Fifty Things That Aren't My Fault

by Cathy Guisewite

  I knew the power of commiseration from writing the comic strip for so long, but I wasn’t expecting it from motherhood. Also, the comic strip put a comfortable distance between me, the person, and her, the character in the newspaper. My daughter only wanted the me part. Specifics. Names and dates. Photos, if possible. How bad did you look? . . . Who really saw you and what did they really say? The more details I shared of times I’d blown it in life, the more inspired she seemed to be to try. The more open I was about when I’d been afraid and weak, the braver and stronger she got. The more honest I was with her, the more honest she was with me.

  Drawing all those lines in the comic strip was nothing, it turned out, compared to the many, many lines I had to draw as a mom—between helping too much and helping too little . . . between being too strict and too lenient . . . between being the strong, all-knowing parent and being a friend sitting on the floor, confessing all the things I didn’t know.

  I didn’t exactly have to make up stories of my shortcomings.

  One of the great things I attempted as a mom was to get married to a man with a young son when my daughter was five years old, so she could grow up with a dad and a brother. One of the great things I didn’t do was figure out how to make my marriage and blended family work. By our tenth anniversary, my husband and I finally accepted the fact that everyone would live more happily ever after if we weren’t all under the same roof.

  Along the way, my daughter got to see plenty of examples of her imperfect mom in action. It helped a lot that we had a track record of talking and being able to laugh about the blunders. That also helped all four of us leave our family with wonderful memories of the things that did work when we were together. I came away with an ex-husband who’s still a best friend and a stepson I adore. My daughter has a dad who loves her dearly and a stepbrother who will always be a big, important part of her life.

  My eyes land on a picture of the two of them on her dresser across the room. They’re in the elementary school sandbox, arms wrapped around each other, both heads tilted back, howling at some shared, private sister-brother joke. I’m filled with love. Then filled with love’s first cousin, guilt. What I could have, should have, done differently . . . how I didn’t make this family that started so sweetly last . . .

  I wrench myself out of past remorse back to the here and now, but guilt comes along for the ride. The heaps of belongings on the dresser next to the joyful sister-brother picture . . . the jumble of stuff on the floor . . . Every bit of every pile that my daughter left for me to clean up in this room represents some failing of me as a mom. I helped my child learn to try and laugh, but I did not teach her how to fold, iron, organize, or put things away.

  Guilt expands and multiplies before I can stop it. I also didn’t teach her to budget, cook, or play the piano. She doesn’t know how to garden, clean the oven, sew, change a tire, roller-skate, build a wagon, tie a Girl Scout knot, fold a fitted sheet, do group sports or ballroom dance. She does not have an appreciation for art, music, or literature or understand the divisions of Congress or how to knit or write in cursive and it’s all my fault. . . .

  I reach across the bed for Carly, an especially dear, de-nosed, de-eyed, matted-furred, half-costumed stuffed puppy. “It’s all on my list every time she comes home from college, Carly,” I say, hugging her. “Part of the problem, you think? She comes home with all sorts of newfound confidence, and I greet her with the List.”

  I turn to the rest of my stuffed-animal village and try to put what I know we’re all feeling into words. “Our girl’s trying to figure out who she is without us, just like we are without her,” I finally say. “Every goodbye’s a little bit harder because it’s one closer to when it will be time to really let go. She comes home needing to try out her new independence and gets belligerent because I don’t appreciate the new upgraded version of her. I insult her by greeting her with the List, but I don’t mean to. I’m just panicked that I only have a short break to teach her everything I didn’t teach her in life until now. Scared that I didn’t do enough and that I’m out of time.

  “But there’s the middle of the visit too, when we both let down our defenses, when we relax, have fun, and are in love with each other. When we’re back to who we are. The team. When we can laugh like best friends at all that’s behind and still ahead of us. Back to being more than I ever dreamed a mom and daughter could be, when Dionne and I sang her that first lullaby.”

