unsolicited

stream of consciousness, because why not

[childishepithet]

New Year?

Today is the first of January. It is a new year, I guess. The date feels arbitrary, just like all of the dates are arbitrary. This new year is a new number, but nothing is very much different than yesterday. Up to and including streams of consciousness that I will likely never make public and the public will likely never read. A lady needs her secrets, I suppose? I endorse that belief, but with an asterisk: sometimes a lady has more secrets than she can contain on her own. I think of Jane Eyre. Secrets, like unrequited love, if left untended must destroy the life which feeds them. Charlotte Bronte probably would have said it better. I mean it though, all of those little private parts of self and snapshot memories of things so good or so bad or that just didn’t quite make sense to the point that they are burned into my brain on intermittent repeat. Those snapshot memories full of ghosts who don’t speak, just play out the same scene, the same incident, over and over, eventually fading around the edges or sometimes right in the middle. Or else they stay so crystal clear that I carry them right underneath the surface, ready to insert themselves (needlessly? necessarily?) into the immediate. And those memories, those ghosts are loud loud loud. 

We convince ourselves. I convince myself. I convince myself that I am far more emotionally impenetrable than I actually am. I know how to put on a brave face, to perform triage in the moment and address survival needs first, to convince people, up to and including myself, that everything is fine and I am fine. And usually everything is fine and I am fine. But there are new things to pick up, new things to carry, almost constantly. I don’t mean for it to sound like the new things and the existing things are unwelcome: I am a collector of stories, and good bad and inbetween they are welcome and wanted. And I certainly don’t want to slight anyone (the spirits, the ancestors and others and shadows of former incarnations of myself) that make their permanent home in my chest cavity. I am making this resolution, not because it is January 1 but because today is today and I just thought of it (which communicates a lot in itself): This is the year I learn how to talk to ghosts with greater fluency. 

[childishepithet]

Slow. Down.

I’m tired. Always searching for safety and something that makes sense In my own homeland. Home.  The outside never matches the inside. The inside is a pleasant kind of chaotic, All spare keys and buttons and scraps of fabric That in quiet moments come together. A danse macabre of sorts,  Carefully assembled little pieces That make more love letters than anything. Outside the chaos is Unwelcome. Too many-too much, unwelcome-disinterested. Gale force. Untouchable. Broken glass and contagions. Raw. Relentless. On an average day I think I understand 70 percent of what’s happening. On a bad day I think it’s closer to 90. On a great day I stay inside and snuggle with silence- my own. Outside silence is expensive and destructive, encroaching on internal landscape and thought habitats. Inside silence is expansive and healing. Generative. Necessary. I’ll see you in a few days.

[childishepithet]

Who is She and what is She to you?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about identity. My own and that of others. How they come together. How they evolve. How they evolve in isolation and how they evolve in relation. What a difference it makes to be honest with oneself about oneself. What a difference it makes to be honest with myself about myself.

I (relatively) recently decided to get tattoos that are visible in shirtsleeves and cut my hair. I was able to do this because of a wedding. Two weddings actually, in the space of two years. I was a bridesmaid in each of those weddings, and they pushed me to my breaking point. They made me finally look at the way I present myself to the world and the sacrifices I was willing to make for some sense of not even belonging, because that felt out of reach, but acceptance. And maybe not even acceptance but anonymity. If the world has taught me anything, it’s that the way I am is less than ideal. And I know pretty well what the world would have me be. Compliant. Agreeable. Generous. Happy, at least on the outside. Content. A participant in the status quo. Nothing pushes that harder for me than to be in a hetero wedding. Those suggestions become rigid. I was miserable, and knowing that I wasn’t supposed to be made me more miserable.

I made a decision after the first wedding: strangers are no longer allowed to do my hair and makeup. Because they can’t be trusted. Because they try to make me into the smiling bridesmaid thing that I’m supposed to be. The one that photographs well. They straighten my hair when I ask them not to and they don’t tell me what they’re doing to me or why. They make me feel like a doll in the worst possible way, make me feel completely detached from myself and then tell me I look beautiful. I smiled and went along with it, and it was up there with the worst I’ve ever felt. I don’t have any pictures of myself from that wedding, I couldn’t stand to keep them. And I feel extremely grateful to have had a friend in that moment who saw me through the whole mess, heard what I was saying, and loved me in spite of the outside, not because of it.

With the second wedding I took more precautions, dealt with known quantities, but still tried to work within the system and was still miserable. I made another decision after that: I am not straightening my hair anymore. I won’t do it. It makes me feel too bad to hear all of the positive reactions from people, all of the reinforcement for changing myself to conform to a really fucked up, whitewashed standard of female beauty. No. More. I’m worth more than that.

It is not accident that two months later I found someone I could trust to cut my hair and two months after that cut all my hair off. Cutting of 20 inches meant I couldn’t straighten it, it meant that that the version of me that almost sort of fit the status quo, that could pass for That Girl was inaccessible to me. Because the temptation is there, less and less and less, but it’s there. Some instant gratification. Some outside affirmation that I am worth something, that I register to these people, if only in self-destructive, superficial ways. No more. And this is the happiest I’ve ever been.

People who witnessed the before and after tell me it was brave. It was, but not necessarily for the reason they mean. They seem to think it was brave because it was transgressive. That is and isn’t it, because they don’t know what that transgression meant to me. The true transgression was the outward presentation that distorted the internal reality. The haircut was a correction of the original transgression. But yes, it was brave. It was brave because I was finally doing something strictly for myself, and because doing it meant taking a stand against trying to fit into someone else’s image of femininity. It was brave because this is something that I’ve actually always wanted but wasn’t in a place where I could deflect the looks and interactional evidence of disapproval. Before there was a frightened part of me that wondered if they were right. I stopped indulging that part, because that wasn’t me, it was the disapproving looks that I had internalized.

It was brave because it was honest. And I know this one is different; I’ve attempted this before but it never stuck because I wasn’t ready. Now I’m ready, and I’m ready for what this means in terms of the next evolution. I’m ready to expand my definition of femininity to accommodate me instead of doing it the other way around. And if my definition expands beyond what I perceive to be the confines of the word, I’m ready for that too. Language is what isn’t enough, not me. Knowing that means I can love people better, with a greater sense of peace. I have more internal stability now, so I have more to give. That haircut was and continues to be a long overdue symbolic apology to myself. You’re welcome, and I forgive you.

[childishepithet]

To Be a Bridesmaid

Here's the deal. I am not fancy. I aim for classy. And to misbehave. But I am not fancy. I am a t-shirt and jeans, Converse high tops, recycled butter tub as tupperware, tap water, no makeup woman.  So a being in a wedding is a big stretch for me, because a wedding requires me to masquerade as the polar opposite of all of these things.  Dressed up. Impractical footwear. Multiple forks. Champagne flutes. Face paints. And to top all of those things off, a lot of social interaction with relative strangers at various showers, bachelorette shit, rehearsals, receptions all of that. I. Hate. All. Of. These. Things.

I want to make it perfectly clear that I love the brides for whom I have bridesmaided, and that I would perform these duties again without hesitation. Because they are worth the discomfort. The discomfort is extreme, so that tells you how much I care about these people.

