Simplifying… me

At the tender age of six I received my first pair of “Underoos”.  They were Wonder Woman.  When I donned this remarkable underwear ensemble, I felt powerful and unstoppable.  My little sister, too, received a matching pair.  Together we were a force to be reckoned with.  We would run around the house, wearing only our Wonder Woman Underoos and armfuls of our mom’s bracelets dangling from our tiny wrists (bullet reflectors, or something of that nature), thwarting off the powers of evil. 

In my six-year-old mind, I couldn’t think of a better role model than Wonder Woman.  (That girl could pull off a mean twirl.)  And as I would take a brief moment to consider my reflection in the mirror – clad in underoos, bracelets, and long dark hair – I knew I made for the perfect Wonder Woman double.  Yet my little sister, Jennifer, with her strawberry blonde locks and fair complexion – a dead ringer for Little Orphan Annie – insisted she was Wonder Woman, and I was Wonder Woman’s sister.  Time and time again I would cave in to her demands and play the part of the superhero’s sibling, perplexed at how any of it made sense to her.  Deep down in my heart, though, in that space that my strong-willed sister couldn’t control, I knew I was the real Wonder Woman.

Thirty-some years later, I find myself channeling my inner-Wonder Woman.  When my house is hiding under a heap of dirty clothes and miscellaneous toys, I close my eyes and imagine myself twirling three times and miraculously being transformed into Super Mom.  I’ve tried that, you know.  I’ve tried the twirling thing, and it only left me dizzy, still wearing my blueberry stained khaki shorts, stretched out tee and ponytail.  (So much for my super powers.)  Instead, I feel like Bat Woman – a nickname I earned my junior year of high school.

We were camping out in the rural village of Rumuruti (in Kenya).  It was close to bedtime, and I needed to use the “facilities” (in Swahili, that translates to the “choo”).  My best friend and I, flashlights guiding our way, walked over to the choo, and I went inside.  I squatted.  Suddenly I felt something brush across my toosh.  I was startled, to say the least.  I jumped up and out of the choo in one swift movement.  My friend opened the door, peered inside, and with the dim light from the flashlight surveyed the scene of the incident.  We could find nothing to explain the tooshy brush, and so I figured it was most likely a moth or some “bug” that rear-ended me on its way out of the hole in the ground.  I went back inside to finish my “business”.  Before I was completely settled, this same “thing” slapped me, no less, on the bottom, and from the corner of my eye I watched a terrified bat fly up and out the top of the choo.  This time, I believe I screamed, and so did my friend.  From that day on, I was called “Bat Woman”.

Bat Woman is powerless.  Wonder Woman is all about power and control.  I much prefer to carry myself in Wonder Woman fashion, and not the “slap-on-the-toosh” Bat Woman.  These days I don’t have my Doctor Dobbins’ “Strong-Willed” poster child sister calling the shots in my life.  These days, well into my thirties, I am free to let my inner Wonder Woman out, and set her free.  The condition of my home, my appearance, the boundaries for my children, are all within my control.  While there are days when I feel I’m making no headway whatsoever in any of these areas (having one of many Bat Woman days), I know that I have the power to either correct the problem or act helpless and distressed.  Today, my friends, Wonder Woman is at the helm, steering the way of this massive ship called the Slater Home.  I’m taking control, one little step at a time. 

Now, if only I could rustle up good pair of adult sized Wonder Woman Underoos!

If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed. Thanks for visiting!