On 30

I recently received a forwarded e-mail containing a "poem" attributed to Maya Angelou called 30 Things Every Woman Should Know by 30. I usually delete that forwarded clap-trap immediately, but as the momentous birthday approaches, I decided to see what it had to say. As I read, I became suspicious that this was not in fact the wisdom of Ms. Angelou. Some light Googling revealed that it was actually an article by Pamela Redmond Satran and first published in Glamour magazine. The actual article 30 Things Every Woman Should Have and Know by the Time She's 30 is worth the two minute it takes to read. Some of the items seemed a little cliche or sexist even, but it made me think about what advice I'd give on the subject...

By 30 you (or I...) should be able to:
1. Change your own tire, set up your own home wireless network, do your own taxes, and put together your Ikea entertainment center without having to call a brother, father, or boyfriend.
2. Dine, travel, or see a movie alone without feeling self-conscious.
3. Coherently articulate your position on the political/social/religious issues that are important to you without simply regurgitating what influential people in your life believe.
4. Cook at least one signature dish extremely well and contribute it to family gatherings.
5. Get what you want from a customer service rep without crying or having your mother call for you.

By 30 you (...I) should have:
1. Relationships with people (family, friends, significant others) that you know you can count on.
2. Clothes that are age- and body-appropriate...remember, great style evolves.
3. A 401k, savings account, and checking account that you contribute to more regularly than you withdraw.
4. An new outlet for that creativity, athleticism, or whatever that you haven't had since high school or college.
5. A tentative plan for the future...When someone asks you where you see yourself in 10 years, have an answer, even if that answer changes over time.

By 30 you (...I) should know:
1. The past, good or bad, doesn't define you now. It's what you're doing right now that matters, so don't live in the past.
2. What you're looking for in a job and a relationship so you'll know a good thing when you see it.
3. How to say no gracefully.
4. How to be alone and be completely entertained by your own company.
5. When to trust your gut instincts...which, by the way, is almost always.

By 30 you (definitely I) should try:
1. Living alone.
2. That food you refused to touch when you were a kid.
3. Exercising twice as much as you did before your metabolism turned on you.
4. Reading more books...maybe even some nonfiction ones
5. To make "you" time regardless of how crazy your day is...if you can't give yourself at least 30 uninterrupted minutes a day, who will?

That's just my .02. I'll be honest--I'm more excited than apprehensive about turning 30. Maybe it's true that life begins at 30...

The Value of Girl Talk

Over the weekend, I got to catch up with one of my best girls one-on-one. Hot Mommy, as I like to call her, and I decided spur of the moment to meet at her house for a pizza & movie night. The movie part never happened...we got caught up in "girl talk." The next thing we knew it was almost midnight and we'd covered everything from relationships to politics to religion to friendships to careers to self-knowledge and back again.

I've known the Hot Mommy since she was a 19 year old non-mommy and we were both lowly hostesses at TGIFridays. We've been famous for our nearly life-changing convos ever since. Maybe it's because we're coming from similar life experiences. Maybe it's because we've been there to see each other's essential transformation into the people we are today. Whatever the reason, I leave those intensive conversations enjoying the emotional recharge that comes from spilling your guts and knowing that the other person totally got it.

By the end of the night, a theme had emerged. We've known each other a long time. Life has developed in ways we could never have expected. But the beauty of change is its power to transform us if we let it.

Not Just Another Resolution List

On NYE, I spent the evening hanging out (sober--I was driving later) with my favorite girls and various significant others. Rollergirl suggested we go around and tell our new year's resolutions, and I didn't have any to share. I, Ms. Constant-Self-Improvement-Plan, don't believe in resolutions. Who'd have thought. Like I told Hott Mama once, "The funny thing about turning over a new leaf is that both sides look remarkably the same."

Not that I'm perfect (damn close, but...). Not that I love everything about myself. But, resolutions seem to me a subconscious form of self-hatred or, at the very least, self-doubt. On my day off yesterday, I read no less than a dozen articles on how to whip up a new and better me in 2008, from my waist-line to my love-life. What I really heard was 101 reasons I should be monumentally unhappy with some tiny aspect of my bigger picture. No one wrote about happiness with my current circumstances. Not one person supposed that what I've already got was the stuff of contentment. Nope, unless I could whittle off my muffin-top, discover new levels of intimacy with my guy, and snag that uber-promotion, 2008 would be a bust.

I refuse to buy that anymore. If the mantra of 2006-2007 was "Let. It. Go." (sometimes a good mantra takes awhile to soak in), mantra 2008 would be "Love Whatcha Got" (revised from "Fuck What Everyone Else Thinks"). If my estimation is correct, all other things will fall in line behind that idea. If I love my body (as is), I'll surely try to take care of it and keep it healthy, whether or not Kate Moss and I can ever share pants. If I love my job (hmm, have to work on that one), the love should theoretically shine through and get me the credit I so richly deserve. If I love B, I'll put in the time and thought it takes to make our relationship fabulous. And so on and so on and so on.

If you don't love what you already have, you'll never appreciate what you could have. Ya think?

So, belated new year's wishes for 2008. May you be confident in your choices and abilities. May you learn to love life. May I blog regularly.

Sap Ahead

So much for blogging every day this month...

