Tag: being human

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The Land of Pink – 2

The school environment is exciting and terrifying, all at the same time.  There is so much new to learn.  She gets to experiment!  More importantly, she interacts with people other than her family.  She has (sort of) figured out where she fits in the family dynamic, now she must figure out where she fits, in the school setting.

Quickly, she learns that while being smart is praised at home, being smart gets her a label at school.  “Oh, she’s the teacher’s favorite.”  Certain groups will shun her if she’s too smart.  Even though she may be automatically accepted by the group that values her brains, she knows she’s more than that.  She’s good at other things, too.  She likes to run.  She’s good at drawing, and she loves books.  Does she have to pick only one of her loves to find her tribe?

The athletic group teases her for drawing, “Like a little kid,” so she tucks her markers away.  The brainy kids tease her for hanging with the group that likes soccer.  “Why do you wear those dumb, long red socks?”

Is it enough to be herself?  Why must she hide parts of herself in order to belong to a group?  Slowly, she sees that she is liked more when she displays traits that certain groups prefer, while hiding the parts they belittle.

She draws at home where no one can make fun of her.  If she’s lucky, the brainy kids will never find out that she is trying out for soccer.  She almost hopes she doesn’t make the team.

One school night, while trying to decide what to wear the next day, she hides her long red socks in the back of her drawer.  (A few months later, mom discovers them in the Goodwill pile.  Mom secretly pulls the socks out and hides them in the Keepsake pile.)

At school, if asked, she never reveals her test scores.  She chimes in, with the rest of the class, when they make fun of the one day of the month that they have art class.  Secretly, she wishes they could have art class once a week.

 

The whittling away and the accommodating begin at a tender age.

 

It turns out that going to school requires a lot of “pretending,” and it’s not the fun kind.  She pretends she doesn’t like soccer.  She makes fun of art.  She pretends she doesn’t know the math answers, and refuses to raise her hand.

She gets an upset stomach on most Sunday nights.  Mom notices a pattern (not feeling well on Sunday night), but she’s at a loss for what to do about it.  (Mom has no idea that her amazing daughter is a completely different kid on the playground.)  Her grades are good.  She made the soccer team.  She seems to have lots of friends.

Soon, she starts pretending at home, too.  It’s easier to pretend than try to figure out what’s wrong.  Without her even realizing it, she’s stopped doing some of the things she loves so much.

One day, before she heads out the door to go to school, she gathers up all her markers and puts them in her little sisters room.  Maybe her sister will want them, now that she doesn’t draw any more.

 

To be continued …

 

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The Land of Pink

I almost painted my fingernails yesterday.  They are long right now, and they’d look good with some polish.   I can’t remember the last time I painted them.  I have long, masculine fingers – my grandma’s – and they look better (more feminine?) when my nails are longer, but long nails are a distraction.  They get in the way when typing or gardening, which is a bummer, because my nails are hard and they are nice.  I tried to decide what color.  We don’t have a lot of polish in the house.  Jen has a couple favorite colors – white, gold and another white.  I think.

I was wanting a red or a corral.  I don’t know where this came from.  But then I thought, people will notice because I never paint my nails.  And, ugh, they’ll say something, and I’ll feel the need to defend my choice to paint my nails and why I picked the color I picked, and why I don’t normally paint my nails.

I thought of women who change their hair color or handbag or get a tattoo, and don’t seem to have a care in the world about whether anyone comments, and how freeing that must be.  Or, most likely, they do care, but they don’t let that stop them.

And then I got tired, which reminded me of what it’s like to be in The Land of Pink.

 

Look at that sweet baby girl.  Or is it a boy.  Hard to tell when they are new.  They smell the same.  They act the same.  They cry when they are hungry or they need to be changed.  They cry when they are tired.  That’s pretty much it.

Until well-meaning parents get involved and suddenly gender is projected on to this being that only cares about sleeping and eating and being comfortable.  The Big Ones coo and smile and comment on appearance when they change diapers.  “Oh, your soooo cute.”  Their hearts are in the right place, but Bigs start to treat the girls and boys differently.  They can’t help it.  It’s in their genetic coding.

Baby girls are cute for different reasons than baby boys are.

Baby slowly starts to make a connection between her appearance and the mood of the Bigs.

Babies aren’t dumb.  It doesn’t take them long to connect dots.  Happy Big = more squash.  If I coo or smile at Big, Big is happy, then I get squash.

