EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY, BUT SOMETIMES THE STORY IS A LIE

I never danced with a woman until Thursday night, but when Kathy took my hand and said, “let’s go”, I was right out there on the floor before I gave it a second thought. I had stared at her when she came in wearing a little pink top with intricate knotting and strings hanging down a bit past her slim waist. She sat at the very next table with her husband and I couldn’t resist telling her how much I loved the outfit. We were soon chatting about the great band on stage, our children, and our jobs. When she told me she had 28 years in with the state, my mouth dropped open. With her trim figure, unlined face, and amazing style I would not have guessed her for a minute over 35. Of course, she kindly said the same about me, but well, there wasn’t much light in the room. Her skin tone was darker than her husband, a rich mocha brown, and the pink sheen of the spaghetti straps lay like silk on silk across her shoulders. Her husband seemed oblivious to her stunning good looks, and like my man, could only be persuaded out on the floor for the slow songs. Kathy is not a girl to sit on the sidelines waiting, and after watching me dance beside my chair for the third time in as many songs it was time to go for broke. She had told me she was a musician and singer in her own band after I complimented her voice. I could see she was a girl accustomed to the spotlight because she didn’t stop until we were standing inches away from one of Casper’s lead singers and best dancers, Levie. I did my utmost to keep up with her, and I held my own, but could not match the grace and fluid beauty of her moves through “That’s the way, the way, the way I like it” and "Play that Funky music".

When I got back to the table, breathless and animated, my husband was amused. He knows me too well to think what occurred had any sexual undertones, but it has been a year of revelations for me where women are concerned. The quintessential woman to woman relationship for most girls is our first one, the one we have with our mothers. I hope other females reading this have a peaceful and fulfilling maternal connection, because mine unfortunately was stormy and difficult, punctuated by both mental and physical abuse. It colored all of my friendships with those of my own sex for all time. It is no surprise that even with my best female friends I held back, always cautious and expecting the worst. When my daughter was born I came to realize how unnatural the connection was between Mom and myself. One look into the face of my little girl and I vowed that she would have a perfect mother. I ended up settling for being human, being the best mom I could be, and admitting when I made mistakes. It worked out pretty well, better than I expected actually. When I visited her in London and spent the day at the spa, I was astounded by the pleasure of being surrounded and engulfed only by the smell and touch of women. In this place there were no rough edges, no harshness. The usual competitive atmosphere of male/female posturing was altogether absent, and I was able to observe the female of the species in its pure state. I tried to imagine my mother or my sister in this place of casual nudity and sensuality, but it was impossible.

Until I was in my late twenties my mother was always completely dressed when I saw her. I remember how surprised I was when she walked out of her bathroom wearing her slip once when I was visiting. She had not realized I was in the room, and uncomfortable, she quickly turned her back as she put on the dress that she had laid out on the bed. When mom was desperately ill I went home to help with her care. Neither of us would admit that she was dying, because if we had done so we would have been obligated to try one last time to bridge the gulf between us, and we would have had the final agony of not succeeding. Instead, we talked about nothing, like two strangers who met on a train, straining to be polite. She was too weak to get out of her chair to get to the toilet, and once in helping her stand, her robe loosened and her breast was uncovered briefly. As far as I know I am the only person other than my father and her doctor who ever saw a glimpse of any intimate part of her body. She was more embarrassed by this exposure than by the need for help rising from her chair and clinging to me during the walk to the bathroom, so I pretended not to notice and she pretended it didn’t happen; an analogy for our entire life together. What struck me in that second was not embarrassment, but the realization that although altered by age, her nipple and breast was the image of mine, that I was indeed flesh of her flesh.

That is where the story of my mother and myself ended, that last chance wasted, and the pain I still feel after all this time is not for losing her, but for a lifetime of being held at arms length. In the intervening years I have healed myself, mothered myself, and finally allowed other women to mother me too. Lying in bed on Friday morning I came to the realization that I danced with Kathy because I liked her, admired her lush femininity, and accepted her appreciation of my own. In fact, like Kathy, I am at ease in my own skin, confident of my intrinsic value, and very glad to have been born female. When I look in the mirror, my mother’s eyes look back at me. I have the same soft body contours as she, the same nose and mouth, but I am not the woman my mother was, and most certainly not the woman she wanted me to be; I am much better. Unlike her and in spite of her, I know my own value. As much as I adore men, the smell of them, the boyishness in even the oldest of them, the strong arm they proffer that makes me feel all blushes and giggles inside, I have a the self-assurance to know women like myself are something they are most fortunate to find. If you don’t believe me ask any man who has exhausted himself trying to prove his love to an insecure partner, or actually any woman who has tried the same. It is so simple, so basic, so hard to teach, but to truly love someone else you have to love yourself first. I know it, Kathy knows it, and my girl knows it now, after a bit of trial and error. I think most of my readers do too, right?