I spent a lot of my young life trying to figure out who I am and where I belong, not always necessarily in that order. I am still working on these things, but I have narrowed it down quite a bit. This process has been complicated by my various social identities. Being queer and an ethnically ambiguous shade of multiracial brown has complicated this process, ultimately in the best possible way: I realized that I don't fit in… anywhere. Almost ever. That paradoxically was very comforting (also horribly painful but that's another story) because no, I don't belong in these places and I don't enjoy the things that happen in these places because they are ultimately not for me and tell me lies about myself without ever having known me. I don't want to reside, physically, emotionally or spiritually, in a place that does not value me. Which is all well and good until I have to go and play The Game.

I'm sure we're all familiar with The Game in some capacity. The context for The Game involves an individual in a social situation that does not come naturally. It could be with bridesmadery, a partner's friends or coworkers, a networking event, a spiritual gathering, a community excursion, a family reunion, whatever. The player feels emotionally that this space is unpleasant or unsafe AND knows intellectually that they wish to continue to participate in this relationship/employment situation/community/family and participation in this social situation is a contingency. Enter cognitive dissonance. As in 'I REALLY DON'T WANT TO FUCKING DO THIS and the consequences of not doing this are not worth it."

Being a bridesmaid for me is the epitome of The Game. Nothing about who I am is represented in the process. It's strongly adherent to tradition, my clothing and presentation are decided for me, it involves a shit ton of small talk, a shit ton of money I would most assuredly spend on other things left to my own devices, and a shit ton of small talk. It has also involved an unsolicited dick in the face at the world's most disgusting strip club, being stared at because I am somehow "different" (the tattoos, the haircut, the skin color, the height, the ???), feeling awkward because I am broke as fuck and live in different worlds than a lot of the rest of the wedding party, and general feelings of inadequacy because I am not This Kind of Girl. The inadequacy is somewhat counterbalanced by the fact that I have absolutely no interest in being This Kind of Girl. I do not hold it against those who are, it would just be nice to have some alternative, more authentic way to participate and wish well. It's like not offering any food option except a slab of meat. No sides, no dessert, just a big hunk of carcass. A lot of people end up alienated that way.

Now. I do not think for a second that it is incumbent upon anybody getting married to plan a wedding around my idiosyncrasies. I view bridesmaid duty the same way I look at jury duty: my day is hijacked and it is a necessary evil that must be endured.  The system is what it is, it is bigger than I am and it does not bend for me. Just like voting is worth the risk of jury duty, close friendships are worth the risk of a bridesmaid summons.

One of my favorite comics artists (www.juliawertz.com) described a neighborhood in NYC as "a playground for the kind of adult I am not." That is how I feel about wedding festivities.  Not for me. And more than that, the Not That Kind of Girl thing turns sour and sinister when I am in that situation. Because I think overall I am doing pretty good at life: I have friends, a partner and a family that I am absolutely crazy about. I feel good about my career path, I think I'm doing something that matters and that will help people beyond just myself. I work hard and try to be decent. I like the life I live and the person I am a whole hell of a lot actually. And it was a lot of work to get to that point. Because outside people have been trying to tell me  my entire life, on a daily basis, that the way I am is wrong.

Being in a wedding is a little resurgence of all of that accumulated trauma. Every time I felt like a freak for being tall. Every time someone commented on the size of my feet or hands. Every time someone ignored me for a more conventionally attractive friend. Everyone who thought I didn’t count. Every stare I got in an all-white setting. Every passive aggressive comment from another woman about my lack of makeup. Every time someone touched my hair without asking. Every time someone wouldn't touch me when I handed them their change. Every time I felt like I was too much or not enough or didn't belong.

Because when I am in a wedding I am always too much (I tower over everyone, tattoos and brown skin blazing) or not enough (no I don't know what kind of makeup I want because I don't wear it and I don't know how to answer your question because the first response was evidently wrong but it's the only one I have) and I don't belong (I can see the fun I'm supposed to be having, I know what I'm supposed to do, but it isn't real and I just spent the last 28 years learning that real is the only speed I have and the only one I want. Oh and when am I getting married? Ideally never. Not sorry).

It's just a lot to take, it feels like a constant very low level panic attack with occasional spikes. Because at its core, done the traditional way, it just feels unsafe to me. It runs directly counter to my intuition. I become a thing to be looked at and evaluated, silent and solitary. It doesn’t feel real, and at the same time it's entirely too real. I eventually just shut down.

And if by some chance any of the brides are reading this (and haven't friend divorced me by now), it isn't you, it's me. Honestly.  I understand that I am a hypersensitive, socially avoidant human being. Some of it is a survival mechanism, some of it is because I'm a closet high-maintenance pain in the ass. Our friendship is a testament to how wonderful you are because you willingly navigate that with me. I am forever grateful for exactly who you are and for your wanting me to be such an intimate part of your celebrations. Truthfully, even though it really pushed me to my limits I would do it again for you in a heartbeat because I love you that much. It's a complicated feeling.

[childishepithet]

Usually So High Functioning. Until...

So something happened this morning which, out of context is just a run of the mill mini-meltdown. In context it made me realize some things about myself. I worry a little about this tumblr misrepresenting me (to the no one who reads it, but I read it and I like accurate representation because this is mostly to help me process what is happening in my world and in my head) as more well-adjusted than I actually am. In totality I think I’m doing extremely well in terms of coping with life challenges. And I’m not impervious to something taking me down a peg. It keeps me humble and that’s important, but it still sucks when it happens. Turns out I’m not a complete robot after all, who knew? (Mostly just me, I’m good at convincing people I’m a robot because it means they ask fewer follow-up questions in my experience).

This is what happened. I picked up my messenger bag and watched and listened in slow-motion horror as a mouse jumped out, ran ACROSS MY HAND and disappeared behind the bookshelves. Now. I do not. Do. Mice. Can’t handle it. This mouse thing has been an ongoing saga. I’ve got it pretty well under control with peppermint oil, but there are brief moments of horror when the peppermint oil has worn off and needs to be replaced that I see the horrible little monsters. 

In the aftermath of this incident, I found myself filled with rage and frustration and generally demoralized feelings. I forgot necessary study materials to take to the coffee shop and unnecessarily snapped at my partner. Do I feel good about these things? No of course not. Do they make more sense in context? You bet your sweet ass they do, because everything does.

This is one of those things that is not about what it is about. If it were just about mice I could grow some eggs and get on with my day no problem. Symbolically, this is about being broke, being highly sensitive, and control.

