Yesterday morning I was in a funk. I arrived at work and--for the first time in almost 3 years at my current location--had the dreaded feeling that I was headed into a day of work. My job doesn't usually feel like work. Yes, I get bored and occasionally unmotivated, but for the most part it's interesting, often inspiring...certainly never a grind.
Yesterday morning was different. I climbed out of my car and had the distinct feeling that quitting time--when I could get back to my home and family--was a long, long way away.
It was a combination of factors. I have some sadness about not being able to be more involved at my young son's school. And my favorite two coworkers both moved to other locations within a month of each other.
But the most salient issue, in that moment, was my ongoing seeming inability to get along with another coworker (one of a very small number of people on this earth I am experiencing this with, but the proximity makes it difficult to ignore). It irks me. It gets under my skin and STAYS. It's ever-present.
These things were on my mind when I got to work yesterday morning.
About 30 minutes into my day I got a little bit of perspective.
A woman I recognized as being a server in a nearby restaurant I'd eaten lunch at came in asking for bank statements. She said she realized she hasn't been getting paid minimum wage since it was raised last January and she wanted her transaction history to prove it.
In looking at her account, I saw that between $130-$170 was being deposited every two weeks. This woman told me she works 11-12 hour days. What. The. Fuck.
I mean, I know servers work primarily for tips (I've been a server in Ohio, where it's legal--or at least it was then--to pay servers $2.13/hour. Such was a server's dependence on tips), but here in California, servers also earn minimum wage. How the hell was this woman earning $150 in a two-week period?!
What's more, at the end of our interaction she threw out a humble yet frustrated, "I think they owe me about $200!" She planned to spend her day figuring out exactly how much she'd been cheated.
I was despondent. How could a person work so hard for so little? How could a person even live on those wages in the Bay Area, California?! The restaurant she works at is great, but it's not super busy and the plates are very cheap. I seriously doubt she's raking in thousands of dollars in tips during those two-week periods.
I was immediately grateful for my above-minimum wage earnings, my incentive bonuses, my 401K, my health care coverage, and the fact that I no longer have to work in a restaurant for 12 hours a day for shit wages and come home smelling like food.
Get over your First World Problems, this woman's request screamed at me. Shut your whiny fucking mouth.
But she wasn't even the half of it.
In the afternoon I took some people into my office from the lobby. The man used a walker and spoke with a very gravelly voice; he was somewhat difficult to understand. I came to understand that the woman he was with was his sister. She'd brought him from his care facility (he was only about 45-years old) to get a new debit card.
At one point he apologized for having a hard time punching in the numbers he was choosing for his new PIN. "I can hardly see," he said. "You'll have to forgive me. I was hit in the head with an aluminum baseball bat."
I wondered if I'd heard him right. I'm sure my face flashed all sorts of horror across it.
"Did you say you were hit in the head with a bat?" I asked.
His sister jumped in to hasten the telling of a story I'm sure she's heard enough for many lifetimes, watching people try to make sense of her brother's speech pattern, his confusion, his life state.
"He was attacked," she said. "He was hit on the back of the head with a baseball bat and set on fire."
"Set on FIRE?!" I asked, stupidly.
"Yes," she said.
There were so many questions I wanted to ask, starting with WHY? I wondered if it was a hate crime (He was Black). I thought about the fact that he had a military account (survived armed service but permanently disabled because of something that happened here at home?!).
At a loss for a response and feeling like my real questions were far too personal, I asked how long ago it happened.
He said it'd been 12 years.
I was in tears but trying to keep them at bay as he described to me the shape of the burn on his back. I was suddenly sure that I'd never known a level of humanity like I came to know in looking into the eyes of a man who'd been set on fire. Set on FIRE!
And I was also sure the last thing this man wanted was my pity.
While they were incredibly friendly and kind, I doubted he and his sister wanted to sit in my office and talk about this horrific crime. I doubted they wanted to entertain my curiosity and my sadness. I resolved to simply treat them like any two people who'd walked into my office.
But with their visit, the last of my pathetic woe-is-me attitude wore off, and I was ashamed. Checked.
I hate that it took these customer interactions to shake some sense into me, but I am simultaneously thankful for them. It's good to be reminded that life is so much bigger than the insignificant things I might call problems in my life. It's also good to sit face-to-face with people more steadfast and resilient than I've even been challenged to be in my lifetime.
It's good to be inspired.
With that, I had a fresh take on the day and renewed appreciation for all that is well. And all is...well, that is.
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Dinosaur in the Locker Room: On Trump, On Sisterhood, On Being "Grabbed by the Pussy"
By now, you've heard the recording of Donald Trump bragging about sexually assaulting women in a session of what he referred to as "locker room talk." (By the way, many professional athletes have come forward to question Trump's characterization of what goes on in locker rooms.) It's hard to imagine there's anything left to be said about what has to be the lowest point in the history of Presidential elections in this country.