Thanksgiving came and went, as did my birthday. I sort of consider my birthday the beginning of a new fiscal year, and inevitably I find myself looking back on the past 12 months. Overall, it's been a great year, although at first, I couldn't think of any good examples to support this conclusion. I've been in the same job for over a year now. I live in the same apartment, drive the same car, and care for the same naughty cat. My friends are consistently wonderful. My family hasn't changed. Don't get me wrong, last year wasn't bad at all, but why was this year so much better than the last? The only big difference was meeting B. in April. And, since then, my life has been undeniably brighter. I feel like I finally have it all: a cool life and someone to share it with. I wasn't actively looking for a relationship back then, nothing more serious than a weekend boyfriend, but one rainy Friday night, I reluctantly went out with friends and met the best thing that would happen to me all year. Maybe my whole life.

Here's to another year even better than the last.

Out of the Blue

I was a total goody-two-shoes when I was a kid. The thing I dreaded most was getting a "talking to" from one of my parents. It didn't take so much to please them, just to get good grades and stay out of trouble. So I did. Staying out of trouble meant a lot of things--not running wild with my friends, getting home by curfew, showing up at church on Sunday, not disagreeing, and not talking back. Somewhere along the line, I learned I could do whatever I wanted as long as I didn't get caught, and I started compartmentalizing. I just kept my mouth shut, and everything was alright. Even as an adult, some old habits are hard to let go.

I started this blog in the interest of expressing my truest self and thoughts. And, for the most part, I think I explain my views honestly. However, both in this medium and in real life, my distaste for open conflict holds me back. Because I hate fighting with the people I care about, I censor the pieces of myself that I feel would offend them. For someone who prides myself on not giving a shit what most people think of me, I spend a lot of time creating the spin that will make me more palatable to people I love but have decided can't handle the "real" me. I don't tell, and for the most part, they don't ask. They are relationships of mutual delusion.

It's not even that I don't want to fight. I wish I had the balls to stand up and tell the bluntest truths. I stay silent because it's easier, because I don't want to sit through a well-meaning lecture about all the ways I am "disappointing" someone else's expectations, because when it comes down to it, I really don't care what anyone else wants, because I'm still going to do whatever it is I want to do. So, maybe it comes down to something as simple as laziness.

Or maybe it's something more serious. I hate telling half-truths in this blog, but then I'm worried that the wrong people will read it and somehow I'll get "in trouble." I'm almost 29 years old...what's the worst that could happen to me? That my parents won't love me anymore? Maybe. I've never tested that supposedly unconditional love. If my life goes in a different direction than theirs, can they accept me and have a relationship with me? That's a tough cliff to jump off of blindly.

I don't want to harm my relationship with anyone, but I also cannot, under any circumstances, be the person they think I ought to be. The best I can do is a poor fictional version of that person, a version that makes me resentful at family gatherings because I have to stay in character for hours on end and can't talk honestly about what's going on in my life. I'd like to look forward to those gatherings instead of dreading the conversations I'll have to avoid to keep the peace.

Maybe it's just that over a decade after I became a legal "adult," I'm ready to grow up already.

Musings

Ever since I started working in publishing with a medical emphasis, I’ve wondered what it would have been like to work in medicine. I’ve done more than make sure the names of disease are spelled correctly; I’ve looked up the meanings and sometimes the ugly pictures that go with them in my Stedman’s medical dictionary. I’ve become concerned about drug interactions and the side effects of the therapies my friends and family take. I’ve taken to wondering whether or not drug companies really want to find a cure for cancer when the drugs to treat it are so lucrative. I’ve gotten up in arms about the current administration's lack of support for the HPV vaccine (b/c it would encourage young girls to be “promiscuous”). I’ve started wondering if I missed a career because when the time to choose colleges and majors rolled around I was inexperienced and afraid of not being the best at something (ie, math). It's amazing that we ask people to make major choice about what their future will be like when they are 18. I’ve also started wondering if it’s too late to do something about this wondering. Or, if it’s a little too late, and I should just be content with the path I’ve chosen. It’s hard to say.

Dear Me:

Earlier, I was reading a post from one of my favorite bloggers
Christine of Storked!. In this piece, she wrote a letter to a younger version of herself as if preparing and encouraging herself before hand for the many twists and turns her life would take. Her words really got me thinking and inspired me to do something similar.

If I could sit down with myself around age 13, here are some of the things I'd make sure I knew:

1. Pefection is not only impossible, it's boring. Be imperfect. Be yourself. It's not so bad. Go out without makeup. Get a B or two. Spend the majority of your time living life.

2. Don't participate in activities just because you think someone else expects it of you or even to spend time flirting with a boy. Think how much more free time you'd have if you skipped all those basketball practices, choir rehersals, and study groups you didn't want to go to. This extends into adult life too. Do what you want, even if you do it alone.

3. You'll get your heart broken many times before you meet the right guy. But don't let that stop you from meeting him or the ones in between. Just know that no matter how much you think you'll die at the time, all those heart pieces can be put right back together again and you'll be as good as new in no time.

4. Follow fewer rules. Really. Being too sheltered is worse for your spirit than falling down a few times because you pushed the envelope. Figure things out for yourself. Experiment. You can always change your mind.

