A couple of months back, a friend of mine was sharing her indignation over the overt flakiness of a friend/neighbor of hers. The two women had gone shopping and my friend, we’ll call her Stacy, was buying a shirt to wear to a work-related event. In the dim and distorting light of the dressing room, she did what any normal person would: she turned to her friend and asked if the shirt looked okay for work.
The friend said the shirt looked great.
So the next week, Stacy dresses in a flash, runs out the house and slips into a day-long seminar wearing her lucky new shirt. The first break of the morning rolls around and she heads to the bathroom where she freezes with a shriek.
The shirt isn’t lucky, but she could certainly get lucky wearing it. She looks like a total hoochie mama -- at a work event – and she doesn’t have a jacket or a sweater to cover the faux pas. Needless to say she spends the rest of the seminar moving from embarrassment to mortification to downright seething what-the-fudgism.
No sooner than her butt hits the seat, she’s calling her “friend” to ask why on earth she didn’t tell her the shirt looked this way. And to Stacy’s surprise, the friend unapologetically said something like, “I thought you knew. I thought you wanted to look like that.”
Oh, uh uh.
If I’d been there, I would have told my friend the shirt looked hoochie. After all, there is a time and place for hoochie. The deal is that you say so, that’s the chick code, or so I thought. If this is a shirt for work, I’m telling you to either (1) not buy it or (2) buy it for some other occasion.
Anything less and you aren’t a real friend. You get tucked away, safe and sound, in the trifling heifer category.
You see I pride myself on my genuineness. My tactful, respectful honesty. I’d tell a person if their slip or bra or clothing tag was showing. I would. I’ll tuck the offending article in for you (after asking permission of course) and I’ll do it without so much as a second thought. I’d even tell a guy if his fly was open although I would stop short of, um, helping him out. After all, what kind of person lets someone walk around with their unmentionables on display without saying a word?
Of course, the same obligation applies when someone is clearly showing his/her ass. I mean, here the person is, revealing the unmentionable side of their character and looking unseemly in public. The right thing to do would be to speak up.
What’s that you say? Careful on that high horse I’m riding? Sorry, I can barely hear you from way up here. Wait a second, I'm on my way down.
Recently, I was faced with a situation that knocked me down a peg or two on the self-righteousness ladder while in spin class. There I was, huffing and puffing after a two-month summer absence when a song came on – I can’t remember what it was, but the base line was heavy and it would have made me shout, “That’s my song!” if I’d been in a club. But of course, I wasn’t at a club. I was in spin class grunting and groaning like a wild boar caught in a trap.
If you are not into spin, the deal is this: you need to keep your cadence (or pedal speed) consistent with the down beat of the music. Up-tempo songs like the one that started playing that day are simultaneously a blessing and a curse. A blessing because they make you want to grove and move and sing along (which is often okay because it’s so loud that no one can hear you if you sing softly). A curse because they often come when you are on the verge of collapse and long to lay down on the floor whispering sweet nothings to your quads and glutes.
Instead, what I was saying to my legs sounded less like a coo and more like a desperate pep squad: “This is it! It’s go time. Time to show and prove. Time to bring it, baby!”
Unfortunately, my legs were shouting in reply, “Go screw yourself, Kim.”
I was literally thigh and ass deep in this internal conversation when I heard another voice – an outside voice -- shouting above the music from the row behind me.
“Come on, Kim. You know you’ve got to bring it. You can’t let white girls show you up.”
Huh? I didn't want to believe that I heard what I thought I heard. Except that I had. This woman is a long-time gym mate and someone I like very much. This was someone who comes to my gym every morning and someone whose workout buddy was both white and seated on the bike between us. I should also mention that the class was full of women – mostly white – and we were the only two brown faces in the crowd. Not that it should matter, but it kind of did.
If exhaustion hadn’t blown my focus, her comment surely did.
It’s been nearly two weeks and I am still stuck on WTF mode. I’m fairly certain that the comment was inappropriate and I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I should say something, but I’m not sure what. In the time since, there has been an awkward silence, a funky ick between us that I feel guilty for. Isn’t that nice? She showed her ass and somehow I’m the one who feels guilty. But it’s true, I do.
I feel like I should have said something, like I’ve dropped a ball, and now so much time has passed that the opportunity is gone.
Alas, the chicken shit thing got the better of me again.