  I stand up and beam at my village. “We did it,” I tell them. “We raised a young woman who’s sweet, sensitive, hardworking, and doesn’t bite dentists anymore. She has ambition, values, and a sense of humor. We got her launched. We gave her a family. She made it to college. She can scoff, whine, argue, snap, and try all sorts of other things to demonstrate how much she no longer needs us, and we’ll still be here. Hearts wide open. We will love her exactly as much, and we will never doubt how much she loves us back.”

  I smile at the piles of the last nineteen years she left all over her room. I smile at the unlikelihood that my empty nest will ever actually be empty. At the impossibility of my ever giving away these dear stuffed animals like people suggest, or packing them up in plastic storage boxes where they won’t be able to breathe.

  “We did it!” I say to my village. I turn off the light, walk out of the room, and close my daughter’s bedroom door behind me.

  “We did it!”

  I lean back on the closed door for a moment, suddenly full of something I’ve never let myself feel. I think about my mother. About all the mothers. Every mom on earth has her own challenges that no one else will ever really know. Every mom has dreams, tries her best, carries so much inside, finds her way, loses it, starts all over again and again and again. Every mom deserves this moment, I think—what I’m feeling right now. I shut my eyes and whisper it to myself:

  “I did it.”

  Tears come from nowhere.

  I say it again anyway, right through the tears. I open my eyes and say it right out loud:

  “I did it.”

  24.

  THE ITSY-BITSY, TEENY-WEENY TORTURE CHAMBER

  Look! This one might be cute!”

  WHAT?? I snap to attention and stare. Stare in disbelief at what my right hand just plucked off the rack: a swimsuit.

  A SWIMSUIT.

  Are you kidding?? I think to myself. After all we’ve been through?? Are you out of your mind?? . . . No! Wait . . . I AM your mind! Put that back immediately! I scold.

  I order my left hand to snatch the suit away from my right hand, but my left hand disobeys and grabs the same suit in a different color off the rack.

  “It might be even cuter in this color!”

  WHAT? What is wrong with you, hands?? . . . And feet! Why aren’t you running for the exit?? . . . Legs?? Seriously? You, of all body parts!! Move! Take us out of here!!! Get me away from this place! I am not spending one more second of my life in the swimwear department!!! I don’t need or want a suit! I will never be anywhere where swimming could happen, and even if I were, I WOULD JUMP INTO THE POOL FULLY CLOTHED BEFORE I’D SUBJECT MYSELF TO THE EGO-OBLITERATING HEARTACHE OF TRYING ON SWIMSUITS AGAIN!

  I love everything about the glorious female spirit. I love women’s ability to rise from the rubble, to restore, forgive, inspire, believe, dream, support, honor, care, create—to have hope where hope seems impossible. I love every single thing about the glorious female spirit except how it can lead me into the dressing room of the swimwear department like it just did. Over all my objections. One little bit of unfailing female faith rose up and overcame all memory of what happened the hundreds of times I’ve tried on swimsuits before. Hope dragged me—along with eleven more suits it made me pick up on the way—into the dreaded room again with “Maybe one of these will fit! Maybe one of these will look nice on me!”

  There seems to be only one salesperson in the three-story Macy’s where I shop, so
no one cares that I brought in an armload of suits, instead of the store limit of six per room. I’m happy not to have a salesperson nearby today. Extremely happy to not worry that anyone might pop her head in the door for a peek at how everything’s fitting. There’s no place women need the compassion of other women more than in the dressing room of the swimwear department, but no place on earth where most women would prefer to be all alone. So many tears shed in these little rooms, not an ounce of water weight ever lost. I do a quick scan of every corner, checking for cameras to make sure the room isn’t being monitored by security personnel; that all those employees who aren’t on the floor aren’t gathered in the surveillance room watching me try on swimsuits.

  Then again . . . what if they are? I stand taller and look in the mirror. I stare straight into the defiant pride of the twenty-first-century female and everything women exactly like me can finally claim for ourselves. The freedom not to be judged, restricted, or have to hide. We reject the unnatural and unattainable image of the scrawny supermodel! We joyfully celebrate all shapes and sizes, proud of every beautiful natural robust curve of the female form! Body-shaming is over! We will never again allow ourselves to be defined by our weight, measurements, or someone else’s version of “beauty.” We are done with all that!