And yet, here I go:
The other day some coworkers and I were talking about how how rapey, gross, and incredibly unsexy the act of "grabbing a woman by the pussy" is. Then we were talking about how pathetic it was that we were having that conversation because one of the two leading candidates for PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA had bragged about having done it.
I had to let that sink in a little bit. POTUS candidate. Major Party. Wow.
I told my coworkers about a story I'd read the day before. A Canadian writer by the name of Kelly Oxford, after commenting on Trump's remarks, encouraged women to come forward with their first experience of having been sexually assaulted. Thousands of women responded using the hashtag #notokay. At one point Oxford tweeted that she was receiving 2 stories per second.
In letting that sink in, I thought about my own first experience of sexual assault.
I was 12-years-old and in my 8th grade HomeEc class. We were working in groups in the little mini-kitchens, baking something that would turn out disgusting, no doubt. I turned around and suddenly a boy in my group named J.J.--quite out of nowhere and without a word--grabbed me by the pussy. No joke. It's an actual thing (in case any of you respectable men out there heard Trump's words and doubted any person would really do this).
It was the first time a male had ever touched me there, and I was shocked...not least because I'd had no kind of sexual or even remotely flirtatious interaction or even conversation with this boy before. We'd scarcely spoken at all.
I felt frozen in place. I did nothing in response other than to try and shrink away into some kind of invisible version of myself; I remember feeling grateful that this, my last-period class, was almost over and that I could soon go home.
I thought about it for weeks, wondering why he'd done it and feeling a deep sense of shame about the whole thing. I told nobody. I couldn't look at the boy. I barely wanted to go to the class at all.
It's plausible that to J.J. it was nothing more than a spontaneous (though inappropriate) action in response to whatever hormonal whatever he had going on at the moment. It's plausible that J.J. didn't go on to rape and otherwise abuse women. And I'd even believe it if he claimed no memory of this event at all (this is not to excuse the action whatsoever). But (obviously) it made a strong impression upon me.
And as is the case for most if not all my fellow women, an example from my childhood was just the first in what would be many such experiences in the years to follow (three more come to mind from that year alone, though I'm happy to report that by the following year I'd learned a thing or two. When I was a freshman, a sophomore friend of mine grabbed my ass while I was getting something out of my locker. I turned around and slapped him across the face without a moment's hesitation--he immediately apologized and said he'd deserved the slap).
If you're a woman, you have plenty such stories to share.
And you know what, Donald Trump? It truly is not okay. It's not locker room talk. It's fucking bullshit, in fact.
First Lady Michelle Obama had some things to say about Trumps remarks, and she expressed her thoughts a bit more eloquently than I have. She spoke for us all, decent men and women alike.
In her speech, First Lady Obama implored us to work together as teams, united in a stand against Trump's so-called good-ole-boy brand of sexism and sexual harassment.
It was those remarks that came to mind when, just two nights ago, I was on the receiving end of a creeper maneuver all-too-familiar to any woman who's ever been alive in a dance club.
I was dancing by myself (one girlfriend was dancing with a guy, a couple were in the restroom, and one was taking a break off to the side), when a man came up right behind me, rubbing up against my backside, his hand suddenly on my hip.
I glanced backward to see a very drunken looking person, hardly able to stand, let alone dance. I brushed his hand off me and took a step forward.
And then suddenly appeared a young woman in front of me, motioning for me to lean in. "Let's get this dude away from you," she said, and she switched places with me so that she was closer to Grabby Man...a kind of buffer zone. "That's my boyfriend right behind you," she said, "Is that okay?"
Let me just say that there was nothing untoward or creepy about this newfound friend. It wasn't the opening to a three-way porn proposal, haha. The young woman's dude was not dancing very near to me; I think she just wanted me to know that the closest man at that point did not pose any danger.
I wanted to cry for this moment of sisterhood, this caring gesture of goodwill. I danced for a little while with the young woman and then went off to rejoin my friends. But I continued to think about her and how she and her boyfriend together represented one way in which we can counter the culture that seems to think a woman's body is simply there for the taking. That unless a woman actively rebukes him after the fact, a man is welcome to whatever he can grab.
Hers was a little message to Grabby Man and all the Grabby Men out there: I've seen you, and it's not okay.
And it's not that I needed a third party to protect or defend me--not in that particular moment, in a public setting. But I appreciated it anyway. I appreciated the reassurance that we have not resolved ourselves into complacency about sexual assault. About Trump's chicken shit concept of "locker room talk," which really amounts to nothing more or less than a grown-ass men refusing to take responsibility for his abusive actions.
We women have been groped too many times. We've heard too many indecent proposals coming in the form of lame jokes. We have experienced too many "accidental" and opportunistic brush ups. We've heard too many drunken excuses and half-hearted apologies for sexually aggressive behaviors.