Being broke: Seeing mice reminds me that I have been dealing with stupid shit like this my entire life, and while it is far from life threatening it is a constant reminder of the crap that I deal with that people with money do not deal with. Cognitive distortions abound, but some of them are not as distorted as others. Like the idea that if I didn’t have to live in a cheap, shitty, basement apartment this might not be an issue. Am I ashamed? No, absolutely not. You have to be smart to survive on next to no money. You have to be resourceful. You have to prioritize and you have to collaborate with other people more often than not. All valuable skills. It’s just that it gets old, and it gets me thinking about the sociocultural and historical reasons that I’m broke and other people are not. It also gets me thinking about the privileges and advantages I enjoy that others do not, again for very specific sociocultural and historical reasons. The whole thing is overwhelming. And really, if there were no mice and the plumbing didn’t suck, I would be fine with the whole thing. This leads me to

being highly sensitive. I can handle a whole lot, but I also notice a whole lot and am constantly trying to strike a workable balance between participating in the world and self-care. The outside world is full of constant overt and micro-aggressions that happen just because of who I am and what I look like. That shit is exhausting, particularly when paired with my impressive introversion and sensitivity to, oh, everything. Loudness. Crowds. Sudden movements. Cold temperatures. Other people. My house is the place that I look for comfort and quiet when the outside world is more that I can handle. It is a sanctuary. Mice are an extreme violation of that sanctuary because I am then interacting with them, what they mean symbolically and my own irrational fears. I try to reserve that shit for outside of my house. And if it is in my house, it happens in quiet moments of contemplation, when I have actively chosen to engage with those thoughts. When I’m off the clock, I like to be off the clock. I can’t afford to be worn out like that in my own home. Which bleeds into the issue of

Control. I realized in thinking about the whole thing that I have created a very predictable, controlled atmosphere in my home. I can control very little in the outside world, to the point that I have accepted that and it doesn’t bother me anywhere near as much as it could. I like structure and predictability. I have very little unscheduled time (self-care is a part of that schedule). I like to know what’s happening. Then these mice just appear, surprising, unscheduled, unruly and completely unnerving. Out of my control. Inside of my house. I hate that. It is one of the most serious deterrents to my becoming a parent someday. But there again, I can control whether I have children.

So yes, this is really bigger than mice and it is something I will be working on possibly for the rest of my life. The mice have as much right to be alive and try to stay that way as I do. I understand that intellectually. Emotionally, fuck mice. Just fuck them.

[childishepithet]

Attend My 10 Year What Now?

I first got wind that the class of 2005 from my high school would in fact be having a reunion in... April? March maybe? A few months ago anyhow. Having resolved while still in high school never to attend a reunion, this information impacted me very minimally. I have had close friends ask me whether I intended to attend (these close friends being the people from high school with whom I have formed relationships and have deliberately chosen to remain connected, funny how that works), which was no problem.

This morning however, I had a message from a close friend informing me that the Suzy High Schools were wise to the fact that I had not been invited to their can’t-miss torture fest and were looking to rectify. TWO MINUTES later I was added, without my consent, to a Facebook group and contacted by an individual with whom I have no relationship to inform me of this exciting opportunity. FUCK. THAT.

This is precisely what I was trying to avoid. The people from high school I would want to see have my contact information and I theirs. I have seen them since high school, some of them as recently as YESTERDAY. The people I would not want to see I sometimes stalk on social media. Easy. The way it should be. 

Here’s the deal.

1. The fun I had in high school was had with the group of lovely people, mentioned above, with whom I chose to associate. And since I can see them when I fucking feel like it, I see no need whatsoever to involve additional humans.

2. I went to an *almost* all white high school in the suburbs, after having been born and raised in a proper city that included useful things like diversity. Now. I still live in totally reasonable proximity to the small-minded, lily-white pit of nonsense where I attended high school. I can get there on the train. Do I do this? Not if I can fucking help it. I was miserable in this community. This community went out of its way (meaning it just continued with the status quo so I was the only one distressed) to make me miserable, to make me feel isolated, incapable, undeserving, other, and less-than. Why the hell would I make a pilgrimage back there? I don’t owe them anything, and what they owe me they will never make good on. So I would rather make my peace, give the whole city the finger, and never visit. I would rather live outside (see earlier post on the loathsomeness of camping) than live there again.

3. The only small temptation to attend this event was because, in my opinion anyhow, I am totally hotter than I was in high school. I would derive some small satisfaction from having that seen and noticed. And from possibly seeing, a-la reality television, a corresponding lack of physical attractiveness in some of the classmates whose company I did not enjoy. That was the only incentive. And since I can’t figure out a way to be okay with that, I am not going.

4. I didn’t have any school spirit when I was in school. In the 10 years since, I have had ample time to reflect on the distorted version of my own life I lived in this terrible, heterosexist, racist, classist context. My school spirit levels have most assuredly not improved. Handmaidens of the status quo. I will not be involved. I was the best caterpillar I could be then, and I think I am now much further in my journey to being the badassest goddamn butterfly.

5. I like my life so much better now than I did in high school. And I didn’t necessarily have a bad high school experience, even if you don’t discount all of the small-minded idiots. It’s just that currently, everything is awesome. I don’t really want to lord that over anyone.

6. You know what I hate? Making small talk. You know what a high school reunion is? Nonstop small talk. My impulse would be to make cards to hand out with the following pieces of information: Name: (withheld because internet) Occupation: Library ninja (better than the official title) and grad student. Marital status: No thank you Children: Fuck em. Living situation: Renting, cohabiting in tiny apartment with delightful human life and sex partner, the gender and sexual orientation of whom will remain a mystery because I don’t actually know you and you are maybe probably wondering if I might maybe be some variety of... well you know... Financial situation: Broke AF, no problem. Happy? Very. Good Day.

(mic drop)

7. The actual building is meaningless to me. The interactions were meaningful, good bad or neutral. The ones I have chosen to rehash have been rehashed in quiet moments of contemplation, because that is my preferred speed. This event is the opposite of that and I am not that person anymore. I don’t see the need to catch insignificant others up on who I am every ten years or so.

8. The speeches at my high school graduation, with one shining exception, were beyond terrible. I saw the giver of the brilliant speech two weeks ago. I have no interest in what the rest of you might have to say. Why would I put myself through that? In conclusion, you can’t pick your classmates but you can choose your friends. And I have. Your reunion is irrelevant.

[childishepithet]

On Lateness

I just read an article by some douchey uptight business guy about being on time (you can access the article by said douchey uptight business guy here: http://vitamintalent.com/vitabites/no-you-are-not-running-late-you-are-rude-and-selfish)

I agree that if you are expected at a meeting that begins at 9am in the U.S. of A. where meetings run on white people time, you should be there by 9am. The same goes for the airport and the bus, because those things do not wait. Where I take issue is when Daddy Warbux starts to get twitchy about being kept waiting at a coffee shop, by his dentist, or eavesdropping on a group of women with whom he is not acquainted who intend to show up to an event that starts at 7:30 at 9. Your dentist was more than likely taking necessary time with other patients, just like she would for you. As for the group of women, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW THESE PEOPLE.

Seriously guy, unclench and remove giant metal rod. I understand the need for this rigidity in the business world and recognize that time is money. The parts I have difficulty understanding are 1) why you would want that to be your world, it sounds fucking terrible and 2) why you feel the need to impose your personal opinion on the rest of the world that may or may not happen to share it.

To address the first point: stress is toxic. Science says. Living in a world in which one is constantly watching the clock and/or stock ticker sounds incredibly stressful and unfulfilling to me. That does not mean that everyone experiences that reality in that way, and I respect that. But it also doesn’t make you any fun to be around.