So now I sit here asking myself, which of us has been placed in the trifling heifer category: Her, for the off color (excuse the pun) remark or me, for my silence?
9.28.2009
9.24.2009
No-Panties Thursdays
No-Panties Thursdays. I can’t remember how old I was when I first learned of this “holiday.” Without a doubt, No-Panties Thursdays was the bawdy, raunchy sibling of its quietly suggestive Hump Day predecessor.
If you are from the Tampa area, you may remember No-Panties Thursday and it’s now-infamous advocate, Bubba the Love Sponge. This was back in the pre-PETA hullaballoo. In a time when Bubba was still a very large man making a very small request: go commando on Thursdays.
I believe his exact words were: “Where ever you be, let your chia run free.”
Ah Bubba, how I longed to heed your siren call. How I longed to be the kind of person who tossed my knickers to the wind and, literally, let it all hang out.
Alas, I was always more chicken shit that commando. I’d like to lie to you and tell you that it’s not because I’m afraid. Nope, the word I would prefer is that I am pragmatic. What if I was to go into politics? How would I defend participating in the sheer debauchery of No-Panties Thursday?
You should know, since we are becoming fast friends these days, that the “What if I was to go into politics?” question is one of my favorite covers for chicken-shit-ism. I used to use it all the time as my rationale for avoiding all sorts of wild and crazy things. Except when I was drinking. I saved, “What if there was a fire?” for those occasions. As in, I can’t get drunk; what if there was a fire?
I can assure you that I have been sober far more than I have not and never once have I been asked to be the leader of a fire rescue.
I can also assure you that there is less than a snowball’s chance in hell I will ever go into any form of politics beyond possible a homeowners’ association presidency – I’ve probably still got a shot at that one – and it has everything to do with what I believe and what I refuse to condemn and nothing to do with much else.
But you never know, right?
Of course I never, ever, ever participated in No-Panties Thursday festivities. Not even to this day. I’m a wild child in some ways, but there is no way in H-E-double hockey sticks that I could ever truly act on that secret wish to be completely unleashed. I was always (and remain) the girl who is simultaneously intrigued and terrified by all things hedonistic. If I had my way, I’d stand at the edge of that particular deep end wearing a life vest and clutching a rod iron fence.
So why on Earth am I babbling on about the “holiday: if there is no way in the world I’d actually “observe” it? Well, that’s the question isn’t it? The truth is that my resolve is cracking. I mean, let's face it, in the realm of possible walks on the wild side, Bubba’s request isn’t really that big of deal. Seriously, it’s not like I’m advocating base jumping for crying out loud. I mean, who would know? I could try it out, just a quick run up to the market or even – clutch the pearls – a full day trip into town.
I could totally get away with this and no one except my husband – who insists on random “quality checks” regarding my undergarments – would be the wiser. It’s unlikely that this little foray would make the news, just in case I end up having a personality transplant and wanting to go into politics.
After all, it’s not like I’d be drunk; if/when a random fire broke out, I could still be a responsible citizen (although I’d probably need to stay clear of climbing up the ladder).
Maybe that’s what Bubba, the unquestionably altruistic man that he was, really wanted for us all: he wanted us to find small, manageable ways to let go and do something uncharacteristic, uncomfortable, and, in the process, surprisingly liberating.
Well, it is Thursday people and I think you know what this means. I’m thinking that you and I owe it to ourselves to do something a little bit country and a whole lot rock-n-roll. Ask yourself: What Would Bubba Do?
If you are from the Tampa area, you may remember No-Panties Thursday and it’s now-infamous advocate, Bubba the Love Sponge. This was back in the pre-PETA hullaballoo. In a time when Bubba was still a very large man making a very small request: go commando on Thursdays.
I believe his exact words were: “Where ever you be, let your chia run free.”
Ah Bubba, how I longed to heed your siren call. How I longed to be the kind of person who tossed my knickers to the wind and, literally, let it all hang out.
Alas, I was always more chicken shit that commando. I’d like to lie to you and tell you that it’s not because I’m afraid. Nope, the word I would prefer is that I am pragmatic. What if I was to go into politics? How would I defend participating in the sheer debauchery of No-Panties Thursday?
You should know, since we are becoming fast friends these days, that the “What if I was to go into politics?” question is one of my favorite covers for chicken-shit-ism. I used to use it all the time as my rationale for avoiding all sorts of wild and crazy things. Except when I was drinking. I saved, “What if there was a fire?” for those occasions. As in, I can’t get drunk; what if there was a fire?