Before she knows it, she has to be careful about not getting mashed peas on her pretty dress.  She mustn’t get squash in her hair.  She doesn’t care about her hair, she cares about fists full of food.   Pretty soon, though, it takes more than a smile to make Big happy.  Big likes it when we are cute or clean or quiet.  If we do those things, we get more squash.

 

Now she’s old enough to toddle around in the yard.  She’s amazed at where her legs will take her.  She doesn’t care what’s on her legs as long as it isn’t itchy.  This Disney Princess dress is itchy.  She reaches for a fistful of mud and attempts to bring it to her mouth, but a Big tells her, “NO!  Don’t eat that!  That’s icky!  Don’t get that on your pretty dress.”

 

It’s the first day of Kindergarten.  Her tummy feels weird and her new clothes are itchy.  She’s wearing a dress and she’s told that she probably better not go on the slide at the playground because the boys might look up her dress.  Why do boys want to look up her dress?  Whose idea was it to make her wear a dress today, anyway?

She’s no dummy.  She can see that the teacher spends more time with certain kids – the cute ones.   She notices that the cute ones are surrounded by more kids on the playground.  What must she do to be cuter?  She ponders this while sitting at a long, cold table, under florescent lights, eating a peanut butter and jelly that has been cut into quarters.  She can’t wait to get home, get out of this dress and away from this need to be cute.

Years later, she’ll learn that the weird feeling in her tummy is called anxiety.  Anxiety will become her life-long companion.

 

To be continued …

 

By the way, I cut my nails.  It’s just easier, and I’m tired.

 

 

 

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A Mama Bear on the Strawberry Full Moon

Maybe I reacted the way I did because the kids and I spent a stress-filled Saturday trying to negotiate Father’s Day with you-know-who.

Could be I reacted the way I did because work is busy, life is crazy and I’d reached my breaking point.

I might have reacted the way I did because my yard is my sanctuary.  This place is our safe landing.

Whatever the reasons, I was justified!

 

When I get home from the office, I kick off my shoes, get treats for Pansy, check in to see what’s new with Jen, and figure out what we’re going to eat.  This day was no different, or so I thought.

Jen mentioned that she thought she heard someone on the front step.  I suggested that it may have been the mailman.

She said, “Nope.  The mailman was just here.  I heard the sound before.”

“Well maybe your brother stopped by for a cup of coffee, while you were in the shower.”  Except, the coffee corner wasn’t covered in coffee grounds, so that meant he wasn’t here.  I opened the front door to check the mail, and a flyer from a yard spraying company fell to the floor.  I said, “Honey, they must be spraying in the neighborhood, and they’re trying to drum up more business.”

She said, “Oh, I thought I smelled it.  I figured the neighbors were having their yard sprayed today.”

I said, “Let’s close the windows.  I hate that stuff.”

 

The next thing I do, after getting back from the office, and perhaps more importantly for my roommates, is step out into the backyard.  Barefooted.  On purpose.

That’s how I get grounded and shift gears to what is required next.

I might only be out there for 5 minutes, but that’s all it takes.

 

Today I smelled the spray the minute I exited the door.  The basil looked almost dead.  The grass (okay, maybe it’s mostly clover) felt crunchy.  I tried to figure out how things could look so dry, as I’d just watered the night before.  I set up a sprinkler and noticed the leaves on the strawberries were curling.  What the hell?

I walked to the side yard and noticed that my feet felt sticky.  The gate on the west side was wide open.  We keep it secured with a latch hook.  How did Will get that open from the outside?  I called him and he said he hadn’t been over.  I went inside and asked Jen if she’d forgotten to close the gate.  She hadn’t been out there.

Now I’m worried that someone had gone into our backyard.  (It wouldn’t have been the first time, hence the latch hooks.)  I better check to make sure the lawn mower and weed whacker are still in the shed.

I’m starting to feel slightly frantic.

Jen said, “Mom, do you still have the flyer from the spraying company?”  I dug it out of the trash.  It said, “We applied your 2nd treatment today!”  The flyer showed checked boxes that indicated what had been sprayed on our yard.

 

This Mama Bear was livid.

 

I have lived here 13 years.  I’ve been raising kids and cats without chemicals.  Our yard is visited regularly by birds and squirrels, earthworms and bunnies, dandelions and way too many ants, and the occasional gopher.  I have been known to sprinkle diatomaceous earth around the ant holes.  I’ve even resorted to putting a spider bomb in the crawl space.  Once.  (The kids, cat and I camped at the park for the day, to keep our distance from the fumes.)

