Humor
I Am the Hole in Sherry’s Pants
My tribe increases
My new writer friend Sherry McGuinn just wrote a story called “There’s a Hole in My Pants.” It’s about how she fears staying home during the COVID-19 pandemic is causing her appearance standards to slip. She tagged me, along with some other writers, to answer the question, “What’s the hole in your pants?”
Well, my dear Sherry, I must confess that the hole in my pants is that I am, in fact, the hole in yours.
I don’t mean to get too metaphysical here. (Grammarly’s going to give me either an attagirl or a kick in the ass for using that word.) It’s just that the hole in Sherry’s pants has been my reality long before you could Google 785 million references to the word pandemic.
It’s kind of a sad story. It’s all about a life-long struggle with low self-esteem, especially when it comes to my looks. I never thought I was pretty.
It’s not that I thought I was ugly because I wasn’t. But my heart’s desire from the age of five has always been to be a movie star. When it comes to getting cast in a film, “nice-looking” doesn’t cut it. Nice-looking might get you the quirky pal part, not the ingenue, and certainly not the lead.
So I did what others before me have done. I acquired some mad skills: writing, acting on stage, singing, public speaking, sewing, photography, gardening, and anything else I could do well enough to acquire praise. It worked to a certain extent, but for some reason, it’s never been enough.
So, I didn’t bother much with clothes or makeup. I figured it wouldn’t fool anybody. I’d just be a mule in a horse’s harness.
As I’ve aged, it’s gotten worse. I never look in the mirror. It’s such a drag to add wrinkles and sagging jowls to the list of what’s wrong with my face. Unfortunately, my lack of interest in how I looked nearly killed me.
I had a rough spot on my nose that I assumed was just dry skin. It turned out to be squamous cell skin cancer. I didn’t get it treated until it was almost too late. What followed was a horrifying surgery that I had to endure while fully conscious, and with no assurance that the surgeon could save my nose. She did, though, and was mighty pleased with herself.
My surgeon was thrilled that she was able to preserve my original profile. I’m so happy for her. As for me, I’ve always wanted to get a nose job. I just can’t catch a break. Well, that’s not entirely true. I am still alive.
I suppose I do care how I look, but I don’t care enough to do much about it. My favorite pants are paint-stained. I have t-shirts older than my 26-year-old son. I only wear makeup on stage, at auditions, and formal events, so I haven’t worn any in six months.
These days, I’m working on not being the hole in anyone’s pants anymore. I wear hats because I don’t want to get skin cancer again. It used to be baseball caps, but I’ve switched to a chic straw number from Nine West. I’ve bumped up my wardrobe with a few pieces from L.L. Bean rather than Wal-Mart. Baby steps are better than stumbles. I’m brushing my teeth more often, too. (So proud of that one!)
Still, I’m glad to hear that those who have been overly concerned about other people’s opinions are taking a walk on the wild side these days. If you have a hole in your pants, try looking through it. It may give you a “hole” new outlook.
©2020, Denise Shelton. All rights reserved.
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