From this moment on, I vow to join my sisters and brothers who have had enough. In a way I have to thank Donald Trump for shedding a light on this issue, lest we in our progressed states think we've come as far as we needed to come.
Thank you, Donald Trump, for reminding us there are still plenty of assholes out there to be wary of. Thank you for reminding us to be vigilant on our own behalves and on behalf of other women.
And thank you for reminding me that we know all too well from personal experience the lasting effects of what you claim to be banal "locker room talk." If this is your locker room talk, yours is a sport for the dinosaurs of old. Your kind is dying off and making room for a more evolved version.
Thank you for reminding us all of how far we've come, and where we need to go.
And yet, here I go:
The other day some coworkers and I were talking about how how rapey, gross, and incredibly unsexy the act of "grabbing a woman by the pussy" is. Then we were talking about how pathetic it was that we were having that conversation because one of the two leading candidates for PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA had bragged about having done it.
I had to let that sink in a little bit. POTUS candidate. Major Party. Wow.
I told my coworkers about a story I'd read the day before. A Canadian writer by the name of Kelly Oxford, after commenting on Trump's remarks, encouraged women to come forward with their first experience of having been sexually assaulted. Thousands of women responded using the hashtag #notokay. At one point Oxford tweeted that she was receiving 2 stories per second.
In letting that sink in, I thought about my own first experience of sexual assault.
I was 12-years-old and in my 8th grade HomeEc class. We were working in groups in the little mini-kitchens, baking something that would turn out disgusting, no doubt. I turned around and suddenly a boy in my group named J.J.--quite out of nowhere and without a word--grabbed me by the pussy. No joke. It's an actual thing (in case any of you respectable men out there heard Trump's words and doubted any person would really do this).
It was the first time a male had ever touched me there, and I was shocked...not least because I'd had no kind of sexual or even remotely flirtatious interaction or even conversation with this boy before. We'd scarcely spoken at all.
I felt frozen in place. I did nothing in response other than to try and shrink away into some kind of invisible version of myself; I remember feeling grateful that this, my last-period class, was almost over and that I could soon go home.
I thought about it for weeks, wondering why he'd done it and feeling a deep sense of shame about the whole thing. I told nobody. I couldn't look at the boy. I barely wanted to go to the class at all.
It's plausible that to J.J. it was nothing more than a spontaneous (though inappropriate) action in response to whatever hormonal whatever he had going on at the moment. It's plausible that J.J. didn't go on to rape and otherwise abuse women. And I'd even believe it if he claimed no memory of this event at all (this is not to excuse the action whatsoever). But (obviously) it made a strong impression upon me.
And as is the case for most if not all my fellow women, an example from my childhood was just the first in what would be many such experiences in the years to follow (three more come to mind from that year alone, though I'm happy to report that by the following year I'd learned a thing or two. When I was a freshman, a sophomore friend of mine grabbed my ass while I was getting something out of my locker. I turned around and slapped him across the face without a moment's hesitation--he immediately apologized and said he'd deserved the slap).
If you're a woman, you have plenty such stories to share.
And you know what, Donald Trump? It truly is not okay. It's not locker room talk. It's fucking bullshit, in fact.
First Lady Michelle Obama had some things to say about Trumps remarks, and she expressed her thoughts a bit more eloquently than I have. She spoke for us all, decent men and women alike.
In her speech, First Lady Obama implored us to work together as teams, united in a stand against Trump's so-called good-ole-boy brand of sexism and sexual harassment.
It was those remarks that came to mind when, just two nights ago, I was on the receiving end of a creeper maneuver all-too-familiar to any woman who's ever been alive in a dance club.
I was dancing by myself (one girlfriend was dancing with a guy, a couple were in the restroom, and one was taking a break off to the side), when a man came up right behind me, rubbing up against my backside, his hand suddenly on my hip.
I glanced backward to see a very drunken looking person, hardly able to stand, let alone dance. I brushed his hand off me and took a step forward.
And then suddenly appeared a young woman in front of me, motioning for me to lean in. "Let's get this dude away from you," she said, and she switched places with me so that she was closer to Grabby Man...a kind of buffer zone. "That's my boyfriend right behind you," she said, "Is that okay?"
Let me just say that there was nothing untoward or creepy about this newfound friend. It wasn't the opening to a three-way porn proposal, haha. The young woman's dude was not dancing very near to me; I think she just wanted me to know that the closest man at that point did not pose any danger.
I wanted to cry for this moment of sisterhood, this caring gesture of goodwill. I danced for a little while with the young woman and then went off to rejoin my friends. But I continued to think about her and how she and her boyfriend together represented one way in which we can counter the culture that seems to think a woman's body is simply there for the taking. That unless a woman actively rebukes him after the fact, a man is welcome to whatever he can grab.
Hers was a little message to Grabby Man and all the Grabby Men out there: I've seen you, and it's not okay.