I HATE ANY KIND OF SPRAY THAT KILLS WEEDS OR BUGS but, of course, spiders are a whole different story.

Now my strawberries, raspberries, basil, chives, tomatoes and everything else have been sprayed with Goddess-knows-what!

On top of that, Jen and I started a bee garden this year.

 

I called the company, which is saying a lot for an INFJ, who hates making phone calls and avoids confrontation.  Their response was, “Oops.  Wrong yard.”

I guess I should be thankful they didn’t charge me?

 

I looked at Jen and said, “Let’s walk up to grandma’s.  I feel the need to vent.”  I was seen stomping the six blocks to grandma’s house.  In case I haven’t mentioned it, I use my hands when I talk.  (I’m a quarter Italian, what can I say?)  Poor Jen had to walk next to me as I flailed my arms, stopped my feet and loudly ranted the entire six blocks.

Jen calmly said, “You know how we were talking about you being a Leo rising, and how they get emotional about things?  You said, ‘Well, that’s not me.'”  I said, I mean, yelled, “Did I say that?!”  She said, “Yes.”  I said, “Well, dammit!  Maybe it’s the full moon, or my Leo rising, or the fact that I feel violated by having someone access my sanctuary and spray poison all over the green and growing things.  Maybe it’s the stressors with your dad over the weekend.  Or it could be that I’m a Mama Bear and it’s my job to protect you and your brother and Pansy and our yard!  Whatever it is, it is What it is!”  Jen said, “You’re right.  It’s okay to get emotional about it.  But, my Aquarius rising makes it hard for me to know what to say to help.”  I said, “You don’t have to say anything, just keep a safe distance when I’m ranting and my arms are flailing about!”

We laughed.

I said, “I’m entitled to feel this way.”

She said, “You are.”

 

 

 

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The Forest

The above is on my kitchen door, the door we use for leaving the peace of home and entering the rest of the world.  We go through this door heading to the office, taking Jen ice skating, or getting groceries, which is a whole different thing, now that Will doesn’t live here.  Often I’m in a hurry and don’t stop to read the quote.

I’m not evolved like Ram Dass.

I wish.

I let people irritate the hell out of me, which is clearly about me, not them.

 

When the guy at the office comes into my space, sighs heavily and tells me how much he hates working with women and all the reasons why, I don’t remember to think of him as a tree.  I think of him as a typical privileged Boomer male who doesn’t have the sense to realize that he’s complaining about women to a woman.  Evolved me might think of him as a Russian olive, that crowds out other trees and steals their nutrients.

(There’s a Russian olive in the park across the street.  It’s pretty from a distance.  All the dogs, that explore the park, stop for relief at the base of it.)

 

A driver honked at us the other evening, when Jen was practice-driving a steeply curved stretch along the river.  She freaked but maintained her speed.  I refrained from turning around to give him my classic stink eye.  It’s going to take a lot of practice to call a guy like that a cottonwood, instead of the impatient pain that he clearly is.

 

Evolved me knows the woman at the grocery, who barked at me for not using hand sanitizer before touching the shopping cart, is a thorny honey locust.  She most likely has good reasons for being a germophobe.  Unevolved me thinks she’s a loud busy body with too much time on her hands.

 

Jen is on a committee planning a fundraiser for an animal shelter, where she volunteers.  She’s getting a fine education in the dynamics of clashing personality types.  She sees the ones who say they do all the work and don’t, the ones who actually do the work and don’t seek credit,  the drama queens and the servants.  She sees folks who want to control, folks who are willing to be controlled, and folks who don’t even want to be there, but have to, for whatever reason.  When she gets home and vents about her meetings, we end the conversations by one of us saying, “Trees!  They are all a bunch of different trees.”  That, and we also marvel at how much could be handled with emails versus committee meetings.

 

We are trying to see people as trees.  Our hearts are in the right place, but trees aren’t nearly as annoying as people.

I’d broaden the approach to include plants:  poison ivy, bella donna and hemlock, to name a few.  Did I mention that I’m not as evolved as Dass?

 

When I’m in my own back yard, trimming raspberries, raking under the lilacs and watching for perennials to poke through, it’s easy to be kind, have my heart in the right place, and see people as trees.  There aren’t any Russian olives in my backyard.  We’ve no poison ivy or belladonna either, but we do have a lovely bed of lily of the valley on the shady side, which is proof that we can be around toxicity, but we’d be wise to keep our distance.