To address the second point: I have far more enjoyable outings with people when time is not a prime concern. The people I care about know and understand this about me Yes, I am frequently running late. Which is why I try to make sure I’m worth it once I get there. I think the lateness makes me more aware of the way I am interacting with people. This may sound like a cop out and in all reality it may in fact be, but it’s one with which I  feel comfortable. Flexibility and a willingness to go with the flow are qualities I value very deeply in the people I choose to include in my life. Sometimes on time just doesn’t happen, and I can forgive another person for showing up late. Forgiveness and understanding are also qualities I value. I do not get this vibe from the corporate business guy. Which is fine. I’m not about to tell him that he’s doing his life wrong; he is merely doing his life in a different way than the way I choose. His prerogative. He mentions not wanting to hire people who show up late. I am always on time for interviews and might even be able to impress him with some statistics and ten dollar words, but I sure as shit wouldn’t work for him. 

I think ultimately what bothers me about this is the holier-than-thou-ness of it all. So you are organized and get everywhere on time, even early. Good for you, I hope you get some satisfaction out of it. But that doesn’t mean you’re a better person. Being early or on time are cultural values, arbitrarily defined and having no inherent meaning. Your culture, personal, professional, ethnic, whatever, values this quality. Mine does not. You see value in timeliness. I see the value and use in being flexible about time. I have no desire to assimilate to your way of doing things, and you seem like a pain in the ass. Additionally, being early for things makes me feel extremely awkward and uncomfortable. That’s when people (business world types) shake hands and network and make small talk and compare dick size, and I hate that shit. Hate it. It always seems to come back to this but I really believe it: this is a society built for and dominated by extroverts. Maybe the lateness is a little rebellion in this way, I don’t know. But this guy makes me want to be late on principle, not just innocent slippage of time or social discomfort. I would (spitefully) love to set up a meeting with this guy, make him wait 20 minutes, and casually ask him what he did with his time and take his blood pressure. It’s funny, the time stickler thing seems like such a power move, and then the enforcer gets his jockeys all in a bunch because I’m making him wait and thereby holding the power, at least until I arrive. You’re not better than me and you won’t convince me otherwise. Kiss my subversive grits.

[childishepithet]

People who are worth my romantic attentions: A quasi-rebuttal

http://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/a37938/guys-who-are-absolutely-worth-your-time/?dom=huffpo_fb&src=syn&mag=cos

Guys who are worth my time. Hm. Despite the source of this list, it actually makes some sense to me. I do however have amendments.

PEOPLE who are worth my time in a relationship:

People who prioritize emotional fidelity over physical fidelity. I think of sexual urges as just another human impulse, not in a category of it’s own. You’re hungry? Go find a sandwich. Your back itches? Scratch it! And if you can’t reach, enlist help. Horny? Make consensual sex at someone. I don’t know about other people, but I don’t always feel like having the exact same sandwich every time. Sex is just naked dancing, and as long as you’re on the same page and being safe about it I really don’t care who you sleep with when you’re in a relationship with me, as long as I’m the one you’re coming home to and you mean it when you say you love me.

People who know how to be alone. You can’t be fully present with or for another person until you know how to be fully present with and for yourself.

People who know how to shut up sometimes. There’s nothing nicer than a shared comfortable silence. For that to happen, both parties need to know how to be comfortable in silence.

People who are passionate about something. I don’t care if it’s saving the world or saving the whales or making art or digging holes or beer or My Little Pony or hockey. I like people who know what they like, who care enough about something to do it just because they are that interested. Passion projects keep the synapses firing and connect people to something larger than themselves. I can’t be all that someone is interested in, it’s too much work.

People who know how to have a conversation. Meaning people who know how to listen and synthesize ideas. Above all I believe in the magic that happens in the (physical, spiritual, emotional) space between people. I am not a magician. It takes two to make that magic.

People who read. Reading is sexy.

[childishepithet]

An un-love letter to the studio yoga class

The following is my interpretation of more or less every yoga class I’ve ever attended. Yoga classes in an urban studio are goddamn terrible.

Oh hey. What in god’s name are you doing here? In those clothes? Those clothes look like something you would sleep in. You, not me, I have more respect for my bed than that. Don’t you care what you look like? People judge you by the way you look, you know that right? Okay, whatever if you insist. Welcome to the ancient Eastern spiritual practice of YOGA. Here is your room full of fit, attractive young white people. Where is your mat? You DON’T own a yoga mat? How do you continue to take in oxygen? Very well, I suppose you can use one of our mats. We sanitize them approximately every 23rd of never in hopes that pleebs like you will either 1) take a hint, straighten up and fly right or 2) take a hint and remain relegated to your pathetic world of fast food and spiritual unfulfillment and baggy clothing. To hide your shame.

Alright, come in. No no, not there, not in the back. We saved you a space at the front of the room, we all want to see how hopeless you are at trying to manipulate your doughy, inflexible meat bag of a body. 

Great. Now. Welcome to Yogafest12PM. A rational, warm human being would tell you to go at your own pace, that this is a spiritual practice, that you shouldn’t do anything to the point that it is painful, and that we are going to go through everything step-by-step so you understand what is happening and the rationale behind it and can ultimately use what you learn here to become a more balanced, contented person. But this isn’t some pussy yoga playground for babies. Also, babies are more flexible than your sorry ass. No, welcome to the real world.

We are going to start. We will explain nothing of what we are doing nor how to coax your body into what should be impossible positions. We would like to encourage you, verbally and nonverbally, to hold these positions well beyond the point of pain and possibly sanity. We also encourage you to look around as you attempt the yoga. Take note of the ease with which your “peers” achieve these positions. Please understand that this discrepancy owes to the fact that they are superior to you in every conceivable way. They have more discipline. More self-control. More ambition. More money. They understand the importance of using their more money to purchase sexy fitness clothes so their fellow yoga-ers don’t hurt their eyeballs looking at fashion sad-faces like this eyepopping shorts and old t-shirt combo you’re sporting. They’ll probably get into heaven, and they look good enough that they won’t have to wait in line. With you. Who won’t make the cut. We don’t take kindly to your type and will make this as physically and psychologically uncomfortable as possible in order to assure that you will not return. So there’s that to look forward to. Moving on. Okay, start by bending over and putting your big ass right up in the air. Right, more or less like that. I guess. I’m going to come over and push on your back. I’m not going to explain why I’m doing this in words; I’m just going to push on your back until you figure out for your damn self why you’re wrong and correct your behavior. No, that’s not it. No, that isn’t it either. No. No. NO. Honestly, I’m starting to think you’re intentionally bad at this. You’re hopeless. I am walking away from you in disgust. (This is when the directives start. In a breathy voice (so my rage-filled reactions seem all the more inappropriate) I am instructed to assume plank position, lower my fleshy body all the way down to the floor while maintaining perfect, unmoving posture. As if there were a rod shoved up my ass and fused to my underperforming, slouchy spine. Then I am to put my big ass back in the air and walk my big feet to the front of my mat. Other people do this gracefully, I am incapable. My yoga-ing is bad and I should feel bad. Then several variations on aligning my hands underneath my shoulders, putting one foot between my hands, twisting my back to the point that I’m pretty confident if I slip I’ll never walk again, putting my elbow on the inside of my knee and trying to look over my other shoulder or at my fingertips or some shit).