And it's not that I needed a third party to protect or defend me--not in that particular moment, in a public setting. But I appreciated it anyway. I appreciated the reassurance that we have not resolved ourselves into complacency about sexual assault. About Trump's chicken shit concept of "locker room talk," which really amounts to nothing more or less than a grown-ass men refusing to take responsibility for his abusive actions.
We women have been groped too many times. We've heard too many indecent proposals coming in the form of lame jokes. We have experienced too many "accidental" and opportunistic brush ups. We've heard too many drunken excuses and half-hearted apologies for sexually aggressive behaviors.
From this moment on, I vow to join my sisters and brothers who have had enough. In a way I have to thank Donald Trump for shedding a light on this issue, lest we in our progressed states think we've come as far as we needed to come.
Thank you, Donald Trump, for reminding us there are still plenty of assholes out there to be wary of. Thank you for reminding us to be vigilant on our own behalves and on behalf of other women.
And thank you for reminding me that we know all too well from personal experience the lasting effects of what you claim to be banal "locker room talk." If this is your locker room talk, yours is a sport for the dinosaurs of old. Your kind is dying off and making room for a more evolved version.
Thank you for reminding us all of how far we've come, and where we need to go.
Monday, July 4, 2016
In the Event That All Hell Should Break Loose
Not surprisingly, as a bank employee I'm required to complete regular training courses about security, mostly having to do with robberies. These are simple computer modules that haven't changed much in the 6 years I've worked there. They come up about twice a year, and often they include the same videos featuring real footage of actual incidents--a little disturbing, but I'm used to them by now.
For the first time ever the other day, this standard security training was comprised of *two* modules--the standard course I've come to know, and a separate course titled Active Shooter/Attacker Incidents.
Whoah.
I paused for a long moment to take that in before clicking on the link. It's not as though I'm unaware that active shooter incidents are things that happen--frequently, all over the country in fact, and in a wide variety of settings. There was just something disturbing about my company's official acknowledgement of this fact. It was the idea that for a training module on the subject to clear every corporate hoop necessary to be released on such a large scale, it had formally lost its fringe status. The discussion of its possibility had become uncontroversial, non-conspiracy theorist, no longer simply a verse in the rally cries of left-wing gun control advocates.
It was a thing that could happen at my own place of work.
I don't know why, in all the times I've contemplated what I would do in an active shooter situation (and they are surprisingly many), I never imagined it happening when I was at work. Intuitively speaking, a bank seems to be the most likely place I would encounter a person with a weapon.
But a robbery is very different in nature than the incidents we read about involving mentally ill people aiming semi-automatic weapons with either complete indiscretion, or with only a vague sense of purpose in their targets (i.e. I hate this workplace and you happen to work here).
It occurred to me that it was probably about time all companies took some measures to prepare their employees for such a possibility, however futile the attempt to actually prepare oneself for complete chaos and unimaginable violence may be.
The training itself was pretty well done. It was a shorter and more vanilla version of a very good article I read on the subject a few months ago. If you've ever wondered what the fuck on earth you should/could do if you're found in this terrible predicament, you can find that article here.
In taking the training, I couldn't help but think of the recent Pulse night club shooting in Orlando, during which a young employee of my own company was murdered. I wondered if the training had already been in development when the incident took place (likely, since that was just a few weeks back). And I wonder now if that employee might have found a shred of something in that training that could have saved his life.
It's not a pleasant thought to ponder. Then again, what about active shooter incidents is?
This is what I imagine, if it's the case that I have to imagine what I'd do in this situation (I'm aware it's not the case that I have to imagine it, but the mind is a wandering child):
The article and the training both mentioned three options to consider in an active shooter situation. The choices, in order of their recommendation are: run, hide, or fight.
Yes! It seems obvious that the first thing to do would be to run. Run fast! Get out of the building! SURVIVE!
Perhaps this is what the our intuitions would have most of us do, myself included.
But if I imagine that I'm not among the running...
If I am physically prevented from accessing an escape route...
I imagine the shooter in my line of vision, and a crossroads unlike any I've come upon. A taking stock. A weighty and potentially paralyzing awareness of my status as a mother. A consideration of these questions:
Is it worth the risk to my life and to my children's future, if I were to try taking out a shooter? vs. Could I live with myself in the aftermath if I survived because I'd hidden away and waited in fear, knowing I could have possibly helped save lives instead?
And if I imagine either of my children there with me, the questions become all that much more complex. I wrote something along the lines of Mama Bear danger/response instincts once here. That's a whole different can of worms.
(It's probably unhealthy: the amount of time I've spent pondering this question.)
And then I imagine, somehow, from the depths of somewhere, a profound clarity and absolute knowledge of purpose. I imagine 38 years' worth of unrealized and therefor unexpressed anger finding its focus in that singular moment. I imagine a clear, tunnel vision-like path between myself and the shooter, the full extent of my strength and concentration, the full power that exists in my aversion to becoming a victim.