5. Disappoint more people. You worry far too much about what other people think of you. Teachers, parents, friends, friends of friends. Like the perfection thing, you'll never please all of them all of the time anyway. Worry about whether or not you're disappointing yourself first.

6. You'll be most disappointed in yourself for not reaching your potential. You can often do better for yourself than you do. Try to get into the dream schools and interview for those dream jobs. Being bored is a fate worse than death for you.

7. The "cool" people you think you want to be like are only cool because they think they are. So, have more confidence in yourself.

8. Friendships come and go. Just because you grew up with someone doesn't mean they automatically get a free pass into your life forever. People who gossip, judge, lie, cheat, or abandon don't really care about you. Surround yourself with the people who get what you're about and support that. Let the rest go.

9. Don't spend all your time hating your body and obssessing about numbers. You're thighs aren't that flabby.

10. Finally, life usually doesn't turn out in line with your carefully organized plans. Deal with it. What was so good about your plan anyway? When you look back at those old plans years later, you might be glad they never happened.

Those are just a few. What would you tell a younger version of you?

Shifting

I updated my MySpace profile today, and in a weak attempt at humor, in the About Me section, I gave a quick rundown of a day in the life of me. I won't subject you to a full recap, but the primary activities on an average day consisted of working, playing with the cat, and chilling at home with B. For a split second I considered deleting it because, frankly, it sounded a little geeky. Then I added the following to the end: "Give or take an activity or two, this is my life, and, minus the 8 hours of obligatory work, I love it."

And it's true; I do. However, there was a time in the not so distant past when I was continually on the go, especially on the weekends. Even the occasional Friday night that began with my ordering pizza and settling in to watch movies, ended with getting bored and heading out in search of fun. Not that we don't go out now. We go to dinner with friends, we get drinks in favorite pubs, we go to parties and hang out in friends' homes. But, it's amazing how simply all the other stuff slide away unnoticed. I considered this on Friday when on the way to meet up with his brother for dinner, B. asked what I wanted to do afterwards. My vote was to stop at Schnucks for a bottle of wine and drink it while we finished up season 4 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. "Are you sure?" B. asked, "I feel like we used to go out a lot more before we started dating. I don't want you to get bored."

I once thought I would. I remember asking a friend in a long-term relationship, "Don't you just get bored out of your mind? Don't you miss all the firsts? How can you sustain that initial excitement about each other?" Her answer was that a long-term relationship is a different kind of happy, that you trade that edge-of-your-seat adrenaline rush for the milder but equally satisfying excitement of building a life with someone. I hoped she was right, but honestly, it seemed crazy. Until it happened to me.

It turns out there's not a lot to miss about the past. I don't miss the silly drama and mixed signals or waiting all night for a text from boy of the moment. I love that when I go out with friends, it's 100% about spending time together, not scoping the room for prospective guys.
I've found that sometimes firsts are over over-rated. It's not just that first magic kiss but the random kiss before work one morning that makes my day. It's not just the spectacular dates but the times we spend the whole day together, doing laundry, getting groceries, and making dinner. It's the unconscious rituals and inside jokes that create the story of the two of us together. It's being able to say anything in front of him, to be my most authentic self, and know that he loves me for it, not in spite of it. It's making plans together, some we'll accomplish tomorrow and others for future years and knowing we mean them both. It's feeling everything has just been practice for this moment. It's knowing this is the closet thing to a sign from heaven I'll ever get.

The I in Team

I spent Sunday afternoon attending the bridal shower of a close friend. It was an old-school shower, the kind held in the fellowship hall of a church, filled with an interesting mix of girlfriends and church ladies. Halfway through the event, one of the church ladies gave a devotional on the characteristics of a "good wife." Some of the attributes were hard to disagree with: Compassion, kindness, wisdom. Then she requested that other married women in the group give the bride their best marriage advice. At this point, a word kept coming up that made me a little nauseous. Submission.

"Submit to your husband."
"Let your husband be the leader of the home."
"Allow your husband to guide you."
"Give him the final decision."
"The husband is the head of the household."
"Order your home as God intended."

I watched the bride nod politely, and I hoped she wasn't buying the advice wholesale. Another friend leaned over, "I'm going to lose it here in a minute." As I sat listening to their words, I remembered why I grew up with a screw-that attitude toward marriage. On one hand, marriage was billed as the spiritual and physical joining of two lives. On the surface, that sounds like an equal partnership, except for the little matter of the philosophy that god made men leaders and they should be in charge of everything in the household, including the woman. Ummm, sorry, count me out.

Plenty of religious texts support either implicitly or explicitly the idea that men are somehow more valuable than women in this capacity (plus, if the woman is busy making babies, like she's supposed to, how is she going to have time to be an equal partner??) Most ancient cultures were patriarchal in nature. Of course the men writing the texts were going to hear their god(s) tell them to stay in control. And might I point out, there were also rules about keeping women away from others during their periods and after childbirth and forcing women and men to worship separately, both of which we mostly no longer observe. If we've been capable of identifying other ideas as culturally obsolete, why can't some people see that subjugation of women in marriage is equally ridiculous? Women run companies and countries. Women are as intellectually and emotionally capable as men. So, why then wouldn't women be able to lead a home with her husband?