  I triumphantly hold up the first suit that I’ll try on the beautiful natural curves of my own body. Apparently no one shared the news about how wonderful we all feel about ourselves with the swimwear manufacturer, because the giant tag reads: “Look 10 pounds lighter in 10 seconds!”

  I pull a few more suits from the pile and check out their giant tags:

  “Appear sleeker and slimmer in seconds!”

  “Miracle fibers have three times the control power of spandex to mold, hold, cinch, shape, lift, and reposition!”

  “Guaranteed to enhance the bust! Elongate the torso! Flatten the tummy! Sculpt the waist! Minimize the thighs, hips, and rear!”

  I haven’t gotten a swimsuit anywhere near my body, but so much has been revealed: all the contradictory messages with which women live all the time.

  “SWIMWEAR FOR EVERY BODY TYPE!” on the cover of one magazine . . .

  “HERE’S KIM IN A BIKINI SIX WEEKS AFTER GIVING BIRTH TO TWINS!” on another.

  “CELEBRATE OUR LOVELY MATURING SHAPES!” on one . . .

  “JOAN LOOKS HOTTER THAN EVER IN A BIKINI AT AGE 65!” on another.

  “LOVE YOURSELF AT ANY SIZE!” . . . followed by . . . “LOSE FIFTEEN POUNDS IN A MONTH!”

  If we’re so fantastic as is, why are there a thousand messages every day encouraging us to make parts of ourselves disappear—everything from our fine lines to our fine thighs—with “REDUCE! SHRINK! MINIMIZE! DIMINISH! DECREASE! TRIM! LOSE!”

  I sigh like women always do. Rally like women always will. Try to take all my confidence, competence, pride, and perfectly toned self-respect and squash it into this season’s offerings. After all we’ve already been through in these dinky fluorescent-bulb-lit rooms, how far have we come? I’m curious.

  I begin with a tankini, a long tank-style top paired with a modified bikini bottom—a beautiful concept that looks darling on the hanger. The answer to many of our prayers. The designer thought of everything—except the fact that a woman who wants to wear a long top because she’s more comfortable not displaying the beautiful natural curves of her midriff would also be more comfortable if what’s covering the curves weren’t skintight, turning said midriff into a shimmery teal-blue sausage roll, every little ripple hugged and accentuated by the clingy fabric. Also, the designer made the tankini top three inches too short. No doubt wanted to give the confident twenty-first-century women a chance to flash a little skin . . . but the three inches of what’s between the bottom elastic of the tank top and the top elastic of the bikini bottom are honestly not anything even the most empowered among us needs or wants to flash. Tankini number one is ripped off and flung on the stool in the corner.

  Tankinis number two through six have the same irreconcilable sausage-roll issue, but add the bonus problem of all having some version of a plunging neckline, with varying degrees of padded, push-up, or molded cups, requiring a cleavage display some don’t want to make for all sorts of reasons. Women who are proudly cleavage-free, with lovely sleek A+ cup chests, have a whole different problem. They either can’t wear 99 percent of these suits or else have to make peace with wearing some version of a fake front at the pool and beach. The whole issue of needing to embellish, diminish, or rearrange the most womanly part of a woman’s body seems way at odds with the whole lovely point of a woman feeling good about herself as she is.

  I take a break from swimsuit tops and decide to refresh my spirits with some of the many new options for the lower half. I’m thrilled to see, as I hold some up, that we no longer need to be victimized by someone’s archaic, insulting, misogynistic concept of what a woman’s lower half might require.

  More bad news.

  The new bikini bottoms are very similar to the old bikini bottoms. Some are slightly more generous in cut, but all are out of the question for reasons I proudly choose not to enumerate.

  The new skirted bottoms are rejected almost as quickly. They’re either so balloony they look as if they belong on Grandma or are so tiny they reveal all the reasons I wanted to wear a skirt without covering anything I wanted the skirt to cover.