I can assure you that I have been sober far more than I have not and never once have I been asked to be the leader of a fire rescue.
I can also assure you that there is less than a snowball’s chance in hell I will ever go into any form of politics beyond possible a homeowners’ association presidency – I’ve probably still got a shot at that one – and it has everything to do with what I believe and what I refuse to condemn and nothing to do with much else.
But you never know, right?
Of course I never, ever, ever participated in No-Panties Thursday festivities. Not even to this day. I’m a wild child in some ways, but there is no way in H-E-double hockey sticks that I could ever truly act on that secret wish to be completely unleashed. I was always (and remain) the girl who is simultaneously intrigued and terrified by all things hedonistic. If I had my way, I’d stand at the edge of that particular deep end wearing a life vest and clutching a rod iron fence.
So why on Earth am I babbling on about the “holiday: if there is no way in the world I’d actually “observe” it? Well, that’s the question isn’t it? The truth is that my resolve is cracking. I mean, let's face it, in the realm of possible walks on the wild side, Bubba’s request isn’t really that big of deal. Seriously, it’s not like I’m advocating base jumping for crying out loud. I mean, who would know? I could try it out, just a quick run up to the market or even – clutch the pearls – a full day trip into town.
I could totally get away with this and no one except my husband – who insists on random “quality checks” regarding my undergarments – would be the wiser. It’s unlikely that this little foray would make the news, just in case I end up having a personality transplant and wanting to go into politics.
After all, it’s not like I’d be drunk; if/when a random fire broke out, I could still be a responsible citizen (although I’d probably need to stay clear of climbing up the ladder).
Maybe that’s what Bubba, the unquestionably altruistic man that he was, really wanted for us all: he wanted us to find small, manageable ways to let go and do something uncharacteristic, uncomfortable, and, in the process, surprisingly liberating.
Well, it is Thursday people and I think you know what this means. I’m thinking that you and I owe it to ourselves to do something a little bit country and a whole lot rock-n-roll. Ask yourself: What Would Bubba Do?
9.23.2009
I've Got Nothin!
Less than a year ago, I sat in my therapist’s office in an all out panic. I had made the decision to write and was determined to make it happen, but beyond a few stories that had been dancing around my head for years, I had nothing. Zilch. Zip. Nada.
I knew what had to be done: it’s basic writing 101. I had to look into myself and call on experiences and observations from my past. What was I feeling then? Who was I at the time and (perhaps more importantly) who did I want to be? But calling on my experiences was a lot easier said than done. At least, for me.
I have spent the majority of my life being the kind of person who represses negative emotions and experiences. It’s one in a series of delightfully unhealthy (yet arguably practical) coping mechanisms I picked up on my life journey. There are others, often closely related, like being a perfectionist which is, by the by, why I felt that I needed to repress things in the first place – gotta be perfect and perfect doesn’t play nicely with weakness or hurt. Hence, the fact that I had this moment of anxiety on my therapist’s couch, but I digress.
But back to what I was saying: Until recently, I repressed almost any negative emotion or experience. Over the years, I was guilty of taking the whole, “find your happy place” mantra a little farther than I am certain it was ever intended to go. I was the girl who simply escaped into her imagination when faced with the unpleasant and that meant anything from a long line at the grocery store to an untimely death. It all got dumped in an attempt to keep myself from slipping into an all out hissy fit.
There is this scene in a SpongeBob episode – it’s the one where Squidward claims he’s the owner of a fancy restaurant if you follow the show – at any rate, SpongeBob is faced with a seemingly impossible task: he must learn everything there is to know about fine dining and become a waiter in the span of minutes. SpongeBob does the only thing he can under impossible circumstances; he mentally starts ditching files and files of memories. The action is illustrated by showing all these duplicates of himself literally dumping files while a foreman version of himself shouts, “It’s all got to go, all of it!”
In many ways, that was me. Yes, I think I can say it. I can identify with SpongeBob SquarePants on a personal level. In the past, I’ve found myself faced with tasks that required me to be at my best and sometimes – more often than I like – I’ve chosen to simply dump everything else so that I can master one single moment. Often, that was just keeping it together without being reduced to a humiliating public scene involving profanity, tears and thumb-sucking. I’m there in my mind, tossing things into the rubbish bin and shouting at myself (internally) that it all has to go, all of it!