What about teamwork? I see myself as more valuable than a supporting player always being told to pass the ball to the star of the team, even when I have an open shot. Maybe this idea worked when a girl was passed from her father's house to her husband's. But in a world where most people don't get married until many years later, those old philosophies just don't work. I love B. more than anything, and I love all the little ways in which he makes me feel cared for, but I've been taking care of myself on my own for more than a decade. I don't need or want someone to make decisions for me (except maybe which restaurant to eat in). I don't want to acquiesce simply because I'm a woman and he's a man. I won't be a second-class citizen in my own home.

To the bride, if she's reading, I'd say what I didn't have the opportunity to say that day: Make your marriage a parliamentary democracy. Discuss the pros and cons of decisions together and make decisions based on logic rather than which partner thought of the solution. Be all of those other great things, compassionate, kind, and wise. If you truly want the best for each other, finding satisfying compromises for the daily issues of life will come easier. When they don't come easy, keep talking it out. Hold onto each other and float, rather forcing one person to swim and pull the other along. No one need "wear the pants" in the relationship; share the pants. If anyone must submit, keep it in the bedroom. *wink*

Stirring

Life has not been conducive to blogging. I have a thousand excuses: too much working at work, too much time living life instead of writing about it. It's not like I haven't had any ideas, just no luck getting them on paper. But here's something I've been thinking/talking about recently, strictly a work in progress.

I grew up in an environment where open-mindedness was tantamount to compromise. "If you don't stand for something (ie, what we stand for) you'll fall for anything (ie, the other)." I tried to do, and more importantly, feel all the "right" things, but somewhere along the line, things just didn't add up for me. It seemed less like faith and more like the ultimate intellectual arrogance to think that every tenant of my belief system composed the only truth and that everyone else was simply wrong. I spent most of my twenties struggling through all the discrepancies between teaching and experience, intuition and pragmatism. I tried to pare away all the extraneous cultural pinnings and find the core values that meant something to me. And, eventually, I have developed a hybrid of ideas around which I organize my life, the basis of which is mutual respect for differences. I'd forgotten that this is apparently a revolutionary idea.

It's easier for people to shut themselves off from the other, to cover their ears and chant to themselves what they want to hear, to judge others inferior for choices that aren't ones they'd make. This post could go in a thousand directions, a dollar a dozen example of ways I see people around me threatened by the idea of coexisting with difference. It comes down to the fear that by failing to bring the difference into submission, one might instead be changed by it. Few people seem willing to look past the surface differences of religion, culture, race, or politics to find the values that could often connect us, if we'd let them.

One place the divide has become clear is the area of religion and dating. I've dated Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, agnostics, and atheists. I've never thought twice about it. I've cared more about what kind of human being he was than what philosophy he practiced. Relationships have come and gone, but not because of our religious or cultural differences. My current relationship is an inter-faith/cultural one. I respect that his religion is his culture's way of making sense of the world. I respect his right to practice his beliefs while I practice my own. I respect that, regardless of where we come from, things like love, family, honesty, and thousands of other values remain the same.

If both people in the relationship live under this assumption, then everything is great, right? Right...mostly. Except for dealing with the people around them that think all this respect and coexisting stuff is just dangerous and scary. Will each other's parents accept and support the relationship or pray their respective gods that the couple break up? What about those non-existent children? Won't they be confused if they are taught that there are multiple ways of seeing the world? Will one person's cultural and family traditions be ignored in favor of the other? And ultimately, what if one of us gets the shaft in the after-life? What then?

I'm certainly not the only one of my group of friends to experience this or similar issues. The common theme in those discussions has been that when you are in an amazing relationship, all you want are the people in your life to celebrate your good luck with you. Admittedly, in our case, most of our friends and family feel like we do and are just happy that we are happy. Honestly, I don't think it would matter either way. I'm stubborn that way. Change is slow...It amazes me that so many of the lines that once divided the world--catholic/protestant, black/white, gay/straight, conservative/liberal, wealthy/poor--still exert so much power, especially in a country that prides itself on the melding of cultures.

And the post drags on...more on this topic later.

Baggage Check

"Don't waste yourself in rejection, nor bark against the bad, but chant the beauty of the good." Ralph Waldo Emerson

I love a good quote, literary, movie or otherwise. I added the above one to my page because they seem like words to live by. Because, it seems like the things I remember, the things that hold on, are those small rejections from the past. Why don't I remember when former boyfriends and dates told me I was beautiful or smart or funny? Why do I bother to recall, usually when least I want to, not being good enough or pretty enough for someone who doesn't matter anymore?

Everybody brings a little baggage to a new relationship, even when they think they don't. When I arrived in my current relationship, I showed up a little (or maybe a lot) jaded by my interactions with previous, less than deserving men. But I was pretty sure I'd dealt with all the really important issues. I thought the real baggage had been checked at the gate.

This delusion lasted right up until our first discussion about the future. I could barely bring myself to talk about it, even theoretically. Why? "I'm afraid after you've really thought about it, you'll freak out and break up with me." The reply reassured me, and I had to remind myself, "He is not any of those other guys." But it wasn't the last time I had to shove the bulging suitcase closed.

Unprovoked insecurities still show up at the door unannounced, like the luggage you'd given up as lost only to find out it was just misdirected. I find myself wondering how I compare with past girlfriends (or any of a million faceless, nameless women who might want to replace me): am I prettier, skinnier, smarter, sexier, more creative, a better cook, more successful, more athletic...the list goes on and on and gets more absurd.

