Was I trying to offend people this week, writing about a hot-button political issue AND about sex? Why didn’t I drag religion into it too? I could have described the Ruben Bolling cartoon that shows the Supreme Being out on the hustings. (”God’s Election Campaign,” the caption reads, next to a campaign poster with a shot of the deity Himself, duly robed and bearded, standing against a background of stars and planets. “My 12 billion year term is almost up,” He’s saying, one finger raised in a gesture of public address, “and I need your support for 12 billion more!” The caption under the photo: “God For Supreme Deity’’ with the persuasive slogan, ”Hey, his name is GOD!!”)
I also showed a picture of a mustached woman that I scored from a Google search and that was not only mean but maybe even illegal what with the new privacy laws. I do feel a little remorseful about that. I should have just shown a picture of my own mustache…
All of which has me remembering what happened one day in the midst of my own personal 15 minutes of fame, namely when I got to the Finals in the competition to send a journalist up in the Shuttle.
I was in the bathroom ‘treating’ my unwanted hair when I heard something through the open window. It had been more than a month since the TV reporters had been here and now here I was an obscure private citizen again, in running shorts and a sports bra, razor in hand, one leg angled up like a grasshopper’s to bring it into the sink and a line of mustache-bleaching foam on my upper lip.
That’s when I heard the two lawn-mowing guys who had just pulled up in a truck across the street.
“See that house?” one said, pointing to our place. “That’s where the ASTRONAUT lives!”
I looked in the mirror at this unsightly stork with the fat white caterpillar of Jolen under her nose and thought “You? who would ever send you anywhere, except maybe to makeover school?’
It was one of those clarifying moments when you see yourself as you really are and it made me laugh that little worm right off my upper lip. It was a lesson for me, in not believing my own hype and in not taking myself so seriously.
I could beat my breast here and issue my usual mea culpas but instead I think I’ll just grab the Sunday funnies and crawl back in bed. I bet even that Hey-his name-is-God guy sometimes steps off the hustings to just let it be. I’ll end with this shot of me, taken around the last year of my life I could get along without the waxes and the bleach. Happy Sunday y’all~!