So back to SpongeBob. . . There he is in this façade of a restaurant providing Squilliam Fancyson (yes I know his name, ease up, I’ve got young kids. Naw, I’m lying. I watch the show alone) with the best fine dining experience of his life and Squilliam asks him his name. SpongeBob panics. His name? His name? The screen is suddenly filled with all of these images of SpongeBobs running frantically in search of his name until one says, “I’ve got nothin’.”
I knew what had to be done: it’s basic writing 101. I had to look into myself and call on experiences and observations from my past. What was I feeling then? Who was I at the time and (perhaps more importantly) who did I want to be? But calling on my experiences was a lot easier said than done. At least, for me.
I have spent the majority of my life being the kind of person who represses negative emotions and experiences. It’s one in a series of delightfully unhealthy (yet arguably practical) coping mechanisms I picked up on my life journey. There are others, often closely related, like being a perfectionist which is, by the by, why I felt that I needed to repress things in the first place – gotta be perfect and perfect doesn’t play nicely with weakness or hurt. Hence, the fact that I had this moment of anxiety on my therapist’s couch, but I digress.
But back to what I was saying: Until recently, I repressed almost any negative emotion or experience. Over the years, I was guilty of taking the whole, “find your happy place” mantra a little farther than I am certain it was ever intended to go. I was the girl who simply escaped into her imagination when faced with the unpleasant and that meant anything from a long line at the grocery store to an untimely death. It all got dumped in an attempt to keep myself from slipping into an all out hissy fit.
There is this scene in a SpongeBob episode – it’s the one where Squidward claims he’s the owner of a fancy restaurant if you follow the show – at any rate, SpongeBob is faced with a seemingly impossible task: he must learn everything there is to know about fine dining and become a waiter in the span of minutes. SpongeBob does the only thing he can under impossible circumstances; he mentally starts ditching files and files of memories. The action is illustrated by showing all these duplicates of himself literally dumping files while a foreman version of himself shouts, “It’s all got to go, all of it!”
In many ways, that was me. Yes, I think I can say it. I can identify with SpongeBob SquarePants on a personal level. In the past, I’ve found myself faced with tasks that required me to be at my best and sometimes – more often than I like – I’ve chosen to simply dump everything else so that I can master one single moment. Often, that was just keeping it together without being reduced to a humiliating public scene involving profanity, tears and thumb-sucking. I’m there in my mind, tossing things into the rubbish bin and shouting at myself (internally) that it all has to go, all of it!
So back to SpongeBob. . . There he is in this façade of a restaurant providing Squilliam Fancyson (yes I know his name, ease up, I’ve got young kids. Naw, I’m lying. I watch the show alone) with the best fine dining experience of his life and Squilliam asks him his name. SpongeBob panics. His name? His name? The screen is suddenly filled with all of these images of SpongeBobs running frantically in search of his name until one says, “I’ve got nothin’.”
That’s the problem with repression and avoidance. When it comes time to access the substance, to voice who it is you really are all too often the truth is this: you’ve got nothing.
Of course, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to realize that this particular coping mechanism is inherently problematic for anyone who dreams of becoming a writer. The very essence of the skill is tapping into human emotions. That includes the ugly ones like being hurt; being afraid; or feeling like for whatever reason you aren’t quite whatever enough for the current situation. Ooo, the perfectionist in me just bristled at the very idea. Give me a moment to shake it off.
Okay, I’m back. Baby steps. So there I was in the therapist’s office freaking out because I’d locked off all these parts of myself and in the process, lost so much more. There were years and years that I couldn’t recall. I could remember where I was, geographically, but certainly not emotionally. Sometimes I would get a fuzzy read that something bad happened there, like the blurred images on television that suggest something unacceptable but don’t actually let you know what it is.
Every time I tried to tap into something, I would come up short. Talk about screwed.
And then it happened. The royal blue headings and the friend requests. That’s right people, Facebook happened. And with it, came the witnesses, the folks who remembered when, like that sober friend who can tell you just how big of an ass you really were at the party last night. They came and they brought the memories with them. And a funny thing happened: I began to find myself. Through their memories, I found my own. Oh gosh, I was there. I did that. [Groan] I wore that. I said that?