And, for every ridiculous question that pops into my head, I can remember the guy who dumped me for his ex, the cheater, the guy who got random calls at 3:00 am from girls I didn't know, the one who made fun of a haircut or looked at my thighs in disgust. Somewhere along the line, I internalized those comments and actions and began, on some subconscious level, to believe they were right. If I wasn't the best, I wouldn't be loved, and he wouldn't stick around.

And then I met someone who turned all those subconscious ideas upside down. I could hardly believe it. "What, you like my hips?" "You don't want to keep a few girls on the side, waiting for me to screw up?" There were millions of other little epiphanies like those, things any rational person should already know. I guess I never realized how much other people had messed with my head until I met someone who didn't.

He is amazing, and I want to throw out all that baggage once and for all. If I never think about a long-past shitty moment again, it would be fine by me. However, those images pop into my mind far less often than they used to. So, I'm thinking that the longer two people build trust and security between them, the quieter the negative memories become, until one day maybe they cease to exist all together. I want to empty the bag and treat this relationship like the brand-new experience it is.

Metamorphosis

The fact that life moves almost imperceptibly like the revolving top of the Millenium hotel makes the times when life speeds up all the more dramatic. I used to feel like the people in my life and I were orbiting each other, gently floating closer and farther away, not quite randomly but with no particular destination in mind. Lately I've realized the motion was acutally metamorphosis. All of us, at once, in our own ways, becoming something other than we were.

A Staring Problem

"It's not nice to stare at people" is something I heard more than once as a child. Maybe part of it comes from being a writer, but I'm a people-watcher from way back. Put me in a high traffic area, and I can entertain myself for hours studying the characters passing by. Beautiful, unfortunate looking, it's all the same to me. I love to look at the way their faces fit together, their wardrobe choices, mannerisms, expressions. In my head, I make up stories about them, who they are, and where they might be going.

New places especially bring this out in me. A couple of weeks ago, I spent a few days in Chicago visiting my brother. We took the L or walked everywhere, and during those times, I saw some of the most interesting people. Ordinarily, words are my preferred artistic medium, but I found myself wishing I had a camera to capture some of these unique images. A big camera, of course, so I could pass for a photo journalist, instead of some weirdo taking pictures of strangers.

There's something compelling about photography. If I describe the scenes and characters for you, you will (hopefully) have a vivid mental image of what I've described, but you only get to see as much as I've described. And unless my description is carefully sterile and objective, the way I choose to describe the scene will affect what you see. With a photo, there's the possibility for you to imagine your own version of the unspoken narrative.

That said, I don't know the first thing about photography. I'm not even sure I have the desire to learn. So here's my word photo album from the last few weeks.

A mylar balloon bouquet tangled in the powerlines high above the hub bub of Dressel's patio on Saturday night, sparkling in the street lights against the backdrop of the late night sky.

A young mother in a cool white ankle-length skirt,walking down Halsted on the way to the corner bus stop, holding the hand of a dark-haired toddler dragging a golden teddy bear by one hand along the cement.

A couple waiting for the L, late on a humid Saturday night, facing each other, her arms around his neck. Both were clad entirely in black leather outfits and accessories that made me think of dungeons and whips. Her face looked too old for a mini dress and platform thigh-high boots. They didn't seem to notice the temperature or anyone else on the platform.

A woman in her mid-thirties, in khaki pants, white t-shirt, and flip flops, slouching in her seat on the train, talking loudly on her Blackberry. "No, she reached over and grabbed what she thought was a bottle of water and took a big gulp and spewed it out all over the place. Yeah, it was tequila....Lynard Skynard? Who's he? Yeah, I'd go to that show."

Some of the best people sightings were on the roof of some friends' apartment building. The surrounding structures towered on three sides of the roof-top deck. The thousands of uncurtained windows rising up around me were like so many movie screens. A middle aged woman was making a late night pasta dinner with red sauce and fresh garlic. A group of teenagers played what must have been Wii tennis (although I couldn't see their televisions, only their movements). From behind a shade, one shadow press another against the glass. A cat stared back down at me from another window. The stars barely glistened past the electric lights and haze.

It's a good thing I don't live in a high rise.

Concessions

My favorite Ensler monologue is the one about the short skirt. It's the one I'd read if ever I was invited to perform a Vagina Monologue. I'd wear a sassy, short skirt, probably in black, maybe leather, and stilleto heels to show off my calves. I'd roll the words off my tongue like poetry,

"It is not an invitation, a provocation, an indication..."

I'd probably stand with one hip jutting higher than the other, body slightly twisting, sensual but not to be trifled with.

"My short skirt, believe it or not, has nothing to do with you..."

I'd run a hand absently up my thigh, silent self possession.

"My short skirt is my defiance, I will not let you make me afraid..."

But I'd be lying. Some days the defiance lacks. Some days I just don't want to rock the boat. I don't want to defend.

A snapshot of Sunday morning:
I gathered my week and a half's worth of laundry, detergent, Glamour. I was rosy cheeked and fresh out of bed, wifebeater and soft red sweatshirt-material shorts. As I passed the mirror, I paused and looked back. The fabric ended just a fraction below the curve of my round ass. Every muscle and curve in my thighs were visible. I felt momentarily proud. Then, I dropped the basket and pulled on track pants instead.
"Why are you changing clothes to go to the laundromat?" B wanted to know.
"I don't want to deal with any negative attention today," I explained.