Hold that until you have fully fleshed out all of the ways you would dismember the sadist of an instructor with your bare hands if you were prone to violence. Continue to hold as you become prone to violence. Continue to hold until you genuinely believe you can see through time. Release. Repeat in other direction, so a new crop of yoga jerks can see what a pathetic, sweaty noob you are.

(There is no formal instruction, but I know to look around to see if I have a partner in my misery; I have none. I am alone and indeed pathetic and it is my fault and I deserve it. Other people seek out and enjoy this. NORMAL people seek out and enjoy this. Something is wrong with me and I am not normal. I don’t belong here. I should never have come here. There is no unobtrusive way to bail out the back door. I must endure so that I may leave and renew my resolve never to do any more fuck damn yoga). (There are no clocks in yoga studios- they are like Vegas without any of the fun. Because of the lack of timekeeping device I have no idea how much more yoga torture I have to suffer. Time is meaningless. I start to wonder if I’m dead. Is this purgatory? A yoga class that just never fucking ends? Good one god, I knew you had a sense of humor. You miserable prick). (Finally we end up in corpse pose. I continue to wonder if I am dead. The head yoga human tells what is supposed to be in interesting and symbolic story about fucking pigeons or something. If I wasn’t already filled with rage you can bet pigeons would be the tipping point. Dis-gusting. I attempt to deescalate, abandoning fantasies of mass murder as I do so. I feel the twinges that tell me that my body will ache for days after this experience, further punishment to trying to enter into a world not made for me. The class ends. Yoga human spews forth a Namaste and an admonition to be well and return next week. Grateful that Stockholm Syndrome has not claimed me, I get the fuck out of there as fast as my jelly-filled legs will allow and search for a yoga free place to seethe and be alone).

(end)

So that’s about it. I hate yoga. More specifically, I hate the image conscious studio yoga bastardization that has my homeland captivated. This yoga makes me feel inferior and out of place. I am out of place damn near everywhere I go and it doesn’t always feel so good. It feels even less good in a yoga studio where the discomfort is multiplied tenfold. I can’t wear the uniform and I can’t stomach the kool-aid. It’s too much implicit performance, too self-involved, and too much competition. I can handle explicit performance; the implicit makes me miserable. Every yoga class is a crisis of confidence waiting to happen, and crisis of confidence isn’t my baseline. I am a firm believer in pushing one’s comfort zones, and I am also a believer in knowing the difference between comfort and survival. Yoga for me feels like a violation of my survival instincts; yes it is uncomfortable, but it is more than that. I’m so far out of my element with no safety net and no lifeline. It isn’t growth, it’s traumatic and stupid. I encounter enough micro-aggressions in my world, I really don’t see seeking them out in an inauthentic environment so unlikely to change. It’s not for me. I am retiring. So fuck it.

[childishepithet]

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

I had a rare impulse today to venture out into the world and have some (limited, caffeine-related) interaction with other humans. Sometimes I am happiest when I can be in room full of people with headphones on and a book open. I do some of my best thinking and some of my most focused work this way. I'm honestly not sure what that says about me. Despite how it sounds, I do not think I am at my best when I ignore the rest of you. I think that's just the most comfortable level of interaction with strangers or crowds- existing separately but in proximity with a warm beverage and (based on my own perception) a general feeling of good will. Vibes out into the universe, or whatever.

So anyway. I follow this impulse and usually the results a totally satisfactory. I get some good writing and self-reflecting done. I feel sort of human, get my people fix, and go back underground (literally and figuratively). All is right with the (my) world.

Not the case today. Today, my chosen coffee shop was full of people, complete with all of the obnoxious coffee shop stereotypes: several examples of the conspicuously hip, people taking up way more goddamn space than they need, including two oblivious douchey people who are having a conversation right where people need to be walking away from the register to wait for their drinks (and make no move to move after I very politely say excuse me), people who have no idea what they want to drink and are completely unapologetic about it, people who are waiting for drinks and not paying attention. Said people had to be alerted four fucking times to collect their beverages. Upon the collection of said beverages, these two individuals were impatiently and loudly discussed by the baristas.

This part I understand, but then one of them ma'am-ed me when he handed me my drink. The ambiguity in this interaction troubled me greatly- was it said in a flirty, 'haha I'm a cowboy, what's up pretty lady' kind of way, or a 'you don't even register as human to me, here's your coffee or whatever,' kind of way, or was it said in a 'you are starting to look the part you misanthropic bitch' kind of way?

Cognitive distortions aside, I think and talk a lot about gendered expectations, and as usual, I am not immune. If anybody is reading this (fairly unlikely. Katie Kates or Lia, if you're reading this, ::mwah::) and is an exception, my apologies and I am happy to eat my words at your direction, but WHAT WOMAN UNDER THE AGE OF 40 WANTS TO BE MA'AM-ED???? Whyyyyyyy do people do that???

This is the point where it became too much. Overstimulated and confused (which I am learning is just my baseline when in the company of more than one additional meat popsicle), I decided that it was time for the to go cup to live up to its name and I would be having my coffee at home.

All this to say, at least for today: Suspicion confirmed. The outside world is unsatisfactory. The kind of thing that makes me think 'I put on pants for THAT?'

I think the pants needed to be put on. Sometimes I have to go be around people to remember how well I like being alone. And right now, traveling companion and I are doing separate things right next to each other and haven't spoken for the last hour. Really that was all I wanted anyway, funny how things work out. Also, traveling companion brought me a sandwich because he loves me. That's one in the 'W' column.

In conclusion: Thank Dog for headphones, coffee, wifi, books, and sandwiches. The world at large can kiss my ass.

[childishepithet]

Reasons I don't want to go to the gym

This is an experiment. Traveling companion claims to need until around 10 to finish arting something and then we are supposed to go to the gym. I'm not feeling it. I'm going to go due to the shame component (what others call "accountability"), but I wanted to see if I could fill the intervening time with all of the reasons I don't want to. It's 9:46. I'm hoping writing all of this shit down will help me realize that this is an idiot first world problem and I should go to the fucking gym so my bones and organs don't start to mutiny any earlier than they need to.

1. It's late

2. It's dark

3. It's chilly out

4. There's FINALLY a new season of Parks and Rec on Netflix. Also, slightly less exciting is a new season of New Girl. I like TV better than the gym. There, I said it.

5. Too much of going to the gym is performative and my workout clothes aren't cute. I feel like a crappy feminist saying that, but just because I notice shit like this doesn't mean I'm immune to its influence.

6. I have to go outside, which means I will have to talk to other people. Boo.

7. I took off the real pants after I got home at 6. I hate putting real pants back on in the same calendar day. It feels like a step backwards. I spend all day trying to get back home so I can take my pants off. Is that terrible? Probably.

8. I'm bored with my workout music.

9. I just got a new comic book that I would much rather read. I understand that you can take books to the gym but I've yet to master the art of reading on an elliptical.

10. I have schoolwork that I have been neglecting. My desire not to go to the gym is currently overpowering my desire not to do my homework.