I won’t pretend that the ugly stuff didn’t come to, it did. But the funny thing is that it wasn’t so hard this time around because I gave myself permission to be foolhardy, to be inappropriate, and to be downright chagrined by my choices. I also gave myself credit for the lessons learned, the revisions made, and the grace to apologize when I needed to. Mostly, I forgave myself for being imperfect, time and time and time again.
And you know what? I think it made me a better writer. If nothing else, it’s made me a better mom, a better wife and a better friend. The funny thing about forgiveness is that it frees you to just be. Who knows? Taking a moment to curse and scream and bust out with a little thumbsucking might not have been so bad. I do it all the time now – well, not the thumbsucking but I’m keeping that one in the chamber, just in case – and I don’t feel the least bit worse for wear.
Of course, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to realize that this particular coping mechanism is inherently problematic for anyone who dreams of becoming a writer. The very essence of the skill is tapping into human emotions. That includes the ugly ones like being hurt; being afraid; or feeling like for whatever reason you aren’t quite whatever enough for the current situation. Ooo, the perfectionist in me just bristled at the very idea. Give me a moment to shake it off.
Okay, I’m back. Baby steps. So there I was in the therapist’s office freaking out because I’d locked off all these parts of myself and in the process, lost so much more. There were years and years that I couldn’t recall. I could remember where I was, geographically, but certainly not emotionally. Sometimes I would get a fuzzy read that something bad happened there, like the blurred images on television that suggest something unacceptable but don’t actually let you know what it is.
Every time I tried to tap into something, I would come up short. Talk about screwed.
And then it happened. The royal blue headings and the friend requests. That’s right people, Facebook happened. And with it, came the witnesses, the folks who remembered when, like that sober friend who can tell you just how big of an ass you really were at the party last night. They came and they brought the memories with them. And a funny thing happened: I began to find myself. Through their memories, I found my own. Oh gosh, I was there. I did that. [Groan] I wore that. I said that?
I won’t pretend that the ugly stuff didn’t come to, it did. But the funny thing is that it wasn’t so hard this time around because I gave myself permission to be foolhardy, to be inappropriate, and to be downright chagrined by my choices. I also gave myself credit for the lessons learned, the revisions made, and the grace to apologize when I needed to. Mostly, I forgave myself for being imperfect, time and time and time again.
And you know what? I think it made me a better writer. If nothing else, it’s made me a better mom, a better wife and a better friend. The funny thing about forgiveness is that it frees you to just be. Who knows? Taking a moment to curse and scream and bust out with a little thumbsucking might not have been so bad. I do it all the time now – well, not the thumbsucking but I’m keeping that one in the chamber, just in case – and I don’t feel the least bit worse for wear.
9.14.2009
Isn't that just the way?
I have a confession to make. I discovered that my writing talents and my writing aspirations don’t quite jibe.
I know, I know. This sounds a little woe is me. Stay with me though.
Like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by my own suspicions that you might be judging me. I have discovered that my writing talents and my writing aspirations don’t quite jibe. I grew up reading the classics. I have a degree in literature. I had the privilege of studying and teaching some of the most amazing contributions to the literary world. I love the beauty of well crafted, poignant prose.
Alas, I have found that what I write is saucy, voice-driven, and sex-laden. That is, when it isn’t dark and angry or violent. I wonder why it is that I can’t seem to be deep. Why I can’t concoct a tale that is winding and seemingly arbitrary, yet ultimately proves to be indisputably genius. Take Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. I seriously don’t see myself breaking through with anything close to that any time soon.
This feeling is very similar to the way I feel when I consider what constitutes the ideal body. I envision a wide spectrum of options for physical perfection. Usually it involves long legs that are simultaneously slender and sinuous. The knees are straight, not knocking. Hips are delicately curved, like the arch of a Grecian bow. This ideal butt is pronounced, but not overly articulated. Full but not floppy breasts that flow beautifully and softly from strong, yet subtle shoulders. I’ll admit that I don’t see it often, but there it is. The me I’d like to be.
I’m an equal opportunity admirer – except when it comes to myself of course. I have a wide range of other possible ideal body types. I can probably find five examples of body types I admire (and would trade for my own in a Manhattan minute) every day.
Of course, seeing real life examples of everything I am not is a lot like reading very good literature. I bask in the beauty of the words, the quiet profundity of the articulated sentiments, only to find myself taking in my own reflection with a sigh.