In the laundry, no one looked at me. There were no unwanted come-ons. Coincidence or consequence of my concession? It was hot inside. No air circulating, dryers superheating the room. I felt the sweat bead up behind my knees and run down the back of my legs. I felt angry. I wouldn't have been hot if I hadn't changed. It wasn't fair.

Were my only choices really to wear what I wanted and fend off the sleazy men hanging out in front of the Express Mart because my shorts were "asking for it" or to cover myself, censor myself, become invisible in exchange for peace? I can't fight on prinicple every day. I'm not that hard inside.

I learned in a college logic class once that there are always more than two options to a logical dilemma. The Either/Or fallacy. So, what's my third option? Why should I have to be the one to give in?

"But mainly my short skirt and everything under it is Mine. Mine. Mine."

Maybe someday.

Phases

It takes a long time to grow a personal style. But there are glimpses of it along the way. Clothes are like costumes to me. I wear them to express a mood, a feeling, an attitude I want to project. I remember flannels and baby tees. Calvin Klein. Flowing floral skirts and Doc combat boots. Thrift store sweaters. A time and place when wearing khaki pants on speech days was dressing up.

The summer I was fifteen, I wore a black and white bandana, dew rag-style, over my long, straight hair almost every day. With flared leg jeans and white t-shirts. With giant hoop earrings and dogtags. With sundresses. With soft army fatigue shorts. My mother hated it. She couldn't tell if I was trying to be country, or punk, or ghetto, or hippie. All of the above. I was trying to be me. Whoever that was.

Whoever I am.

No Wonder Woman

I'm a busy girl. I work two jobs. I spend time with my friends. I work out. I take care of all those little tasks that go into living an orderly, hygienic, well-fed existence. Sometimes there's not a lot of free time left over. Although I've never been one to begrudge myself some lazy alone time (America's Next Top Model, hello!), I usually feel like I'm not doing as much as I should be or that I'm letting someone down.

Last night I left job 2 a little early to attend the Leukemia Society's Team in Training meeting. What an amazing organization! My bleeding heart for a good cause was leaking in full force. One of the speakers was a 2-time leukemia survivor who has now run both a half and full marathon with the program. I mean, if someone can endure chemo and make it that far, surely I could motivate a little more. But as the specifics of the program unfolded, I realized, it's a huge time commitment. And, I don't like making commitments that I can already see myself slacking on or breaking. There were mandatory weekend practice runs with the team, team activities, and endless fundraising responsibilities. I stared at the application, at the check box for the Dublin team and tried to imagine how I could fit a new activity in and what I would have to cut out to make it happen.

I haven't gotten where I am today by living within limits. I am who I am because I've pushed myself beyond what seemed easiest. But sometimes maybe the limits are there for a reason. There has to be a compromise between knowing one's limits and pushing the envelope. If I never test the limits of my abilities, I'll never know what I can do. At the same time, if I push until I'm physically and emotionally exhausted, what good is that?

Priorities. I need to figure out what they are. Those are the areas I'm going to push, and the rest will just have to wait, no matter how amazing the opportunity. I can't make the most of absolutely everything that comes my way or nothing is going to get my best effort.

My first priority right now is my career. When I switched from academics, I made the commitment to make this transition successful. So, I'm applying for a management position in my company. Even though I've only been here a year. Even though I have no idea what the odds of achieving this goal are. The outcome couldn't be more up in the air, and honestly, I'm terrified. Whether it's fear of failure or fear of success, I'm not sure. But I'm doing it and working my ass off to make sure they realize I can totally do the job.

My second commitment is (per yesterday's blog) my friends and family. I'm committed to taking time to sustain the relationships that sustain me.

My third priority is my own health. I've said it before, but I want back the body I once had. Sadly, that body cannot be achieved by lying on the couch like it once was. Curves are fine, but I want them as tight as possible. Cardio, hard, heart-pounding cardio is the only answer (or lipo, haha). I do want to be a better runner and plan on finding a 10K to run in the near future. Basically, I want to be proud of the body I see in the mirror instead of tolerant or outright disgusted. I need my groove back.

All of the other things can fall in line after those. I'd like to expand my social activities, find more creative outlets, get envolved with one of the causes I feel passionately about. And, those can have the pieces of time left over. Priorities are made to be reshuffled from time to time, so perhaps in a few months I'll feel ready to move something else to the front of the line.

But the guilt remains. Can we ever do enough to make the world a better place? Can we ever spend enough time with the people we love?

On Envy

One of the things I've been thinking about lately, almost incessantly, is art. I've been considering the concept of craft, what I do, what others do, why some other artists (specifically other writers) make me want to punch them in the face while others are complete kindred spirits.

Recently I've had two very different experiences with the arts that nicely illustrate the difference between the two groups of fellow creators. About two weeks ago, my friend Shelley drug me to a poetry reading at the Bottleworks. Let me qualify before you rip me apart, I have nothing specifically against poetry. I used to write a little poetry, you know, back when the angst levels were far higher than they are today. And there was something about Europe that made me want to wax poetic like few other experiences ever have. The truth is, I'm just a prose person (ie, I'm wordy). What I had a problem with, what drove me to drink several glasses of wine to salvage the experience was the attitude, the atmosphere. The poets, the crowd even, they took themselves SO incredibly seriously.