Like trees and plants, some people clearly didn’t get enough light when they were seedlings.  Some are still bent from ever-present high winds.  Some were pruned so much you can’t recognize their true nature.  It’s not their fault.  They’re just trees.

It’s good for me to remember that I’m a tree, too.   I can be prickly like a honey locust, especially when crowded by an impatient driver.  I know the areas of myself that could benefit from a little more light.

When I can’t see the forest for the trees, I head to the garden and admire the lily of the valley, from a distance.

 

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Random Thoughts In No Particular Order

I love being here.  I miss being here.  I’m too busy to be here.

I spend as many moments as I can with Jenny because, well …

I’m not going to type that.

 

Will, as some of you know, has moved out.  I don’t hear from him every day, but I do hear from him most days.  I’m trying hard not to intrude.  The other night, Jen and I were watching something on Netflix – most likely, Tidying Up – and he texted.  He asked how we were doing.  Of course I panicked.  “Something must be wrong.  It’s Friday night!  How come he’s texting?”  Turns out he’d just gotten home from a shift and realized he hadn’t heard from us in a couple days, so he texted – just to say hi.

Back when things were bumpier with Will, or I might say, back in 2018, I prayed for those kinds of texts.

And here they are.

Note to self:  This is a good thing.

 

Oh, and the three of us plan to ski together on Friday.  Yay, me!!

 

Where was I?

 

Oh.  So I’m not on this spot as much as I used to be, or as much as I would like to be.  Priorities, you know.

Priorities include spending every available moment with Jen; homeschool; the job; and the ritualistic chores necessary for survival.

And if you haven’t made some of your chores ritualistic, by now, you really ought to.  If we’re going to be spending these many hours folding laundry, doing dishes, sweeping and shoveling snow, we ought to be elevating these duties to the heights reserved for deities.

Say grateful words while hand-grinding coffee beans in the wee hours.  Breathe in the smell let off as you turn the crank.  Hope for all the good things that caffeine allows you to accomplish.

Pay respects to the deciduous trees while shoveling the snow that covers their roots.  Promise you’ll gladly greet their new leaves in the spring.  Think happy thoughts about how many winters you’ve survived, and how shoveling is the best gym membership you never have to pay for.

Acknowledge the washing machine and thank it for making your job easier.  You don’t have to run to the creek to scrape your clothes against a rock.  We’ve got it easy.  You don’t really need all those clothes, anyway.

Appreciate the stacks of clean plates and the many meals they’ve served and the many more to come.  Enjoy moments in the kitchen teaching your kids how to chop onion while laughing at the tears and saving the fingers.

Thank the fire in the wood stove for keeping your little family warm on these cold nights.  Be grateful for the warmth and the work that comes with keeping the fire stoked.

 

I digress.

Again.

 

I started to say something about how I’m not really so busy that I can’t be writing here more.  (I mean, if I’ve got time for Netflix.)

The scribbled notes of post ideas will keep me writing long after Jen has ventured off and (hopefully) circled back around.  Potential post titles include:  In Defense of Cat Ladies, When I Was Mad At The World, and Reflections From a Wallflower.

I’ll get to them.

There will be time to write all those ideas.  For that, I am grateful.

 

In the meantime, Jen and I painted the back bedroom.  It was originally mine when we first moved here.  Then, after the Debacle, Will took it over.  He’s bigger than I am and he needed more space.  I waited to make sure he was really not coming back, before reclaiming it.  I even offered it to Jen.  She’s happy with her cozy room, so we textured and painted my old room, together.  (That reminds me of another blog post I came up with while spreading joint compound on the walls:  How to Texture Walls or How to Love Your Life, which is less about texturing walls and more about loving your life with all its weird, beautiful texture including the occasional debacle.)

 

On another note:  I don’t know how many folks even stop by here anymore.

(Hi, Lynn! Love you!)

I used to check blog stats all the time – to see if anyone was reading.  I think I believed there was no point in writing, if no one was reading.  I remember thinking that I had to write to help others in order to justify the blog.  Now I can’t even remember the password to the site for checking the stats.  That doesn’t mean that I don’t care if others find comfort in these words.

(Thank you for writing to tell me that you’ve found comfort!)

The real issue is that I learned to help myself.

That’s what I want for my kids.  That’s what this journey is all about.  (Gawd, is there another word besides that poor, over-used word?  If I had a dollar for every time I said the word journey, I could have paid to have the bedroom painted!  But I wouldn’t have, because Jen and I have so much fun working on those projects together.)

