"You look so....."

Having just come back from cursing at the ocean, I am all smiles.  Cliches are cliches for a reason, yes?  That's my excuse for interjecting one here:  I feel so much lighter.  Having said what I came to say to an ocean that doesn't care I honestly feel lighter.  Maybe it's that weight-of-the-world-on-my-shoulders-being-lifted feeling.  Maybe it's the overwhelming grief I couldn't express that's some how gone through me and is no longer stagnant inside.  It's almost frightening, this change in me.  I can feel the difference.  If I were 10, I would giggle.  Being, let's just say not 10, I grin instead.  A lot.

I make the rounds of the people I came to see in Ofunato.  I take gifts to people.  I show up unannounced and am warmly received.  I stop in and see Mr. S who runs one of the evacuation centers in town.  He put up a poster once which a included a call for locals to volunteer with the "group of foreigners."  This poster contained a sketch of a foreigner, large nose and all, which I later learned was me.  I chided Mr. S for weeks begging him to "do something about that nose" as I refused to be the poster child (literally, mind you) of all foreigners with big noses.

Mr. S was one of many people in Ofunato I saw over the next several days who commented on how I look.  This is good, you know.  I certainly don't mind comments about my looks, so long as they're compliments, of course.  What I heard from people over he net several days, compliments technically, made me realize how much of a transformation I must have gone through since having gone home and having just come from cursing at the ocean.

"You look so.....different," Mr. S says, and I rescue him from having to find he right words by quickly saying, "It's the make up.  You've never seen me with make up before."
"No," he replies.  "You look good."
Here, I laugh, which I shouldn't have but did.  He turns red.
"I'm sorry," he says and now I feel bad.
"It's okay.  I must have looked really bad before."
"You were," pause again, "tired, I think.  Right?"
"Oh, yes.  Most definitely."
"Well, you don't look tired now."
"Thank you.  I'm better.  I'm really okay."
"Good," he nods.  "It shows."

As I said, compliments are good.  I don't think much about this conversation other than to accept the fact evidently a). I looked pretty bad before, and b). I don't now.  I move on through town from shelter to shelter, group to group, person to person.  In a matter of a few hours, I realize this chat with Mr. S is not one person's opinion.

At the base, I run into Mrs. W who runs the office for the Ofunato Commerce Center.  We bow.  We say hello and exchange pleasantries.  I thank her profusely for letting us use the place, comment on how nice it looks, apologize for the mess we all made.  She nods and doesn't actually refute the last statement so now I know there was a lot of cleaning up to do when the volunteer group moved out.  We're silent for awhile and I wonder what to say next.
"You look nice," she says and catches me off guard.  I was looking at the boxes of relief supplies in the front office.
"What?  Oh, thank you."  I quickly throw in, "You've never seen me with make up on."  Never accept a compliment.  Give credit elsewhere even if it's to a giant cosmetics company.  Done.
"No, it's not that.  You look different."
Okay.  So, a few minutes ago it was "you look nice" and now that's "you look different" which means, again, I evidently didn't look so nice while I was here back in March, April and May.
"I'm relaxed," I say.
"You must be," and we let the conversation move onto other subjects.

I run into Mrs. W again later on in the afternoon along with Mrs. K who does the cooking for the volunteers.  I say hello to Mrs. K, kick myself for not bringing her a gift, and we stand and talk about life.
"You look so......" she starts, actually takes a step back and does the once over as if she's really checking me out, "different."
"Make up," I say on cue.  I remember my lines well, thank you.
"No," and her response is quite adamant.
"It's not the make up."
"It's her breasts," Mrs. W says, with a look of total seriousness and I actually guffaw.  This is a first.
"What?  What does that mean?" I can't wait to hear her response.
"You look healthy," is what I get.  What am I?  A cow?  Mrs. W is actually talking to my breasts.   This is seriously awkward.
"Oh, stop," Mrs. K looks at Mrs. W.  "She always looked healthy.  You've just never seen her in a t-shirt.  She was always wearing a jacket before.  She just looks..." and here she turns to me and says, "Well, maybe it's your skin.....or, well, you just look really good.  Happy.  Yes, happy.  You look happy."
"Refreshed," Mrs. W says.
"Yes.  Refreshed," Mrs. K agrees.

Okay.  My skin looks better, I look refreshed and I look different than before.  I continue to hear comments throughout my time in Ofunato about the before-and-after comparison and the general consensus is before = bad, after = good.  I accept the compliments as graciously as I can, making sure to give proper credit to the power of make up which of course, everyone deflects away.  The good news is, evidently I look more relaxed.  The bad news is, evidently I looked pretty bad for about seven weeks.  I suppose this shouldn't surprise me.  I make a conscious decision to look at the bright side.  These repeated reminders about the difference in how I look means I've come through the worst of it.  The fact I clearly couldn't/didn't cover up my stress during the time I spent in Ofunato is very potent and painful.  I'm glad the transformation I've just gone through is visible and positive even if that means I get compared to a cow in the process.