The first reader, a wannabe hippie from New York, spent more than an hour, reading in a contrived lilting voice, poems about her linen closet (with a "high aroused door", no I'm not kidding) and railing on the word "small" and its over-use in poetry. The latter inspired a fellow audience member to begin a list of creative synonyms for small. My contribution to the list included "my attention span" and "my enjoyment of this event." Fun times. But right around the time the linen closet door became "aroused," I began looking around to see if anyone else's face mirrored my own are-you-fucking-kidding-me expression. No one's was. People were nodding in deep, meaningful agreement. I ordered another drink.

My most recent brush with the arts couldn't have been more different. This past weekend I attended Venus Envy, a showcase to support women in the arts. The festival offered up everything from music and art installations to dancers and roller derby girls and just about everything in between. What struck me most was the difference in atmosphere. The experience felt communal instead of self-promoting. It felt sincere and raw rather than postured. I left feeling euphoric to be part of that community of artists. I wanted to get involved. I wanted to help spread the word.


More than anything, Venus Envy fueled my need to analyze my distaste for the poetry reading. For me it all came down to pretension. I love the arts: theater, music, dance, words, photography, painting. And all of these activities, I suppose, have the potential to be pretentious. Or to be meaningful, mind-altering moments. Blame my feelings about this to all the years spent in academia. Nothing ruins creative fire faster than a bad writing workshop or open-mike night at the local coffeehouse. It's not the work itself. It's not even always the artist. There's nothing wrong with being passionate about your craft. When I write (something other than blogs that is), I pour everything ounce of skill I have onto that page. I want it to be perfect because it's an extension of myself.

The "myself" is where the problem arises. In some atmospheres, the self-righteousness, if you will, of the artist and the audience takes over the beauty of the art itself. When we take ourselves (and the way others perceive us) more seriously than we take the piece of art, pretension gets in the way. My deep concern over whether you think I look and sound the part of writer in my carefully constructed writerly outfit and tone of voice will come across far louder than my (perhaps equally sincere) desire to honestly share what I've written. That pretension also translates to the audience, who starts to feel like it must enjoy the art in the same high-minded way others are or risk being thought shallow.

I mean, god forbid anyone think I didn't fully appreciate what I saw or heard. It's wonderful to analyze art, to wonder what exactly the artist was trying to convey or to consider the implications of the message. But there's equal often dismissed benefit in enjoying the inherent beauty in the voice, the movement, the words, the canvas and leaving it at that. I don't pretend to be super educated in all the art forms I enjoy. Sometimes I don't have the words to describe why I like a particular piece; I like it just because to me it was beautiful.

At Venus Envy, I felt spontaneously moved by the creativity I saw, but if I wasn't, I didn't get the feeling the artist cared much. It wasn't about me or them. It wasn't about fame or praise. It was about the creation. It was about finding joy in the act of creation. If only more experiences in life were like that one.

The Simple Life...(sans ditzy socialites)

Despite mounds of evidence to the contrary, it doesn't take much to make me happy. I had the most glorious weekend, even though nothing truly out of the ordinary happened.

The key ingredient to all this glory was the weather. Not to sound like a hypocondriac with a new disease to battle after every drug commercial, but I've long suspected that I might have a touch of winter depression. Something inside me dies a little when the sun starts sinking earlier and earlier. And don't get me started on the misery of being cold. But this weekend, temperatures were in the high 70s, the sky was blue, the sun was shining, birds singing, the whole nine yards. Nothing can be terribly wrong in the world on days like these.

I tend to count everything after the nights when I work both jobs as "almost the weekend," so Thursday when I attended the Luna film festival, I considered it the beginning of weekend entertainment even though I had to drag my ass into the office by 7:00 am the next day. Luna fest showed a collection of short films written and directed by women about women and women's issues. For some the thought of attending the previously described event might sound like a fate worse than death, but those of you who know me (or have read the blog at all) know that this sort of thing is what I live for. The film about one New Yorker's candid look at her battle with breast cancer 14 months after giving birth brought tears to my eyes. Aside from women's issues they covered, the films also inspired me to start thinking again about a film project I'd been contemplating and all but filed away under impossible.

Friday there was the little matter of working, but by 3:01, I was on the road home. For someone who lives alone, I still sometimes relish the deliciousness of an evening alone. I had to run a few errands, but then I came home, made myself a fabulous (and healthy) dinner, poured a glass of wine, and watched movies. All the while, the windows were open, fans blowing in a breeze that smelled distinctly like spring time. *insert sigh of happiness here*

Saturday was by far my favorite day. It started with a late morning trip to the Soulard farmer's market. I know it's open all year, but in the spring/summer months, the experience feels special. The pyramids of fruit, the earthy smell of vegetables, bright cut flowers...It's a beautiful sight. Then, I spent the afternoon engaged in one of my all time favorite warm weather activities, drinking margaritas on a patio with friends. Seriously, what is it about day drinking that's so much more fun than the same activity after dark? After dark was another matter entirely. J and I threw on some evening wear and took the salsa world by storm. It's easier than it looks, especially when your partner is an authentic latin man who knows how to move well enough for both of you. I highly recommend it.