Anyway, when we help ourselves, we start the ripple effect.  We make the world a better place in our own back yard, and it definitely, without a doubt, positively impacts others, as well.

So, I’m “staying in my lane, bro!” as that annoying but funny tattoo artist in the commercial says.  I’m staying in my lane, working on my own stuff, improving the texture in my tiny corner, and hoping that some of that improves your little corner, too.

Thank you for stopping by.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Courageous Bartender

Except for one lone stool, the bar was full, most likely due to the fact that Hank was working.  She grabbed the stool and looked around to see if she recognized any faces.

“Jesse!  Welcome!  How are things?”

“Good, Hank!  How are you?  Nice and busy in here!”

“What brings you out on this snowy night?”

“I came for some of your legendary advice.”  Hank laughed as the guy seated next to Jesse said, “That’s why I’m here!”

“Wine or beer tonight, Jesse?”

“Surprise me with something hot, Hank.  My bones are getting too old for this climate.”

Hank slid a mug across the bar and said, “Cider and Fireball – the only thing that’ll do the trick.  As far as advice, I dunno about that, but what’s on your mind?”

Jesse sighed and said, “Of course this is about my kids, particularly the 20 year old.  I want to encourage, not discourage.  I’d like to motivate without pissing him off.  I wrote a little bit about courage, but before I send it to him, I wanted your take.”

“Sure.  Let me see what you’ve got.”

 

Hank held her phone as he read:

I am no expert, but I think one of THE important aspects of a good life is courage.  Have courage to try new things, meet new people, go new places.

That’s what keeps a person moving along their path.

You have courage in spades!!!

I think the saddest lives are lived by folks who are stuck because they don’t have the courage to try something new.

With courage you might try something and hate it, or try something else and mess up.  That’s not failure, that’s experience!  The real important thing is that you have tried, and that you keep trying.  It’s so much better to have a long list of things tried, places seen, foods eaten, people met ….   than a short, boring list of STUCK.

I love you.

 

“What would you add, Hank?  What do you think I should take out?”

“Well, let’s put it up to the group!”  Hank looked to the other end of the bar.  “Sam, how do you define courage?”

A woman at the end of the bar put down her wine glass, looked Hank in the eye and said, “Courage is deciding to be single and staying that way!”

The guy next to Jesse slowly shook his head.

Hank looked at the guy next to Sam and said, “How about you, Ron.  What’s your take on courage?”

Ron didn’t hesitate before saying, “Giving up the great paying job for the job that doesn’t crush my soul!”  He raised his beer glass in salute.  The others clapped in agreement.

Hank looked at the couple seated next to Ron.  “What’s courage to you two?”  She looked at Hank and said, “Ignoring what my dad said about who to date.”  The couple looked at each other and laughed.  He said, “Meeting her dad,” and they all laughed.

Hank said, “It’s your turn, John.  How do you define courage?”

John paused a moment before responding.  He looked at his glass and said, “Getting the diagnosis that changed my life, undergoing chemo and beating cancer.”  Everyone at the bar raised a glass in honor of John.

Hank turned to Tom.  “Good luck beating that one, Tom.”  Tom looked a little nervous before he said, “Making my wife and kids a priority over my job.”  Ron raised his glass in Tom’s direction.

There were two folks left at the bar, Jesse and the guy to her left, who had appeared downtrodden when Sam declared her status.

Hank skipped over Jesse, smiled and said to Jim, “So now that you aren’t going to approach Sam, tell us how you define courage.”  The group laughed.  Jim cleared his throat and looked at Jesse.  “Courage is parenting a 20 year old.”  They all raised their glasses to Jesse.

 

Jim said, “Wait a darn minute!  What about you, Hank?  It’s your turn.  How do you define courage?”

“Well, it was one thing when I was 20.  Skiing the cliff.  Skiing out of bounds.  Any risk I could take on skis.  As I got older, it was having the courage to end one relationship and start another.  Now that I’m in my 50s, well, courage is knowing when to keep my mouth shut, and doing just that.”  He grinned and winked at Jesse.  “Now what do you think about courage, Jesse?”

“It’s pretty clear that courage is different to everyone.  I ‘spose I need the courage to let him figure it out himself.”  The group nodded their heads in agreement and Jim said, “Great idea, Jesse.”  Jesse stood up from her stool.  “I’ll still send the message, but then I need to have the courage to leave him alone while he figures things out.”

Hank smiled at Jesse, “Good plan, Jesse, and you think I’m the one with good advice!”