More than once I've had this thought: 'woe to the person who finally pushes that button of mine.'
And in a weird way, the thought of taking action in that situation, of NOT waiting around, cowering, crying...the thought of NOT doing that gives me a striking sense of satisfaction. It makes me feel alive, even as I know it may diminish my chances of actual survival.
I imagine a fast-changing scene. others jumping into action, all of us united in a common goal: do not die a victim. And I imagine it working. I imagine an end to the violence. A change in the script.
And then, ultimately, I'm left with the disturbing question of why I even need to think about these things. I'm left asking the unanswerable question of why men (as they are almost always men) create these horrific scenes in the first place and attempt to stamp out lives that are so precious to others. Why do we invent and sell weapons capable of such destruction? How can it be that in the midst of our so-dubbed civilized society, I can be contemplating these scenarios and have them not be SO crazy, so unheard of?
How did we get here?
In comparison, the takeover robbery videos I've been watching for the last six years feel like a welcome relief. The objective of the robber is clear; it is to obtain money. The bank has money. The robber can have it. Almost always, that is the end of the story.
The active shooter wants what? Is it even something that can be given?
Nobody can really know and of course it would be somewhat different in each case. And while I actively hope and intend to never find myself close to such a situation, the tiniest, tiniest bit of comfort can be found in taking the time to learn how to increase my chances of survival, if I should.
For the first time ever the other day, this standard security training was comprised of *two* modules--the standard course I've come to know, and a separate course titled Active Shooter/Attacker Incidents.
Whoah.
I paused for a long moment to take that in before clicking on the link. It's not as though I'm unaware that active shooter incidents are things that happen--frequently, all over the country in fact, and in a wide variety of settings. There was just something disturbing about my company's official acknowledgement of this fact. It was the idea that for a training module on the subject to clear every corporate hoop necessary to be released on such a large scale, it had formally lost its fringe status. The discussion of its possibility had become uncontroversial, non-conspiracy theorist, no longer simply a verse in the rally cries of left-wing gun control advocates.
It was a thing that could happen at my own place of work.
I don't know why, in all the times I've contemplated what I would do in an active shooter situation (and they are surprisingly many), I never imagined it happening when I was at work. Intuitively speaking, a bank seems to be the most likely place I would encounter a person with a weapon.
But a robbery is very different in nature than the incidents we read about involving mentally ill people aiming semi-automatic weapons with either complete indiscretion, or with only a vague sense of purpose in their targets (i.e. I hate this workplace and you happen to work here).
It occurred to me that it was probably about time all companies took some measures to prepare their employees for such a possibility, however futile the attempt to actually prepare oneself for complete chaos and unimaginable violence may be.
The training itself was pretty well done. It was a shorter and more vanilla version of a very good article I read on the subject a few months ago. If you've ever wondered what the fuck on earth you should/could do if you're found in this terrible predicament, you can find that article here.
In taking the training, I couldn't help but think of the recent Pulse night club shooting in Orlando, during which a young employee of my own company was murdered. I wondered if the training had already been in development when the incident took place (likely, since that was just a few weeks back). And I wonder now if that employee might have found a shred of something in that training that could have saved his life.
It's not a pleasant thought to ponder. Then again, what about active shooter incidents is?
***
This is what I imagine, if it's the case that I have to imagine what I'd do in this situation (I'm aware it's not the case that I have to imagine it, but the mind is a wandering child):
The article and the training both mentioned three options to consider in an active shooter situation. The choices, in order of their recommendation are: run, hide, or fight.
Yes! It seems obvious that the first thing to do would be to run. Run fast! Get out of the building! SURVIVE!
Perhaps this is what the our intuitions would have most of us do, myself included.
But if I imagine that I'm not among the running...
If I am physically prevented from accessing an escape route...
I imagine the shooter in my line of vision, and a crossroads unlike any I've come upon. A taking stock. A weighty and potentially paralyzing awareness of my status as a mother. A consideration of these questions:
Is it worth the risk to my life and to my children's future, if I were to try taking out a shooter? vs. Could I live with myself in the aftermath if I survived because I'd hidden away and waited in fear, knowing I could have possibly helped save lives instead?
And if I imagine either of my children there with me, the questions become all that much more complex. I wrote something along the lines of Mama Bear danger/response instincts once here. That's a whole different can of worms.
(It's probably unhealthy: the amount of time I've spent pondering this question.)
And then I imagine, somehow, from the depths of somewhere, a profound clarity and absolute knowledge of purpose. I imagine 38 years' worth of unrealized and therefor unexpressed anger finding its focus in that singular moment. I imagine a clear, tunnel vision-like path between myself and the shooter, the full extent of my strength and concentration, the full power that exists in my aversion to becoming a victim.
More than once I've had this thought: 'woe to the person who finally pushes that button of mine.'