Sunday's depress me just a little. Monday and Tuesday are my days from hell work-wise. There's very little to look forward to on a Sunday night. To remedy that, I met Mel and Tony for dinner. April was our bartender. I left a little fatter and a lot happier for the time I spent with them. And as I headed St. Louis-ward, the sun was still casting its last valiant rays over the lip of the horizon.

Life is good!

Goodbye 2006

The holidays are almost over (thank god); just New Year's Eve to go and then buh-bye old year, hello 2007. A clean slate. One more chance to do things right. Or if you like, to do things the same old way. I've been thinking a lot about "the same old way" tonight. I was lying on the floor in Corpse pose (the relaxation at the end of practice, for you non-yoga practitioners) unexplicably feeling a little sad. Actually it's not so unexplicable, rather I'm going to stop short of diary-esque details (kills you doesn't it?)... And while I was lying there on the floor feeling a little mopey, I had the strangest sense of deja vu. It occurred to me that I was feeling very much the same way as last year about this time. Caught in transition. Wanting things I couldn't have. Taking the things I did have for granted.

I was so determined that 2006 would symbolize great changes in my life. I quit one job and got another one. I tried the vegetarian thing. I moved into a new apartment without a roommate (unless you count Karma). I finally dated a bit (with dubious success). I resolved to exercise more. I made new friends. I got closer to some old ones. I attempted to become a better person in a variety of ways (also with dubious success). I repeated my mantra: Let. It. Go.
But the more things have changed, the more, deep down, things have stayed the same. There are also annoying people at my new job, and sometimes I'm bored out of my mind there too (thus all the surveys). Sometimes I crave a burger like nobody's business. I miss having a human roommate to bitch at for being too messy. I still have yet to meet anyone who makes my knees weak or my heart beat the way it did when I was 23. I stopped working out (but started again). Sometimes I'm more anti-social than outgoing with new people. I've been terrible about keeping in touch with some of those beloved old friends. And in any number of ways that I've tried to transcend the "self," at heart, I'm usually selfishly looking out for me and what I think will make me happy. And when it comes right down to it, there are some things I just don't want to let go of. I look at the past and still wish I could rewrite a prettier, fairytale ending for it and call it a life lived. So maybe I didn't change that much after all. I can't decide if that's a horrible thing, or an okay thing, or something in between.

So I'm not going to create any expectations for 2007. Call it copping out. Call it embracing mystery. I'm going to stop screaming for more or different and take what comes my way. I'm just going to go with it for once. Wish me luck.

12/27/06

Death of a Pessimist?

I've always sort of prided myself on my cynicism, held up my pessimism like a badge of honor. "It's not pessimism; it's realism." That's what a friend of mine always says when I call him on his bullshit. Isn't pessimism why I became a writer in the first place? So I could bitch about all the things I hate about the world and my life? I was going to blog today, not because I necessarily had anything valuable to say but because when things are slow at work, doing something creative for myself feels like a redemption of 8 hours at my desk.

Looking back at recent posts about how much I love my life makes even me a little nauseous, so I was wracking my brain for something edgy to discuss. Better yet, I wanted to write something fictional this time. Thinking I might cop out and post something I'd already written, I went through the files on my USB drive. There were a couple of short pieces that were still powerful to me in their anger and sadness. Fiction based on real life events…who am I kidding…line for line transcription of real life with the added lines of what I once wished I'd had the balls to say. But I couldn't post them in their hideous, post mortem honesty…because I don't feel that way anymore.

Somewhere along the way, the girl who was such a hard ass, who took joy in holding particular grudges, lost her grip on the past. Maybe it's that I don't have the energy for resentment. Maybe I'm genuinely too lazy to exert the force of indignation. I prefer to think of it as forgiveness.

I was reading a meditation the other day that said the only permanent thing in life is impermanence. I don't like that idea. All I (and most other people) want is for our happy moments (read: euphoric moments, not mildly contented ones) to last forever. But here's a piece of realism for you: continual euphoric happiness is completely unrealistic. Life is cyclical. Soaring highs. Abysmal lows. Some average stuff in between. I thrive on excitement. I hate the average stuff almost as much as the lows. At least the lows provide a little drama. Too bad, because I think the middle ground, which seems to make up the largest part of the cycle, is probably where daily happiness (yeah, the contented kind) exists.

The part of this that does make sense to me is that if I'm going to really enjoy every fleeting moment of where I am right now, I can't waste time and energy thinking angrily about how I may or may not have been wronged in the past (as though I'm perfect and everything was completely other people's faults). My new mantra: Let. It. Go.

I can't change 4 years ago. I can't change 3 months ago. I can't change 2 minutes ago. All I can do is move forward and create the kind of present that I want to live in. I can build better bridges in place of the ones I've burned. I can give the gift of seeing people for who they are today and not who they once were. I can try to appreciate the moments without trying to hang onto them after they're gone or spending all my time anticipating future ones.

So somewhere in all this forgiving and living, I've misplaced some of my cynicism. Making changes instead of bitching has softened my pessimism. I feel hopeful. I'm happy. And goddammit, that makes for very bad fiction. When was the last time you read a short story with a happy ending outside of a children's book?

12/04/06