 

As Jesse put her coat on she saw Jim gulp the last of his beer.  He shouted, “Here’s to liquid courage!”  Then he got off his stool and walked over to approach Sam.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A Dream of Men

We were on a bus.  The bus was full of males of all ages – men and boys I’ve been acquainted with throughout my life.  There were four women facilitating – myself and three others.  Oddly, while I did know the males in the dream, I did not know the females.

It was a fall afternoon, and the bus was cruising around my hometown.  We weren’t going anywhere in particular.  The men talked of football, bonfires, hunting, leaf-raking, and how glad they were to not be at the office.  The boys talked of the girls at school, football, the apps on their phones and pizza.

The mood on the bus was jovial.  The women were there to serve, and they didn’t seem to mind.   We walked the aisle of the bus filling snack bowls and fetching drinks.

We arrived at a hall with a large grassy area.  Everyone got off the bus and the women made their way to the restroom, while the men and boys staked out their territories.  Some grabbed footballs and headed for the grass.  Some went inside to turn on the TV to catch the game.  The boys looked at the two groups of men, and picked whichever group they felt most comfortable in, depending on what they experienced at home.

Everyone appeared to be having a good time.  Laughing and yelling filled the air.  Someone started a bonfire in the designated fire pit, and several men set up lawn chairs.  Some boys who had been in the hall came out to sit by the fire.  The fire brought them closer together.  Phones were tucked in pockets.  Even the noise level quieted a bit as they all focused on the fire and relished the good mood that comes with having fun.

At one point, I approached the fire to fill bowls with popcorn, and I noticed two 9 year old boys quietly crying.  A man stood in front of them to ask what was wrong.  He spoke in a gentle voice so as not to call attention to them.  When they didn’t answer the man, I knelt down in front of them and asked, “What happened?  I’ve seen you two hanging together all afternoon.  You’ve been having a great time!  Are you okay?”  Through tears, one of the boys said, “I can’t sit by him any more.”  When I asked why not, he said, “Because he’s pro-life and I’m pro-choice.”  I asked, “Do either of you know what that means?”  Each sat staring at his hands folded in his lap, tears rolling down his face. They both shook their heads.  They didn’t know what it meant, but they knew they were supposed to think one way, and not the other. Just then the man standing in front of them said, “Well I’m pro-life, too.  Does that mean I can’t stand here?”  The first boy cried even harder and said, “I don’t know.  I just know what I’ve been told.  How come I like him, but now I can’t sit by him because of something I don’t even understand?”

The man looked down at me and said, “What should I say to them?”

I handed both boys a Kleenex, and I asked the first boy, “Would you still want to sit by him if he liked pepperoni on pizza, and you only love sausage pizza?”  He looked at me dumbfounded.  “That’s stupid.  It doesn’t matter.  He can have whatever pizza he wants.  I don’t care.”   The second boy said, “Who cares about pizza?  We like to hang together!  That’s all that matters!”  The boys wadded up their Kleenexes and threw them in the fire, the way boys often do.

As I stood, the man whispered, “That’s not the same.  Folks don’t get hurt over pizza.  They get hurt over issues like pro-life and pro-choice.”  I said, “I don’t know how to fix this, but I know we have to make room for everyone to accept that others think differently.  We have to get okay with that.  There are many different versions of normal.  Maybe once we get okay with that, we can come to a point where people stop getting hurt.”

 

And then I woke up.

 

I know the same happens with girls and women.  I also know that many times the roles are reversed, and a woman is standing there wondering how to help, and a man addresses the girls with a question that they can relate to. 

This is not about men being inferior. 

This is not about me believing that women are supposed to serve. 

This is about patterns, status quo, versions of normal and how we often don’t see that our version of normal may not be healthy.

This is about looking at our “normal” and educating ourselves about what healthy is.  Are we holding so tightly to our version of normal that we can’t see that there might be other versions of normal?

 

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Behind the Eyes

A little more than 40 years ago, my grandfather gave me a painting he’d created from my 7th grade school picture.  I had no idea I’d be receiving such a gift.  I knew he painted.  I’d seen plenty of his paintings – always landscapes with a boat or a cabin or a lone figure fishing.  I wasn’t aware he painted portraits.

Anyone, other than a 13 year old girl, would have been thankful, maybe even pleased, with such a gift.  I, like most 13 year old girls, was self-conscious.  The painting was large (12″ x 16″) and bright and, well …  it was me.  I hated it.