11. My headphones suck.

12. This might require putting on a bra. This is the same principle as the pants problem.

13. My bed is super comfortable and very persuasive.

14. I just don't wanna.

...

... I think that's it. I'm out of reasons. It's 9:58. I only had 12 minutes worth of complaints and they're all dumb. I think if I can't complain for longer than I was planning on working out, I should go to the gym. Fiiiiiiine, I'm going to go change clothes.

Fun post script: Here are the things I can complain about endlessly:

Patriarchy, lack of acknowledgement for intersectionality, the fashion industry, the cosmetics industry, the New York Yankees, living garden level, the U.S. healthcare system, the U.S. educational system, perception of mental health in the U.S., people who think I should get married, people who think I should have children, yoga, the Whole Foods lifestyle, networking, riding the drunk train home on a Friday or Saturday night, loud talkers, college athletics, tokenism, the concept of objectivity, and the way other people drive. I'm sure there's more but I have to go fitness. Kisses.

[childishepithet]

The Introvert Speaks

I see lists on lists on lists about introverts, who we are, what we want, how to take care of us, etc. That seems like an awfully big, blankety generalization. I don't feel good about being lumped in with a whole bunch or strangers, in the same way as I don't feel good about speaking on behalf of said bunch. But, as always, I am more than happy to share what I think (through words, in list form, and from the comfort of my very cozy, sparsely populated living room) under the relative anonymity of the internets.

1. Everybody talks more than I'm comfortable with.

I do my best to speak when I have something relevant to say, and then say little else. I have noticed through careful observations of both parents (one an introvert and the strong-silent type and the other an ambivert who loves the talking) that the more you say, the less people tend to listen. Sometimes all of the words are just overwhelming and I am just done.

2. I hate unplanned interactions

I walk around with headphones and sunglasses on as often as possible because 1. I get to pretend to be on a catwalk and it makes me feel sexy and 2. I don't like getting pulled into a conversation against my will. It catches me off guard and it makes me uncomfortable. It especially bothers me on the bus because I don't have anyplace else to go. Similarly uncomfortable are elevators, waiting in line, jury duty, breaks in the middle of class and parties. Speaking of parties...

3. Parties tend to involve too many people

I am always flattered when people invite me to things. I do like some people, and the people I like I really like. And I want to help you celebrate your housewarming, but I'm just too awkward to deal with all of the people and all of their small talk expectations. I don't really do well with strangers in groups of more than 1. My first impulse is to bring a book and/or spend the entire evening talking to your dog.

4. Bachelorette parties are my personal hell

Bachelorette parties typically mean a bunch of needlessly dick-shaped things, drinking a whole bunch (I suck at drinking), making small talk with women I don't know and usually don't have much in common with, and being forced into awkward, unplanned interactions with strangers. They can also mean male strippers (not my thing) and spending a pile of money that I just don't have for fun that I just won't have. Again, I am happy to help you celebrate your impending nuptials, but pretty please let me do it by buying you a good cup of coffee.

5. I'm introverted enough that I really only want to date other introverts

Meeting a partner's friends and being expected to go out and be around people on more than a once per week basis is too much. My current traveling companion is more introverted than I am and it's the best relationship I've ever had. I don't think those two facts are unrelated. Being in a relationship with another introvert means I don't have to explain myself when I say I just want to stay in and binge watch Netflix.

6. If I haven't been alone for too long I start to get strange

Like, I feel crazy and start saying more weird stuff than usual and I forget things. It's as if my brain is shutting down from overstimulation.

7. Technology is amazing

I absolutely hate talking on the phone. It's like an unplanned interaction but with no face. It's tedious and it makes me tired. If you call me I'm more than likely not going to pick up. But I'll text all day. Texting allows me to plan what I'm going to say and review it before I send it. I like having a prepared statement. You can also have an e-mail, a facebook message and even the occasional tweet. Similarly, I try not to set foot in a retail establishment between Thanksgiving and New Years. Dog bless the internet. I probably wasn't wearing pants when I bought your gift, just because I didn't have to.

8. Don't ask what I'm thinking

If I wanted you to know what I was thinking I would have told you. Since I didn't, you can safely assume that my thoughts are proprietary. All that's going to do is make me uncomfortable and I probably still won't answer you. Except now I'm irritated when before I was just thinking.

9. I hate people knocking on my door

Another unplanned, unsolicited interaction. Unless you are delivering something that I explicitly ordered, I don't want whatever it is.

10. Salespeople freak me out

Nothing is more off-putting than walking into a store and being immediately accosted for information. Hihowareyouwhatcanihelpyoufindermagherdhaveyouheardaboutourbigfatsalehihihi. I just can't. I promise I will ask for help if I need it. Otherwise, I did dress myself this morning and shopping is actually a pretty similar process.

11. More than likely I'm not mad at you, I don't hate you, that's just my face

I don't quite have resting bitchface, but sometimes it's close. I get lost in thought a lot. If I'm not saying anything it's probably just because I have nothing to say.

12. Loud people make me uncomfortable immediately

They just do. It's too much.

13. I feel like I live in a world built for extroverts

I know, poor me. And I know the grass is always greener, but it seems like in the public sphere being an extrovert is easier and gets you more. More comfort, power, influence, connections, business opportunities, whatever. But the private sphere, aka the inside of my house, is where I'm more comfortable anyway, and I have much more control over that.

14. I don't think there's anything wrong with the way I am.

I think it makes me a more critical thinker, more perceptive, and a better listener. Me, not you. There are plenty of critical thinking, perceptive extroverts who know how to listen. Being an introvert works for me. I like knowing how to be alone and knowing how to enjoy being alone, it makes me better company when I do choose to seek out other people.

I'm sure there's more. I'm not suggesting that anybody should cater to my idiosyncrasies, but I'm not apologizing for them either. For better or for worse they're mine and I like them.

[childishepithet]

Date Rape Drug Detecting Nail Polish

[childishepithet]

Can I Get a Double Espresso?

I have spent the last 10 years of my life working in the service industry, among other things. The last five or so years have been spent working in the coffee business. Coffee customers are hilarious. I have seen some ridiculous shit and I have heard some ridiculous shit. Here are some of my favorites. There will be more. The italicized portions are the things I would have said in response to these people if I did not need to worry about remaining employed.

Can I get a tall coffee? I don't know, are you able?

What's the difference between a caramel frappuccino and an extra coffee caramel frappuccino? Wow. Just wow. What;s the difference between your head and your ass? Here's your sign.

Hey, can you break a 20? I need to tip the valet. Tip the valet. Of course. In case you are unaware I work for tips too, just as hard as the valet but for far less money. Bite me.

Hey, do you know what time Tiffany's opens? Do you not see this apron? Do I look like I know what time Tiffany's opens? What the hell would I do with that information? Get away from me.

Can I get a glass of water? I'm dying of thirst! No, you're fucking not you bourgeois bitch. There are lots of people in the world who are, but you are most assuredly not among them.

White woman obnoxiously on the phone orders coffee after a white woman obnoxiously on her phone  and says to me "Ugh, freaking white people." ...what? What the hell is that supposed to mean? What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Who are you and what do you want? Your motivation for saying that is going to be one of the great mysteries of my life, I can feel it.