I hear my mother’s voice in my head; her words are shrieks of mortification. Blasphemy. I am beautiful. This is the way God made me. There are a million girls who would love to have the body that I have. And on and on and on. The words grow faint as her pitch climbs to one only the dog can hear.
Now I add shame to mediocrity. I am mired by a serious case of the not-quites. Awesome.
I inhale deeply and try my best to think of something else. Nothing brings clarity like avoidance, right? And then it happens. Someone calls me sexy. Not someone trying to get into my pants or someone related to or married to me, but some neutral party calls me sexy. It’s the foregone tone of the words that give me pause. The way they sandwich it into the conversation without any hesitation whatsoever. The speaker takes in my form, looks longingly at my curves -- my floppy boobs and thunderous thighs – and tells me that they wish they had them.
I miss the rest of what they are saying. I am in shock and trying desperately to look self assured, like their words didn’t just fall on me like manna from self-esteem heaven.
I consider this. Is it more important to find admiration – somewhere, anywhere – than to find that you admire yourself? Or (and I feel like I could be on the precipice of something big here folks) perhaps the trick is not only to see beauty, but to seek the beauty in ourselves and our contributions. To look at the flaws and the not-quites and recognize the function and the truly admirable aspects of whatever it is we bring to the world, be it floppy boobs and thunderous thighs or largely titillating and suspiciously superficial prose.
Okay, so upon review, I have a new confession to make. Perhaps a series actually. I’m not Catholic, so I think it’s okay that I am making these confessions to you without a priest present. After all, they aren’t exactly sins, but I digress. The confessions.
I confess that I believe my writing qualifies solidly as mediocre, and that means I’m better than at least fifty percent of the population. That’s a glass half full in my book. I also confess that, despite my history of fervent denials, my mother may have something to offer in the way of wisdom. And finally, I confess that there might just be something to love about the in-progress draft that is myself.
I know, I know. This sounds a little woe is me. Stay with me though.
Like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by my own suspicions that you might be judging me. I have discovered that my writing talents and my writing aspirations don’t quite jibe. I grew up reading the classics. I have a degree in literature. I had the privilege of studying and teaching some of the most amazing contributions to the literary world. I love the beauty of well crafted, poignant prose.
Alas, I have found that what I write is saucy, voice-driven, and sex-laden. That is, when it isn’t dark and angry or violent. I wonder why it is that I can’t seem to be deep. Why I can’t concoct a tale that is winding and seemingly arbitrary, yet ultimately proves to be indisputably genius. Take Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. I seriously don’t see myself breaking through with anything close to that any time soon.
This feeling is very similar to the way I feel when I consider what constitutes the ideal body. I envision a wide spectrum of options for physical perfection. Usually it involves long legs that are simultaneously slender and sinuous. The knees are straight, not knocking. Hips are delicately curved, like the arch of a Grecian bow. This ideal butt is pronounced, but not overly articulated. Full but not floppy breasts that flow beautifully and softly from strong, yet subtle shoulders. I’ll admit that I don’t see it often, but there it is. The me I’d like to be.
I’m an equal opportunity admirer – except when it comes to myself of course. I have a wide range of other possible ideal body types. I can probably find five examples of body types I admire (and would trade for my own in a Manhattan minute) every day.
Of course, seeing real life examples of everything I am not is a lot like reading very good literature. I bask in the beauty of the words, the quiet profundity of the articulated sentiments, only to find myself taking in my own reflection with a sigh.
I hear my mother’s voice in my head; her words are shrieks of mortification. Blasphemy. I am beautiful. This is the way God made me. There are a million girls who would love to have the body that I have. And on and on and on. The words grow faint as her pitch climbs to one only the dog can hear.
Now I add shame to mediocrity. I am mired by a serious case of the not-quites. Awesome.
I inhale deeply and try my best to think of something else. Nothing brings clarity like avoidance, right? And then it happens. Someone calls me sexy. Not someone trying to get into my pants or someone related to or married to me, but some neutral party calls me sexy. It’s the foregone tone of the words that give me pause. The way they sandwich it into the conversation without any hesitation whatsoever. The speaker takes in my form, looks longingly at my curves -- my floppy boobs and thunderous thighs – and tells me that they wish they had them.
I miss the rest of what they are saying. I am in shock and trying desperately to look self assured, like their words didn’t just fall on me like manna from self-esteem heaven.
