peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

I’m kinda sick of my negative body image issues.

“But, Pippi! You’ve had three children! Each baby stretched out your belly, like three feet!”

Truth. Reality.

It seems that I am running high on negative body issues and low on self-confidence. It concerns me that my less-than-robust self-confidence will mess with my ability to be a strong role model for my children. How can they grow to be self-confident if I don’t exude self-confidence?

“But, Pippi! You’re always so positive and so happy and so loving! You are a great Mom! Your kids adore you! Your husband loves you! You are surrounded by family and friends who think you’re awesome! You have a great job! And, man, what curly hair!”

Truth. Reality. I am so blessed. What am I even complaining about?

“But, Pippi, happiness is about inner beauty and needs to come from within! And not something you seek outside yourself! You know this!”

I do know this. I am my own hurdle. This. Has. Got. To. Change. I need to change this.

I read an article that brought clarity to my jumbled thoughts. It’s about finding happiness within. Gilbert Ross, the author of the How to Find Happiness, is trying to encourage people to break the negative pattern “I will be happy if…” If I lose 20 lbs…If I get a raise…Whatever the if is, it’s always something. This leaves us feeling empty and sad because we are never gonna be happy until we surpass the next hurdle. And there are always more hurdles. (I know this. I ran track and hurdles back in high school.)

As a first step, I am connecting with these negative feelings and am working to transform them. It is high time that I make peace with myself.

After all, I’m clever. I have a winning smile and personality. Golly, people like me! I have so much to be positive about and thankful for in my life.

So that I can continue to be a glass half-full person, I need to also fill my glass with self-love and self-confidence. One drip at a time.

This is something we all deserve. Fill ‘er up.

While at the hair salon getting my hair trimmed, highlighted, and glossed, I felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. You know the part, where she goes to the land of Oz the second time, and gets primped and fluffed?

Except my hair actually looked more like the lion. When the hairdresser combed it out, pulling out the curls, I was looking sorta crazy.

I admit, it’s always a little uncomfortable for me to be in the limelight. Either I make conversation or I stare into the mirror. But I sorta get sick of staring at myself. I tend to over-examine. How I applied my lipstick in a hurry and notice that it is askew. How my eyebrows need a little shaping. How I’m looking a little tired.

It’s always something.

But she doesn’t call attention to my imperfections. She sees plenty, I’m sure.

It’s the one hour and a half where I can just sit. And be taken care of. “Would you like some tea?”

When the hairdresser washes my hair, it’s my favorite part. It’s just not the same when I do it myself. I lather and scrub. Always racing the clock. Leaving the conditioner in while shaving. Always multitasking.

But the hairdresser? She takes her time. She massages. She uses plenty of hot water. This time around, I was so relaxed that I even dozed off for a few minutes!

After I was pampered and relaxed, instead of Dorothy, I was the woman in those stupid Calgon commercials. Remember those?

“The traffic. The boss. The baby. The dog…Calgon, take me away!”

This woman is losing it! Then cut to her in her tub of bubbles, oohing and aahing, relaxed and carefree.

That was me, but in the salon chair…Aveda, take me away!

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I was excited to receive a $100 gift card to a local spa. Ah, $100…I’ll get a massage, a pedicure, a manicure, maybe even a facial!

Uh, no. This spa was fancy-schmancy. One hundred dollars bought one pedicure. Or two “mini pedicures” for my mini me and me. I brought my daughter along for a girls’ day.

The waiting room was a meditation room. Bamboo. Candles. Orchids. Buddhas. A trickling fountain. Hot tea.

At least the hot tea was free. My daughter and I gulped down three cups each.

Two blond women in black smocks tiptoed in and led us through a dark hallways. Their feet were silent. White women with blond hair were gonna do our pedicures. Did you catch that?

The foot baths, lined with rocks, were piping hot. We each got a brief foot massage and basic nail care. “Bliss” pink polish for me. Blood red for my daughter.

• I asked, “Are you planning to scrape off some of the callouses and the rough skin?”
• “No,” she answered. “That’s not part of the mini pedicure.”

What?! My feet got robbed!

You know the saying…how you can paint a turd, but it’s still a turd? It’s even worse when you pay double for a turd paint job.

I have the prettiest, painted toe nails on the ugliest calloused feet. If it hadn’t been for that gift card, $100 could have bought a new pair of Adidas to cover these suckers up.

When I’m not getting ripped off at pedicures, I’m hanging out with other cool bloggers here. Check it out!