And in a weird way, the thought of taking action in that situation, of NOT waiting around, cowering, crying...the thought of NOT doing that gives me a striking sense of satisfaction. It makes me feel alive, even as I know it may diminish my chances of actual survival.
I imagine a fast-changing scene. others jumping into action, all of us united in a common goal: do not die a victim. And I imagine it working. I imagine an end to the violence. A change in the script.
***
And then, ultimately, I'm left with the disturbing question of why I even need to think about these things. I'm left asking the unanswerable question of why men (as they are almost always men) create these horrific scenes in the first place and attempt to stamp out lives that are so precious to others. Why do we invent and sell weapons capable of such destruction? How can it be that in the midst of our so-dubbed civilized society, I can be contemplating these scenarios and have them not be SO crazy, so unheard of?
How did we get here?
In comparison, the takeover robbery videos I've been watching for the last six years feel like a welcome relief. The objective of the robber is clear; it is to obtain money. The bank has money. The robber can have it. Almost always, that is the end of the story.
The active shooter wants what? Is it even something that can be given?
Nobody can really know and of course it would be somewhat different in each case. And while I actively hope and intend to never find myself close to such a situation, the tiniest, tiniest bit of comfort can be found in taking the time to learn how to increase my chances of survival, if I should.
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
If You Dare Wear...
I was shopping about a month ago when I did something I never in my life thought I'd do again. It's gonna sound crazy...I mean like the really out there kind of behavior you'd expect from a banshee or a woman high on bath salts or a Trump Rally-goer.
Are you ready?
I took off the rack, tried on, and then proceeded to purchase....
...drumroll...
...a pair of shorts.
Shorts!!!!!!!
Of course I know you don't think this is ridiculous nor did you even notice I hadn't worn a pair of shorts in the last 15 years (at least); my best friend didn't notice. My MOM didn't notice.
But I noticed.
I noticed because for fifteen full years I walked past clothing racks of shorts and at the thought of trying them on had to stop myself from making that sound Melissa McCarthy makes in Bridesmaids when she's trying not to throw up.
Such was my panic. Such was my fear.
Fifteen years is a lot of time. That's time enough to let my cloaked-from-the-sun legs turn so white, they'd long ago begun to give off a bluish glow.
Here I am in probably one of the last pairs of shorts I ever owned (circa 1994):
All these years I've been haunted by this feeling that my cellulite would be the death of me. Like if I dared leave the house exposing my shamefully imperfect upper thighs, I'd let all the world in on some dirty and evil bit of inside information, the kind that could get a person arrested or kidnapped.
Fucking stupid. Seriously fucking STOOOOOOOOpid!
(Erase, erase. I know I'm not stupid. But I also know it's pretty lame to let so much ride on some less-than smooth skin. So it's settled. I'm not stupid. Just lame. Haha.)
I owe my venturing out to a couple of coworker friends who both expressed surprise that I'd been so unwilling to wear shorts and who assured me that people (even men that they were and everything) are fully aware that women have cellulite, don't expect that real life women will look like fitness models or Maxim cover girls, and both of whom pretty casually made it sound as though I should basically get over myself.
Ahem.
So I did. And I bought the shorts. And I WORE the shorts. And the next however-many-years of my life will feel just a little (or maybe even a lot) more liberated for it.
Pretty cool.
My first outing in the shorts was to my parents' anniversary brunch. At the brunch my Mom mentioned that I would be proud of her for buying her first swimsuit in years.
Whaaaaaaaaat?!
I never again thought my Mom (who'd worn a bathing suit nearly half the days in any given year until I was about 17 but then NEVER AGAIN SINCE) would let her legs and arms see so much light of day.
And for years I've been trying to get her (this is gonna sound a little familiar) to basically get over herself and come swimming with us (yes, I said "us." How it was that I was willing to go out in public in a bikini but not a pair of shorts is beyond rational explanation except to say that people are expected to be wearing minimal clothing at the beach or the pool, regardless of their shapes. It was my mistaken thought that they were also expected to look great in shorts, if they were wearing them. I guess my brain filtered out all the exceptions I must have encountered every summer).
ANYway. We were going swimming at the pool in my parents' neighborhood after brunch, so we first stopped at their home to change. My Mom walked sheepishly out of her bathroom in a pretty, brightly patterned swimsuit and a matching swimsuit cover and I couldn't help but cry with happiness. I swear this was my Mom in her natural element. All my life I've seen her sunbathing on the beach or poolside, turning strategically to tan evenly on both sides, slathering suntan lotion, sunglasses- and sunhat-clad. THIS was the Mom I'd always known and had missed!
I hugged her big and told her I was proud of her. And then she told me I inspired her! (The same person who wouldn't go out in shorts). She said she was inspired watching me take my sons out swimming even knowing it meant wearing a bathing suit in public (something she knew I was loathe to do for a while until I had my younger son and decided it wasn't fair to deprive him of such experiences because of my own fear/self-consciousness/vanity).