I consider this. Is it more important to find admiration – somewhere, anywhere – than to find that you admire yourself? Or (and I feel like I could be on the precipice of something big here folks) perhaps the trick is not only to see beauty, but to seek the beauty in ourselves and our contributions. To look at the flaws and the not-quites and recognize the function and the truly admirable aspects of whatever it is we bring to the world, be it floppy boobs and thunderous thighs or largely titillating and suspiciously superficial prose.
Okay, so upon review, I have a new confession to make. Perhaps a series actually. I’m not Catholic, so I think it’s okay that I am making these confessions to you without a priest present. After all, they aren’t exactly sins, but I digress. The confessions.
I confess that I believe my writing qualifies solidly as mediocre, and that means I’m better than at least fifty percent of the population. That’s a glass half full in my book. I also confess that, despite my history of fervent denials, my mother may have something to offer in the way of wisdom. And finally, I confess that there might just be something to love about the in-progress draft that is myself.
9.13.2009
I don't really. . .
I've been tossing around ideas for my first blog entry. I want something deep, profound, light, whimsical, defining, engaging, amusing, and perhaps even genius. Of course, I've got nothing.
Well, actually that's not entirely true. I've got loads of ideas. They are jumping about with their hands raised shouting, "Pick me, Pick me!" But I can't seem to commit. None of it sounds good enough, and given my standards, I suppose that isn't surprising.
One idea that came up would be titled, "No panties Thursdays." I like it, but I think, with it being Sunday and all, I'll wait until next Thursday to whip that little nugget out. The second idea was the fact that I have been jonesing like a fiend to give New Moon another read. If I did, it would make my third time, but that isn't why I'm refraining. Neither is the fact that I am 35 and it was written for girls who are less than half my age. No, no. None of that is keeping me from jumping in to my favorite series and ignoring my children, dog and husband for the engaging residents of Forks, WA.
What is restraining me is the "rule" that I have set for myself. New Moon will be read the week of the movie release and not a second before. My book sits, taunting, on the shelf in a manner similar to the desert I place before my children to encourage them to eat their vegetables. I'll swallow the time because I want the story to be fresh, the movie to hit me just so.
This of course, struck me as completely unacceptable. No one in their right mind would reveal their silly quirks to the blogosphere so early in the relationship. You need time to know me before you realize just how disturbingly cooky I really am. I mean, I wouldn't go telling you that I have full blown conversations with my English bulldog or that I glean and respond to the social commentary present in SpongeBob episodes, would I? Seriously.
Take for instance, my latest guilty pleasure. I DVRed and watched the pilot for the television series, The Vampire Diaries this week. Okay, I watched it two and a half times. Once in a hurry, before I went to get the kids. Then I watched about fifteen minutes this weekend until my husband came in and I coerced him into watching it with me. Then the final time, with said hubby while snuggling against the sound of rain outside.
I considered discussing the show, but then thought about how I'd blown off the fandom of my friends for TruBlood. I dismissed the show for being "just a little too much like Twilight." And it was not without a bit of self-righteousness that I mentioned that I don't really watch TV anyway.
And I don't. Not really. Of course, I do watch what I DVR every now and again. Like WipeOut and That 70s Show reruns.
Well, last week I spoke with someone very briefly. I say very briefly because the conversation stopped abruptly when I brought up the subject of Facebook (did I mention I have an addiction to FB? Later, there's time for that). When I asked her if I'd seen her post on Facebook, this (otherwise wonderful) woman said, "Oh no, I don't really do the whole Facebook thing." She scrunched her nose and mouth and actually moved her hand like she was shooing flies at a barbecue.
Hmm.
Then I spoke with a girlfriend the other day -- I'll call her Jane -- who was telling me about feeling somewhat judged by a fellow friend -- let's call her Sally. Jane was at that awkward place in the relationship when you are deciding whether or not to move into the bedroom. Well, in a response that was overwhelmingly self-righteous (and downright hypocritical given our knowledge of Sally's history), Sally said, "I don't really think it's appropriate to have sex so soon." "So soon" in this case was just over two months in, which is neither here nor there, because we are all adults. Who on earth is justified in getting all Prudy Petunia when it comes to someone else's decision to get frisky in the sheets? Certainly not mine. And if I was one for saying (which I clearly am not) I would toss out there that this particular girl has enough skeleton's in her closet to sufficiently motivate her to shut the heck up. But, of course, I don't really comment on things like that.