  The new boy-cut swim bottoms are just cruel. Instead of being fun baggy female versions of fun baggy swim trunks for men, they’re made of skintight stretch material and are cut like mini bike shorts, so they grip the largest part of the top of a woman’s thighs like tourniquets. After all the fashion magazines I’ve studied over the years, I assume the thinking was that “Baggy wouldn’t be sexy!” just as I assume, looking at the price tag, that our version costs three times as much as the men’s version because the company wanted to help us celebrate that “We’re worth it!”

  I try one of the body-contouring one-piece swimsuits that say they will do all that enhancing, flattening, sculpting, and minimizing. As promised, it squashes, constricts, reshapes, and relocates flesh. I peer into the mirror. I can’t really feel good about me because the part of me molded by the suit no longer resembles me. The parts of me sticking out from the suit—my arms, legs, and top of my torso—look much worse than me at my worst because all that extra everything had to go someplace. It’s also hard to appreciate this version of myself because my internal organs and ribs are being crushed by the crisscross panels of girdle-grade spandex, and I’m about to pass out from lack of oxygen and blood flow. I was feeling way better about me, no matter what I looked like, when I could breathe and had a pulse.

  I pry the suit off and try on a nice non-constricting full-coverage tank. It actually feels as if it might fit, but I rip it off before even looking in the mirror because I glance at the tag and see that it’s two sizes bigger than the size I usually wear. I’m not about to contaminate my closet with anything that has that number on it. In case women don’t already feel bad enough trying on swimwear, we usually have to go “up” a size to get anything remotely close to fitting. An almost incomprehensible lack of compassion and empathy from the women’s swimwear industry, which of all industries should be tuned in to how women feel. I’ve already resigned myself to the reality that I have to go up one size. But buy a suit two sizes bigger than my size? Never. I feel a special joy flinging that one onto the “out” pile.

  I slip on a cover-up someone left in the dressing room and take a moment for all my vital signs to return to normal. I should be offended to my core by all the suits, I think. But I’m a woman, and even offended, my core is still full of compassion. I consider the impossible challenge of designing something that satisfies the sensibilities, shapes, and sizes of billions of women. Women want and deserve to have fun swimsuits that let us be free to play and enjoy the outdoors and water. Women want to look pretty and appealing. We want to look as i
f we’re part of the culture—that we fit in, literally, to what other people wear. We don’t want to look like our grandmothers in swimwear, but we also don’t want to reveal things we don’t want to reveal. I imagine the incredibly difficult job swimwear designers have. My heart goes out to them.

  When I’m feeling rested and refreshed, I try on suit number eleven: the monokini. My heart ceases to go out. I’m staring at myself in a one-piece with waist-high leg holes and peekaboo openings in the tummy, sides, and back where all the womanhood that isn’t squashed by the uber-spandex boinks out in every “I no longer feel good about me” way possible. Nobody should have created this swimsuit. Ever. I tear it off. Whoever thought of this one should be fired and jailed. Or worse, be forced to wear one himself.

  And then, just because it’s there . . . and just because I AM totally worth it and deserve a little levity . . . I move into what is the grand finale of almost all my swimwear shopping episodes: I try on a bikini. The skimpier, the better. I’m not trying on a bikini because I hope to find one that fits. I’m not trying it on for punishment. Quite the opposite. At this point in the shopping, I’m lured strictly by the thrill of sport, curiosity, and humor. Pure spectator fascination. How bad CAN I look? How insane ARE the swimwear companies? Possibly 1 percent of the female population looks good in a bikini, and yet these tiny two-pieces are always 90 percent of what’s offered. Do women’s swimsuit designers ever look at any actual women? In one of their suits? Do they ever look at an actual woman looking at herself in one of their suits? I get the bikini off the hanger . . . figure out all the tiny straps of the top and get it situated on my situation . . . wriggle into the teeny-weeny bottom with the itsy-bitsy ties . . . then turn to face the mirror with wide-open eyes.

  The bikini does not disappoint.