So we stood there hugging, happy for each others' new forays into the land of the still-living (because to me, if there's something--a perfectly safe and reasonable something--that I want to do but won't simply out of fear? There's some living I'm missing out on).
Over the years I've gained a lot of good stuff about body image from my Mom and her consistently encouraging me. I've also probably absorbed some negative messages as well, if for no other reason that I grew up (a curious (nosy) and silent listener...I think they forgot I was around) listening to my Mom and aunts always talking about dieting, belittling their own bodies, continuously striving for some kind of magical thinness that seemed just out of reach.
How joyed I feel to participate in this joint celebration of getting over ourselves. How refreshing to think 'fuck it' and truly mean it!
We're headed back to the pool tomorrow, me and my Ma. There I'll watch her rub suntan lotion on her arms in the familiar way that takes me back to so many summers past, and I'll smile inside to have that version of her back poolside, enjoying just one little happy bit of what this life has to offer.
Are you ready?
I took off the rack, tried on, and then proceeded to purchase....
...drumroll...
...a pair of shorts.
Shorts!!!!!!!
Of course I know you don't think this is ridiculous nor did you even notice I hadn't worn a pair of shorts in the last 15 years (at least); my best friend didn't notice. My MOM didn't notice.
But I noticed.
I noticed because for fifteen full years I walked past clothing racks of shorts and at the thought of trying them on had to stop myself from making that sound Melissa McCarthy makes in Bridesmaids when she's trying not to throw up.
Such was my panic. Such was my fear.
Fifteen years is a lot of time. That's time enough to let my cloaked-from-the-sun legs turn so white, they'd long ago begun to give off a bluish glow.
Here I am in probably one of the last pairs of shorts I ever owned (circa 1994):
All these years I've been haunted by this feeling that my cellulite would be the death of me. Like if I dared leave the house exposing my shamefully imperfect upper thighs, I'd let all the world in on some dirty and evil bit of inside information, the kind that could get a person arrested or kidnapped.
Fucking stupid. Seriously fucking STOOOOOOOOpid!
(Erase, erase. I know I'm not stupid. But I also know it's pretty lame to let so much ride on some less-than smooth skin. So it's settled. I'm not stupid. Just lame. Haha.)
I owe my venturing out to a couple of coworker friends who both expressed surprise that I'd been so unwilling to wear shorts and who assured me that people (even men that they were and everything) are fully aware that women have cellulite, don't expect that real life women will look like fitness models or Maxim cover girls, and both of whom pretty casually made it sound as though I should basically get over myself.
Ahem.
So I did. And I bought the shorts. And I WORE the shorts. And the next however-many-years of my life will feel just a little (or maybe even a lot) more liberated for it.
Pretty cool.
My first outing in the shorts was to my parents' anniversary brunch. At the brunch my Mom mentioned that I would be proud of her for buying her first swimsuit in years.
Whaaaaaaaaat?!
I never again thought my Mom (who'd worn a bathing suit nearly half the days in any given year until I was about 17 but then NEVER AGAIN SINCE) would let her legs and arms see so much light of day.
And for years I've been trying to get her (this is gonna sound a little familiar) to basically get over herself and come swimming with us (yes, I said "us." How it was that I was willing to go out in public in a bikini but not a pair of shorts is beyond rational explanation except to say that people are expected to be wearing minimal clothing at the beach or the pool, regardless of their shapes. It was my mistaken thought that they were also expected to look great in shorts, if they were wearing them. I guess my brain filtered out all the exceptions I must have encountered every summer).
ANYway. We were going swimming at the pool in my parents' neighborhood after brunch, so we first stopped at their home to change. My Mom walked sheepishly out of her bathroom in a pretty, brightly patterned swimsuit and a matching swimsuit cover and I couldn't help but cry with happiness. I swear this was my Mom in her natural element. All my life I've seen her sunbathing on the beach or poolside, turning strategically to tan evenly on both sides, slathering suntan lotion, sunglasses- and sunhat-clad. THIS was the Mom I'd always known and had missed!
I hugged her big and told her I was proud of her. And then she told me I inspired her! (The same person who wouldn't go out in shorts). She said she was inspired watching me take my sons out swimming even knowing it meant wearing a bathing suit in public (something she knew I was loathe to do for a while until I had my younger son and decided it wasn't fair to deprive him of such experiences because of my own fear/self-consciousness/vanity).
So we stood there hugging, happy for each others' new forays into the land of the still-living (because to me, if there's something--a perfectly safe and reasonable something--that I want to do but won't simply out of fear? There's some living I'm missing out on).
Over the years I've gained a lot of good stuff about body image from my Mom and her consistently encouraging me. I've also probably absorbed some negative messages as well, if for no other reason that I grew up (a curious (nosy) and silent listener...I think they forgot I was around) listening to my Mom and aunts always talking about dieting, belittling their own bodies, continuously striving for some kind of magical thinness that seemed just out of reach.