Have a great weekend! It's Saturday and I'm here talking to you. I'm a full time student. My weeks do not end. I do appreciate the sentiment though.

After being told her total a woman decked out in designer everything says to me "oh no! I just got my nails done and my credit card is at the bottom of my purse" and then gives me a pleading look. Holy first world problems, Batman. That might be the most pathetic thing I've heard all week. Please stop.

(numerous individuals like to set their babies on the counter. Said babies proceed to drool, smell unpleasant, make things sticky and just generally touch and knock over everything) Seriously? Not cute. Not cute at all. Is that a service animal? If not I'd like to ask you to get it out of here. And if it is, I'd still like to ask you to take it off the counter. We serve food here.

Customer complains loudly about the length of the line for 5 minutes, gets to the register and says, open mouthed "uuuuhhhhhhhhhh... I will haaaaaaaaave... hmmmmm... what do I want?" Are you serious with this shit? You complain about the wait and then get up here and do that with no sense of irony? I'm a barista, not a wizard. I have no idea what you want. What I want is to shake you. And close your mouth, you're catching flies.

Can I get a tall blonde with no top? Heh heh heh. How about a tall brunette with no patience? Guys like you give your gender a bad name.

And in that vein, the one that takes the cake and happens far too frequently (most recently yesterday)- Dudebro, staring directly at my chest, asks for a double espresso. What the actual fuck. Just like that, no shame. Listen here. My boobs lack the synaptic capacity to process your request, they do not operate on their own, and they most certainly do not dispense espresso. There is no excuse for you in this moment. I am horrified that I have to say this, but women typically don't like it when you talk to their tits. I will thank you to address any future inquiries to my FACE you giant douche nozzle.

[childishepithet]

A Personal Reinterpretation of the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge

Yesterday I was challenged by one of my best friends to dump a bucket of ice water on my head to help raise awareness and funds for ALS research. In true fashion, what I have to offer is a long answer to what seemed like a yes or no question.

Before I go any further, you can donate at: http://www.alsa.org/donate/ ALS is a devastating illness, much like all degenerative diseases. I would like to say, first and foremost, that I love that this has caught on and the amount of awareness and funds that this has raised. I am choosing not to perform the ice bucket challenge, because quite frankly it is more conspicuous than I am comfortable with as a voluntary basement hermit. I think acts of charity are beautiful and have a great deal of respect for the doing of something that one thinks is important for the purpose of advancing a cause that one thinks is important. And I do think this cause is important. I've also had some other thoughts that I would like to share. Please take these thoughts with the understanding that the points I am about to make are in no way meant to diminish the horrible impacts of ALS on people, families and communities. It's not a competition for which horrible disease is the most horrible and deserves the most attention. What I am attempting to do is broaden a lens.

ALS has touched so many lives, as all diseases do. In that way, diseases are more or less created equal. Where they are unequal is in the availability of research and research funding, attention, and support for impacted individuals and loved ones. Some afflictions receive far more attention than others. This was brought to my attention when someone very close to me was diagnosed with gastroparesis, a chronic illness. There is very little funding for gastroparesis research, and as such there are relatively few treatments (and even fewer of them FDA approved), very few resources and very little support for patients.

In short, being diagnosed with a little-known illness comes with the burden of having to go it alone, so to speak, more than if one were diagnosed with something that people are more aware of. I found a really interesting article on the vast differences between the incidence and impact of certain types of cancer as compared to the funding they receive:

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/22800364

What the ALS ice bucket challenge says to me is that the Personal is Political. A degenerative disease is, on the one hand, a personal and intimate ordeal. On the other hand, it is not just a problem that one person struggles with; it is a problem with which many, many people struggle. That transforms it from private trouble to public issue. The ice bucket challenge has gone a long way to helping transform ALS research into a public issue, much like Pride of the Yankees did two generations ago.

As a nation, I think our hearts tend to be big and our memories tend to be short in some respects. What I worry about with the ice bucket challenge is that once attention is diverted and the videos go away, the need will remain. I worry about people thinking 'okay, I'm done" and the issue  and others like it slipping from our consciousness and charitable giving lists.

All of this brings up a broader concern. Again, I think acts of charity are a beautiful thing, but charity should be the icing, not the cake; disease research needs reliable funding that is distributed fairly. I don't pretend to know what that looks like or how it might be accomplished, but I think it's important. The same goes for food and housing insecurity, healthcare, education, the list goes on and on. Basically, things that could be considered basic human rights.

And again, because the personal is political, I've made a donation to ALS research in honor of Erin's Grandma Ruth, who was a delightful human being. DONATE HERE: http://www.alsa.org/donate/

So after all of those words, here is my amended challenge. I won't call anybody out specifically, because I would like to extend this one to anybody who will undertake it. What impacts you likely impacts others. If you don't have the resources you need to deal with it, likely others don't either. If you do have the resources to deal with it, by all means use them, be grateful, and think about where those resources came from. Be mindful of what it's like not to have it, of why some have it and some don't, of what would fix it, of the power of your voice and of the power of a community of voices. Build the community. Be the change. Raise awareness- your own and that of others. Because that's what the ice bucket challenge has done; it has built community and raised awareness and that's amazing. Be open and be aware: this work is never done. Everyone has been impacted by something and everyone has struggled and will in the future. That means everyone has a story that they may need to tell. Listen to the stories. Share your own. Make the personal political. Figure out what's important to you, go out into the world, and make some noise.

[childishepithet]

"Beauty" mistakes and the Cosmo culture

I fell briefly down a Facebook rabbit hole the other day at the fault of a Huffington Post article because the folks at the Huffington Post are extremely good at coming up with sexy titles that provide *just* little enough information to make me think I *have* to find out what they're talking about. Clicking begets clicking and I stumbled upon this monstrosity:

http://en.amerikanki.com/beauty-mistakes-men-notice/

The link conveniently no longer works. Here's a substitute, because these articles are frustratingly everywhere in the U.S.:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/04/01/first-date-beauty-mistakes_n_4891692.html

I'll give you the gist of it.

Ladies, you are not to wear too much perfume, eyeshadow, or mascara, and there are about a bajillion guidelines for application and colors of lip liner, eyebrow pencil, foundation, and hair dye. And speaking of hair, unless you want to render yourself forever and completely unfuckable, you better do a damn good job of shaving your legs and armpits. DAMN GOOD JOB. Apparently not wearing makeup is not an option. The article makes no mention of intelligence or personality, because apparently he will take care of that and you can just worry about being outwardly flawless with the option of complete hollowness inside.

Here's what bothers me about this, apart from everything- this is an article supposedly written for women that is all about men. The implication here is that a woman's worth lies in her ability to attract a man. Not just any man mind you, the kind of man who seems to be extremely critical of his companion's appearance. The fault is not with his criticism, but with her noncompliance.

The other thing this article and the many like it imply is that this is what all worthwhile women want. This is why I cancelled my subscription to Cosmo when I was 17. The entire magazine is about men; how to get one, how to please one, how to keep one, how to get rid of one and find another one. They call themselves a women's magazine, which I suppose is the case if that means finding tips on how to feel badly about the way you look, opportunities to judge other people for the way they look, and man-snaring.

