When I was little, there was a movie that I loved more than ANY OTHER MOVIE IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD.  Jim Henson is a God to me, and yes, I mean to capitalize that letter, because I really do think he was on this earth for no other reason than to promote wholesome ideals through humor and compassion.  And felt.

And he was such an AMAZING maestro at his craft; worlds he created were very tactile, vivid, and worth losing yourself in.  I bought this movie for Jack when Bryan and I were first dating, and it was so awesome to watch him take to it as quickly as I had.

You can imagine my utter elation at finding this amazing redub on YouTube.  Bryan and I literally quote it ALL THE TIME.  I would venture a guess that we watch it every other night before bed, because it is STILL funny.

.. and NSFW.  BUT FUNNY.

Enjoy.

We were watching “More to Love”, that horrible train wreck of a show on Fox where “normal sized” women (the smallest, I think, is a size 14) compete for the love of an abnormally large man.  I’m sorry, but he is.  He weighs 330 lbs.  That’s a big dude.  But somehow, THAT’S not the catch of the show.  It’s not “Big Love, Fox Style”, it’s “Normal Sized Women Compete for Love From Something with a Penis”.

Anyway, we were watching this train wreck of a show that we watch every week, and at first, it was fun to be HORRIBLE people while watching it, but as the show progresses, it hits deeper and deeper.

One of the women was in her confessional interview and she said she was excited to be with a man who would find her attractive, and not feel like he HAS to say she was pretty just because.  She would actually BELIEVE this guy, she said, if he said she was beautiful.  If.

“Wow,” Bryan said.  “Do women really have self esteem issues like that?”

***

It was my birthday.  I disappeared for a couple of days.  Told no one where I went.  I was still young and single and I just disappeared.  Because he asked me to.

In the hotel room, swaddled in white linen and sunbeams, he laid his arm on top of mine.  Our bodies were diametrically different; he worked out, he tanned easily, the manual labor of his summer job was defined in every muscular curve.  My arm, coddled within the bronze of his, was the antithesis.  My skin only saw cubicle lighting, so pale that the veins underneath looked like a subway map.  No muscular curves, just alabaster .. arms.  Nothing poetic there.

“Look at how beautiful we are together,” he sighed.

I wanted to crawl into myself and die, knowing that he was mocking me.  Knowing that he saw me for what I was: fat, pale, sad, lost, so much less than a woman he’d want to be with.  So much less.  Knowing that I wasn’t worthy of his attention, and we both knew it.  I knew I should’ve hated HIM for mocking me, but all I could feel choking my throat was the self-hatred that would haunt me the long drive back to my house.

***

It was almost two years later that I thought back to that and realized that he meant it.  He meant every word.  He thought I was beautiful.  I just didn’t believe him.  It should’ve been a perfect moment.  It wasn’t.  Because of me.

My own insecurity clouded everything.

***

Watching those women, I fought back tears.

“Yes,” I told Bryan.  “We do.”

When I was 21, I discovered a lump the size of a golf ball in my left breast. Everyone told me not to worry, not to worry, it was menstrual, it was normal, it was cyclical, but I knew that it wasn’t. My doctor quickly arranged a removal. Biopsy to follow; removal immediately.

The fear of waiting for those results is only trumped by the joy of having it come back benign.

This week on SYTYCD, Tyce D’Orio choreographed a piece about breast cancer and a friend.. or a spirit.. or a hope.. that gets the woman through it.

Coincidentally, this song had just hit the airwaves in a big way when I had my tumor removed.

To say I was moved is an understatement.

Enjoy.