How joyed I feel to participate in this joint celebration of getting over ourselves. How refreshing to think 'fuck it' and truly mean it!
We're headed back to the pool tomorrow, me and my Ma. There I'll watch her rub suntan lotion on her arms in the familiar way that takes me back to so many summers past, and I'll smile inside to have that version of her back poolside, enjoying just one little happy bit of what this life has to offer.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Yes Woman
The other day I was finishing up a meeting with a client whom I've come to know fairly well personally and with whom I truly enjoy working. As she was getting up to leave I remembered there was almond cake in the break room and I asked if she'd like to take a piece home with her. She said sure.
When I came out with the cake I said, "you know, I was just thinking this morning about how I like this quality of yours: You accept."
She asked what I meant.
"I mean, when I called to invite you to the client dinner last year, you didn't say you'd get back to me. You didn't ask me 20 questions about it or have to consult with anyone else. You said yes, you'd come. I just like it when people are open like that. I think it's a good way to live."
"Oh," she said. "Well sure...why not?"
There was nothing remarkable about this choice of lifestyle to her. It's just the way she is. And I'm convinced this is why, for a woman in her mid-70's, my client is plenty youthful. She still goes skiing nearly every week in the winter and laughs at how all the younger people can't hang in as long as she can.
Who wants to let herself get/feel/be old when there is still so much living to do?...When there is still so much to say yes to.
A few years back I very mindfully became a yes woman.
It wasn't so much an experiment but a way to open myself back up to the world after closing off to much of it during the few years previous. I decided to try a new thing every day for a year and share a daily blog about it at this site. Some part of me knew that what my soul needed was exposure; it needed to be fed new things, introduced to new people, awakened to new experiences.
You invited me? I was there.
And it worked. It dragged me out of my darkened den and back into the land of curious learners. It got me exploring the East Bay (the area was new to me at the time) and attending different kinds of parties and just engaging in weird shit I wouldn't have, otherwise.
I can see no other way to live happily anymore. This year is off to a good start. I've booked travel to a number of cities I've never visited before and have been to new venues and restaurants. In a few months I'm going with the client I mentioned to a nearby restaurant; she's going to show me the place where cougars go to pick up on young men (even though that was never her purpose in going there). Haa!
I love the thought.
I mean I love the thought of living by my client's example. If someone invites me, I should accept (unless the idea is dangerous or ill-advised or I just have previous plans). If an offer is extended, I will seize upon it. If a person reaches out a hand to shake mine, I will meet it where it's at, literally and figuratively. Because every super cool, amazing person in my life was at one point unknown to me (like my client was just 8 months ago)...and I hate the thought of having missed out on any of them.
P.S. please forgive my rusty writing. It's been way too long.
When I came out with the cake I said, "you know, I was just thinking this morning about how I like this quality of yours: You accept."
She asked what I meant.
"I mean, when I called to invite you to the client dinner last year, you didn't say you'd get back to me. You didn't ask me 20 questions about it or have to consult with anyone else. You said yes, you'd come. I just like it when people are open like that. I think it's a good way to live."
"Oh," she said. "Well sure...why not?"
There was nothing remarkable about this choice of lifestyle to her. It's just the way she is. And I'm convinced this is why, for a woman in her mid-70's, my client is plenty youthful. She still goes skiing nearly every week in the winter and laughs at how all the younger people can't hang in as long as she can.
Who wants to let herself get/feel/be old when there is still so much living to do?...When there is still so much to say yes to.
A few years back I very mindfully became a yes woman.
It wasn't so much an experiment but a way to open myself back up to the world after closing off to much of it during the few years previous. I decided to try a new thing every day for a year and share a daily blog about it at this site. Some part of me knew that what my soul needed was exposure; it needed to be fed new things, introduced to new people, awakened to new experiences.
You invited me? I was there.
And it worked. It dragged me out of my darkened den and back into the land of curious learners. It got me exploring the East Bay (the area was new to me at the time) and attending different kinds of parties and just engaging in weird shit I wouldn't have, otherwise.
I can see no other way to live happily anymore. This year is off to a good start. I've booked travel to a number of cities I've never visited before and have been to new venues and restaurants. In a few months I'm going with the client I mentioned to a nearby restaurant; she's going to show me the place where cougars go to pick up on young men (even though that was never her purpose in going there). Haa!
I love the thought.
I mean I love the thought of living by my client's example. If someone invites me, I should accept (unless the idea is dangerous or ill-advised or I just have previous plans). If an offer is extended, I will seize upon it. If a person reaches out a hand to shake mine, I will meet it where it's at, literally and figuratively. Because every super cool, amazing person in my life was at one point unknown to me (like my client was just 8 months ago)...and I hate the thought of having missed out on any of them.
P.S. please forgive my rusty writing. It's been way too long.
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