That's Not What I think It Is...Is It?

A few days ago I was invited to the home of a family whose children attend the same school as my child. The mother of those children heads a volunteer committee for which I have signed up to help with and this was an invitation to mingle with the other volunteers over coffee. I gladly accepted and showed up at the appointed hour to a stately home in the mostly toney Lincoln Park neighborhood.

I walked into a sea of Laura Ashley powder blue s with floral motifs, 20 foot vaulted ceilings a great room with a gorgeous credenza and dining set adjacent to a cozy living area replete with fireplace. It was just as I told her, "A lovely home".

I chatted with four or five other parents who had come for the coffee, fresh fruit kabobs and miniature cinnamon rolls served on china with monogrammed paper napkins. Delightful as it was to speak to the other adults, when conversations drifted, I found myself drawn to certain parts of the decor. The genuine, antique, gold framed mirror with matching candle sconces over the sideboard was a nice touch.

As I turned to make my withdrawal and to make parting niceties with the homeowner, I noticed a staircase that led to a lower level of the house that I hadn't seen previously while circulating the room. The berber carpet let me know that it was the family room, the place where the kids go to play on the Wii probably. Maybe the father watched footballs games there; totally appropriate for such uses. What struck me as quite odd and perhaps inappropriate was the piece of art one passes on the way to the Nintendoverse--an at least 16 x 16 pencil and charcoal sketch/rendition of what could only be interpreted as the Hottentot Venus.

Woah! Trying to disguise my double take between words coming out of her mouth that at this point I couldn't even remember under hypnosis, I was taken aback by the display. Politely smile...politely smile....okay look again. What is that? Is that? Is she...nude bending over as if on a beach looking for seashells, full breasts cascading toward lava belly rolls and jiggly thighs spilling into an over plump bottom...face forward smiling. I think to myself her head is too small for her body. I think to myself, is she really smiling? Is she happy to be up on the wall of this white woman's house? What AM I looking at here?

It was getting awkward for me I have to admit. I wasn't sure what I was looking at or if I was comfortable with what I was seeing. But the biggest dilemma was most importantly, what reflection into this family was this particular expression of art giving me? All the while, I pretended to be present with the ongoing discussion as I prepared my exit. I wanted to take a closer look. I was intrigued. I wanted to ask the owner about this selection. Was it the kids nanny on a trip to Jamaica? Someone they knew or an artist on the street of a family vacation whose work they just had to have? So many scenarios to choose from. Why didn't I just ask her?

For a brief instant I did think to inquire about the artwork. It was provocative and maybe offensive and that is why I chose, in the home of someone I barely knew, to mind my manners and keep my mouth shut. I made up my mind that we all get to live the way we see fit. I pretended that it was not the Hottentot Venus and I stilled my thoughts and reinserted my mind into the conversation. "Oh yes, it's ride or walk to school week. We'd like to do it, but haven't so far. You neither--oh well, that makes two of us!"

I'm going to encounter more offensive things than that. Art is subjective it's intent is to evoke emotion. She has a good piece there for that. I don't know if any of the other parents noticed at all. My experiences probably give me a different angle on it anyway. My skin color and body type perhaps make me too sensitive about seeing what is essentially me, my mother, my grandmother on that wall.

I feel good about moderating my thoughts and comments. I truly feel better having kept my head in a calm place although my heart was racing over the idea that I was looking at some racist depiction of the black woman in the home of this Caucasian. I was controlled, poised, and beautiful. I was powerful and attractive and it showed. It was mature and distinguished behavior and I'm so proud to live in the knowledge that Moderation is Sexy.

An exercise...really?

Guess who's guess who's guess who's BACK? Yes, ladies and germs, it's The Sexy Moderate. Sorry to stay away so long. But life is funny that way, wouldn't you agree?

I got pretty jazzed about revisiting my old blog. When I looked back on some of the posts I wrote I got more excited about coming back with some real focussssss to this "exercise". I had to read the header to actually remember why I started this blog in the first place--oh yeah--it was an exercise in discipline...to write five days a week.

Did I really say five days a week. It's a good thing I didn't say eight. But, looking at the abysmal failing of this goal, I am able to see more deeply into myself. I had a really strong start and got progressively worse. It's embarrassing to say I did not meet said goal or even come close. My interest and commitment faltered and it leaves me to wonder, "Is this an indication of the true me?"

The optimistic me believes that it is not the true me and that I had a myriad of reasons why i couldn't continue with the exercise or project. The pessimistic me says, "Oh you knew it would be like this, as it's like many things in your life--a huge start and then a weepy stop." Or is that the realistic me?

So which side is right or wrong? I should believe in myself in spite of my shortcomings. At least I think so. I should not delude myself with untruths and false meanderings. At least I know so. However, t gets more difficult every moment to determine what is the lie and what is the T R U T H .

I know I had reasons (oh so many reasons) for giving up the blog. I think if I were the more determined kind of person--deep deep inside--I would have found a way to get it done. I feel lazy and lackluster for failing. I feel like a fraud for breaking a promise to myself and you. But I feel real too. Human and relate-able.

Don't we all have this "quality"? Does it make us less than perfect or more than ridiculous to consider from where it comes and if it means anything at all? I don't have all the answers. I'm finding new discoveries about myself and other people every day. But I'll tell you, I'm not wracking my brain over these dilemmas. No. I give my mind time to digest the conundrum, to immerse the dilemma and regurgitate the answers as they occur. Never in a hurry to get to the end, I take things in moderation...and I hope, I truly do, that you will too.