I didn’t hate it because of his painting style, I hated it because of the subject matter.  There, in a frame, were all the things I felt ugly about: the pointy chin, the unruly eyebrows, and the awkward smile.  My too-big eyes were even larger on the canvas.

(You might not remember the long pointy collars of a button-up blouse from the 70s – a fashion statement I still don’t understand.  I wore that blouse under a light-blue sweater vest on picture day.  I have another picture of my 70s self wearing a thin leather strip as a headband.  It matched a fringe vest.  As I write this, I realize that she was every bit as full of contradiction as I am, now.  She was self-conscious, yet had the confidence to wear a headband, and a swingy fringed vest.  I see that in my kids, too.  They are self-conscious, yet they try on different “costumes” in an attempt to discover who they are.  Some of us do this all our lives.)

I still have that painting.  It’s made every move I’ve made.  It’s currently standing between an end table and one wall of my bedroom.  I have never hung it on the wall.  (Sorry, grandpa.)  I can’t imagine ever getting to a point where I want a large painting of my face on a wall.

 

It’s happened twice in the last month.

I’ll be backing the car out of the garage, heading to an appointment, and look up to see if I have something in my teeth.  I see my eyes – those 7th grade eyes – in the rear view mirror.

(If you aren’t yet in your 50s, you can’t know how often you will be checking a mirror, once you get here.  Not for mascara smudges or smeared lipstick or bad hair, but to see if the seeds from the morning’s toast are lodged between your teeth.  They almost always are.)

The eyes I see are the eyes in grandpa’s painting.

The first time this happened, I was racing to the office.  I remember thinking, “Slow down.  You must be anxious.  That’s just weird to see those eyes.”

The second time, I wasn’t in a hurry.  I’m slightly embarrassed to admit this, but I liked seeing those eyes.

(Even if I had the resources, I wouldn’t invest a lot in anti-aging concoctions.  I have no faith in them.  The last time I tried one, it scorched my face.  Because I hate waste, I applied it to my cracked heals.  It worked so well, I’m now on my second bottle of the stuff that promised to take 18 years off my face.)

The eyes in the rear view mirror are creased with lines from lots of choices, mistakes and successes.  Lines from life frame those eyes now.  The lashes are naked and the brows are thinning, but they are the eyes I saw in the mirror when I was in 7th grade.  The same warmth and intensity are there.

My soul is in there – the soul that has been guiding me since long before 7th grade.  Recently, for some reason I don’t understand, I’m recognizing my soul.

Finally.

Hell, maybe one day I will put that painting up on the wall – probably in the bedroom, tho’.

 

I hope you look in the mirror, not to pluck or conceal or wince, but to recognize and acknowledge.  I hope you see that spark behind your eyes.

It’s there.

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The Prom

She was staring at the camera, lips pouting, hand on her hip, showing enough cleavage to make me certain that her dad did not approve of her dress.

Her lipstick was darker in the next photo.  She had to have wrenched her neck when throwing her head back the way she did.  Her hair was so lacquered, it couldn’t have moved if it wanted to.

She’s not engaged with her date in any of the pics.  He looks like a prop for her display.  Does he want to be there?  Does he know he’s a tool?  Will they even text each other after tonight?

One comment said the dress was $500.  Another comment talked about where to get the best spray-on tan in town.  Others talked about where to find the time to do eyebrows, nails, hair and tanning, all in time for the big night.

 

It’s prom night on Facebook.

 

As I scroll through the photos, I can feel my blood beginning to boil.  I sense a serious case of judging coming on.

Under her breath, Jen says, “Who wants to spend that kind of money to awkwardly dance for 45 minutes in a gym that smells like feet?”

Of course, that’s coming from an introverted homeschool kid.  Prom isn’t even on her radar.

Hasn’t prom outlived it’s usefulness by now?  Was prom ever useful?

 

(My feminist side types faster and gets snarkier.)

 

My mind races with a million objections.  What about the kids who can’t afford the prom?  What about the kids who can afford it and never get asked?  What about this whole #metoo thing and not wanting to be treated like objects?  Isn’t this just the kind of thing that puts a bigger divide between the haves and the have nots?

I feel the need to yell.

 

Then …

I scroll further and see a set of photos that make me grin.

The gal and the guy are hamming it up for the camera – together.  They take turns being the center.  They engage with each other.  They are laughing and teasing and comfortable with each other.  They both want to be there.  I know that they will text each other long after this silly night – a night that was a tradition for their folks, and will be a tradition for their kids, too.

