piercings, and the freedom to fly…then I *WANTED* to be crazy.
And Crazy Tracy Girl was born.
And she isn’t always classy. But she is happy.