Please understand that this is not man-blaming, this is "beauty" industry blaming. I think all of the little bottles and boxes of mystery liquids and powders are just fine as a means of self expression or self-esteem bolstering. When it starts to become problematic is when women are told you NEED this. It is problematic when women are threatened with lifelong spinsterhood because they were noncompliant with a beauty regimen. It is problematic when the implication is made that all true women are heterosexual and define their worth through men. It is problematic that mainstream marketing capitalizes on the insecurities it creates in women.

Low self-esteem isn't inherent, it is LEARNED. U.S. culture does this to everyone to an extent, I don't think there's any denying that. In very general terms, men are taught that their emotions are shameful and defined by strength and stoicism. Women are taught their intelligence and personality are to be curbed so as not to threaten the apparently very fragile male ego and are defined by their physical attractiveness and sexuality. The conversation becomes even more complicated and even more infuriating when mediated by other areas of social stratification. I personally think that's enough for everyone to be outraged.

And for me personally, so you have an idea of how to filter this post, I choose not to wear makeup. I don't have the patience. I do not hold it against those who choose to wear it, and it's not as if I don't put any thought into the way I look. It just bothers me that the expectation is that women wear makeup, that there's something wrong with those of us who don't, and that even if you do wear makeup, it is still invariably not good enough.

[childishepithet]

9 things nobody told me about being an adult

Disclaimer/prologue/note/pay attention to meeeeeee: I think in lists. The impetus for me starting a tumblr at all is all of the internet whatnots who cleverly appeal to my list-y brain and make lists of arbitrary things packaged as universal truths. THAT PISSES ME OFF. One author in a particular context does not get to tell the rest of everybody how to feel or what is true. The lists I post here will be personal, slice of life observations. Personal to me and slices of my life. If my personal truths happen to align with someone else's personal truths, fine. If not, fine. Everything is fine and I like it when people have space to consider, arrive at, embrace and reinvent their own truths. So Thought Catalog and the Huffington Post can kiss my ass.

9 things nobody told me about being an adult

1. There is no identifiable moment at which you feel like an adult. Perhaps more accurately, I still have yet to experience any such moment. There is no crowning achievement. There are plenty of milestones. I can vote. I can buy alcohol AND WEED legally. I have student debt. I pay taxes. I can rent a car. My eyeballs are apparently fully developed. I have probably reached my physical peak and my body is on a slow decline that will slowly devolve into a rapid decline.

2. Because there is no identifiable “adult” moment, you can continue to do un-adultlike things until forever. I still have the sleeping habits of a teenager. I play Nintendo AND EAT GRILLED CHEESE in bed. I go to sleep when the fuck I want. I rarely wear pants inside of my apartment. I watch cartoons. My apartment is covered in toys (actual real toys, not the sexy kind, those live in a drawer where my dad can never, never, never accidentally see them). I still watch The Goonies when I get sick.

3. Adulthood comes with freedom aplenty for the abusing. I’ve been known to drink on a Monday morning just because I could or go to Water World on a weekday when all the little bastard kids have gone back to school. I put my feet on the furniture in my house because it’s my furniture and my house and I want to live in the kind of house where you get to put your feet on the furniture.

4. Necessity is not so much the mother of invention (I’m busy and lazy, it’s a complicated ontological thicket, thanks Judy) as it is the mother of learning to do things your damn self. Somebody had a car for sale that I could actually afford when I was 22. Said car was a stick and I could only drive a go-cart, so I spent a miserable month learning to drive stick. And now it’s awesome. I wanted a purple and black striped scarf but couldn’t find one to purchase so I learned how to knit. And that’s awesome too. Couldn’t find my corkscrew so I learned to use a wine key. The list goes on. They’re not necessarily important things and I haven’t mastered most of them, but it keeps me humble and it keeps the synapses firing. I don’t think I’ll ever be bored for long. Speaking of…

5. Knowing how to do nothing is a skill. An extremely valuable skill. All that childhood and teenage idle time was practice for being a well-balanced adult. Suck on that public school system. In the grown-up world it’s sometimes referred to as self-care, which sounds better but is still knowing how to do nothing. I know a lot of stressed-out people who are always worried about what needs doing and what else they should be doing if they cannot immediately identify something that needs doing. They can’t sit still and just have a think (in the immortal words of Winnie the Pooh). I can deal with the stress in my world better because I can shut it off sometimes and just be.

6. I’m getting more introverted, not less. I always thought that I would grow up, stop being awkward and uncomfortable around people, and be a fully functioning, contributing, voluntary member of society. Not so. As a teenager I felt conflicted about wanting to bail on an outing or bringing books to parties and arcades. That didn’t stop me from doing either of those things, but it was still weird. As an adult, I feel fine about putting in my requisite 45 minutes of face time and leaving, or just not going altogether. I go to the grocery store, the bank, the pharmacy and the gym at 10pm at the earliest so I hopefully don’t have to talk to anyone. I don’t hate being around people, I actually kind of like it. What bothers me is being forced to engage if I’m not in the mood. I think I’m happiest sitting in a crowded coffee shop with headphones on and a book and doing intermittent people-watching. That may sound semi-hermitey and strange, but I finally don’t care. I like being a strange semi-hermit.

7. By the same token, knowing how to be alone is a skill and I am lucky to be (kind of) a solitary creature by nature. I didn’t realize it, but I have been learning this since before I could form coherent sentences. My parents encouraged and implemented periods of “quiet time” before I had a sister. I was perfectly happy to hang out by myself in my crib and talk to my stuffed animals and eventually fall asleep. The parents were probably doin it, good for them and also gross. Now as an adult, I know how to be along and to enjoy it. bell hooks said something to the effect of ‘the art of being alone is central to the art of loving. When we know how to be alone we know how to be with others without using them as a means of escape.’ Like most things bell hooks says, that is smart and right on. I fully believe that my relationships are better and deeper for my knowing how to be alone and surrounding myself with other people who know how to do the same.

8. Silence truly is golden and knowing how to shut the fuck up also is a skill. My dad taught me this. He doesn’t talk much, only when he has something to say. I think because of that, he is incredibly perceptive and an excellent listener. More to the point, when he does decide he’s going to say something, people listen. I listen. When people talk constantly, other people tend to listen to almost none of it. Fun paradox.

9. Family is everything. Coming from a family that works for the most part is a privilege. My sister put it best; “we’re a mess, but we love each other.” True story, and we also like each other. I can have an honest, frank conversation with anybody in my immediate family and know I will be listened to. None of these people ever gave me the idea that anything was inherently wrong with me. I don’t have to tone down who I am around them. People spend entire lifetimes trying to get that, and it was just handed to me. I have more of myself to offer to other people because of all that these people offered to me and continue to offer. The mom voice in my head tells me that my best is good enough. The dad voice tells me not to be an asshole. The little sister voice reminds me that fun is fun and fuck everyone if they can’t see that. I realize how sentimental this may sound, but I mean it so I don’t care. Family, you’re fucking great. Forever.