 

The dust I kicked up about the prom (really, Jesse?) begins to settle.

 

I start to see that my issues with the prom have less to do with young women dressing inappropriately, and more to do with distraction and forgetting which battles need picking.

 

The prom is a metaphor for life, with much nicer clothes.

There are the ones who make it all about them.  There will always be the excesses.  There will be the ones who are happy not participating, and thriving in the shadows.  There will be the ones who have fun, enjoy each other, and don’t take it too seriously.  And there will always be those who try to make a mountain out of a molehill.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Sultans of Swing

We were driving up the mountain road, heading to the ski hill.  The mounds of snow on either side were as tall as I’d seen them in awhile.  I reached over to turn on the radio and heard Stealers Wheel singing, “Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right …”  How can anyone hear that song and not immediately picture the clowns and jokers that populate their own life?

I’m grateful my kids will listen to the Oldies station with me, and even more grateful that they’ll still ski with me.

As we climbed the mountain, the snow got deeper and the temp got colder.  Dire Straits came on next.  The “Sultans of Swing” brought me back to binge-watching MTV in the early 80s.  (Let it be known that some of us binge-watched long before Netflix.)  In between classes, or during skipped classes, I’d be “studying” and watching and listening.

In this flashback, I was going through some Psych notes, still in my pajamas, sipping from a huge mug of strong coffee.  In those days I wore men’s boxers and baggy t-shirts.  That was long before this phase of always being cold.  I remember her long hair, long arms and legs, and that endless cup of coffee.  Some things never change – the coffee is a constant.

 

A friend believes that our lives are concurrent – no past or future.  All we experience happens in the same time continuum.  If that reality exists, then my 20-year old self and my 55-year old self are journeying at the same time.

 

If she was along for the ride today, skiing with Will and Jen and 55-me, what would we talk about?

 

20-me is surprised I’m still listening to the music from the 80s, and she’s slightly disgusted that it gets the “Oldies” label.   55-me tells her it’s hard to give up on the really good stuff from that time.  She reminds me to keep my mind open to the new good stuff, too.

I acknowledge her trepidation about the future – finishing school, the what-ifs of relationships, the decisions about career and work.  I remind her that the apprehension and nervousness is all part of the process.  “I don’t have it so bad.  Re-invention is possible, all along the way.  Don’t be afraid to try something.  Don’t be afraid to change your mind.”  I down-shift as we approach a small town of snow-covered cabins, some decorated with old wooden skis.  “The same advice applies to relationships.  Don’t be afraid to change your mind.  There will be clowns and jokers.  Be mindful of who you get stuck in the middle with.”

20-me laughs and says, “It’s good you are skiing today.  I’m glad you still see the value in having fun.”  I turn down the music so I can hear her better.  55-me laughs and says, “My hearing isn’t what it used to be.  Too often I forget to include fun in the mix.  About the time I can’t stand to be in the same room with myself, I realize I’ve let fun go by the wayside.”

20-me reminds me to turn on some music when I get to that point.  “That’s a quick way to shift the mood.  Your Pandora is awesome for that!”  55 says, “I know!  Right?”

20 points at Jen and Will, “They have our long legs, should you be thinking about getting a bigger car?”  55-me says, “I thought about it, but Will has his truck now, and I like not having a car payment.  Besides, this car will be great for Jen when she wants to start driving.  Maybe I’ll get something then.”  20 nods her head, “So, we pretty much live on this college budget forever, then, right?”  55 says, “It could be worse.  This way we can afford to ski.”

55 says, “Quit worrying so much about your choices.”  20 says, “I could say the same to you.”  55 says, “Damn, I was hoping to make more progress on that front.”  20 says, “I guess that’s why we still like the skiing so much.  It clears the mind and helps us recalibrate.”  55 laughs, “Which gets us back to the value in fun.”

55 says, “And the taking things so seriously.  That’s a waste of time, too.”  20 says, “So then it’s okay to while away the hours watching MTV and pretending to study?”  55 says, “You’ll miss those days.”

20 says, “Yeah, but look who we get to journey with,” and she looks at Jen and Will.  “At least we get to be stuck in the middle with these two.”

 

I’ve been mulling over this post for a week, waiting to have the time to sit down and write.  I made a coffee, set up the laptop, sat down to write and checked my phone.  I’d received two messages that included song references.  One was a text with “Here Comes the Sun” by *duh* The Beatles.  The other was an email introducing me to “Third Day In A Row” by The Stray Birds. 

I’m not making this up.

Serendipity.