So all this thought about what I don't do got me to thinking. What's up with the "I don't really. . ." statements. In the past year or so, I've heard folks who "don't really. . ." do so many things, from wearing make up (they always do) to using the plastic bags at the grocery store. I wonder if their statements are functioning in the same way mine have: often as feeble attempts at self preservation and sometimes as a balls-out lie.
I am truly tempted to ask the next person who floats one of these "I don't really. . ." statements my way if they might just be doing the same thing. But then again, I don't really get into what other people do.
Well, actually that's not entirely true. I've got loads of ideas. They are jumping about with their hands raised shouting, "Pick me, Pick me!" But I can't seem to commit. None of it sounds good enough, and given my standards, I suppose that isn't surprising.
One idea that came up would be titled, "No panties Thursdays." I like it, but I think, with it being Sunday and all, I'll wait until next Thursday to whip that little nugget out. The second idea was the fact that I have been jonesing like a fiend to give New Moon another read. If I did, it would make my third time, but that isn't why I'm refraining. Neither is the fact that I am 35 and it was written for girls who are less than half my age. No, no. None of that is keeping me from jumping in to my favorite series and ignoring my children, dog and husband for the engaging residents of Forks, WA.
What is restraining me is the "rule" that I have set for myself. New Moon will be read the week of the movie release and not a second before. My book sits, taunting, on the shelf in a manner similar to the desert I place before my children to encourage them to eat their vegetables. I'll swallow the time because I want the story to be fresh, the movie to hit me just so.
This of course, struck me as completely unacceptable. No one in their right mind would reveal their silly quirks to the blogosphere so early in the relationship. You need time to know me before you realize just how disturbingly cooky I really am. I mean, I wouldn't go telling you that I have full blown conversations with my English bulldog or that I glean and respond to the social commentary present in SpongeBob episodes, would I? Seriously.
Take for instance, my latest guilty pleasure. I DVRed and watched the pilot for the television series, The Vampire Diaries this week. Okay, I watched it two and a half times. Once in a hurry, before I went to get the kids. Then I watched about fifteen minutes this weekend until my husband came in and I coerced him into watching it with me. Then the final time, with said hubby while snuggling against the sound of rain outside.
I considered discussing the show, but then thought about how I'd blown off the fandom of my friends for TruBlood. I dismissed the show for being "just a little too much like Twilight." And it was not without a bit of self-righteousness that I mentioned that I don't really watch TV anyway.
And I don't. Not really. Of course, I do watch what I DVR every now and again. Like WipeOut and That 70s Show reruns.
Well, last week I spoke with someone very briefly. I say very briefly because the conversation stopped abruptly when I brought up the subject of Facebook (did I mention I have an addiction to FB? Later, there's time for that). When I asked her if I'd seen her post on Facebook, this (otherwise wonderful) woman said, "Oh no, I don't really do the whole Facebook thing." She scrunched her nose and mouth and actually moved her hand like she was shooing flies at a barbecue.
Hmm.
Then I spoke with a girlfriend the other day -- I'll call her Jane -- who was telling me about feeling somewhat judged by a fellow friend -- let's call her Sally. Jane was at that awkward place in the relationship when you are deciding whether or not to move into the bedroom. Well, in a response that was overwhelmingly self-righteous (and downright hypocritical given our knowledge of Sally's history), Sally said, "I don't really think it's appropriate to have sex so soon." "So soon" in this case was just over two months in, which is neither here nor there, because we are all adults. Who on earth is justified in getting all Prudy Petunia when it comes to someone else's decision to get frisky in the sheets? Certainly not mine. And if I was one for saying (which I clearly am not) I would toss out there that this particular girl has enough skeleton's in her closet to sufficiently motivate her to shut the heck up. But, of course, I don't really comment on things like that.
So all this thought about what I don't do got me to thinking. What's up with the "I don't really. . ." statements. In the past year or so, I've heard folks who "don't really. . ." do so many things, from wearing make up (they always do) to using the plastic bags at the grocery store. I wonder if their statements are functioning in the same way mine have: often as feeble attempts at self preservation and sometimes as a balls-out lie.
I am truly tempted to ask the next person who floats one of these "I don't really. . ." statements my way if they might just be doing the same thing. But then again, I don't really get into what other people do.
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