I want to share with you a recent conversation I had on a popular online dating website. Ready?
Guy: What are you going to be for Halloween?
Me: Mister Rogers!
Guy: That's a good costume...not going to take advantage of being allowed to dress slutty?
Pause here.
First of all, I didn't realize I needed permission to dress like a whore. This whole time I thought I was free to dress in any way I like. I mean, here I am, thinking that I'm CHOOSING to wear pants, when in fact I've been unwittingly adhering to a dress code imposed by -- who, exactly? Society? The man? DAMN THE MAN.
Secondly, how does he know my Mister Rogers costume isn't slutty?
Ok, back to regular programming.
Me: I prefer to dress slutty only when it’s NOT allowed.
Zing! Right? Apparently not:
Guy: Dressing slutty is a skill all girls should have in their armamentarium.
He then went on typing, but I stopped listening here. Try as I might to resist it, I was offended. Not "as a feminist," because that phrase is overused and alienating and just plain obnoxious. But as a woman, or even just as a human.
I realize that this guy is typical. Men want sex. That in itself is not offensive. It's just shallow and uninteresting and ... well, typical. There's so much more to discover about a person, beyond the temporary thrill of physical attraction. I'm tired of superficial flirtations that only serve to inflate my ego momentarily. Sex without substance. It's lost its appeal. I think that's a sign of growth.
On the other hand, and this is the embarrassing part and probably the root of my anger and indignation, I felt the impulse to prove to this guy that I did, in fact, have sex appeal. Or, as he stated it, the "dressing slutty skill." I felt I had to explain that I'm not only capable of dressing like a skank, but I excel at it. Which isn't really true, but at the heart of this defensive impulse is the subconscious fear that I am not attractive enough, feminine enough, desirable enough (for who? this ordinary guy I'm not even interested in? my ego is such an asshole) - that I need to rely on my body to win a man's affection.
I refuse to buy into it. And I know that it's not society that needs to change - or at least, I can't wait for society to change. It's my ego. That divisive wicked little creature responsible for all those self-defeating thoughts. The impulse to tear down my self worth, the false beliefs that I am not enough, that I can't, that I don't deserve, that I am wrong. This is my greatest enemy, which I believe I might be battling my entire life. But I have this anger, this guilt, this shame, provoked by a few thoughtless and harmless words. And it's my responsibility to get free from those feelings. By matching every negative thought with an affirmation. By acknowledging that those feelings exist. And, because I'm human, by having a little fun at this guy's expense. Because he's definitely going to be included in my next set list. Hallo-weenie indeedy.
Oct 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012
How I Spent Last Weekend.
I went to the dentist on Friday, because they say you should go every six months, which translates to about once every 4.7 years, on average. I started feeling nervous about two hours prior to arriving at the office. I should have heeded what was clearly my body's preemptive response to impending trauma. But you know what they say about hindsight. It rubs our mistakes in our faces. Our contorted, numbed, drool-covered faces. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Once in the dentist chair, everything happened really fast. A young man draped a heavy lead apron on me. The dentist took x-rays and then explained that my teeth were really dirty and that she'd have to do a "deep cleaning." Imagining the bottle of face wash in my medicine cabinet, with the pretty pink "scrublet" for deep cleaning, and lured by the dentist's generous offer to do this extra service without cost, I agreed to the procedure.
What I'm about to describe is graphic, so sensitive readers may want to turn to something more pleasant, like the highlights reel from Nascar's most explosive crashes.
The chair was tilted back, tools were wielded, I felt a series of more-than-teensy pinches as a numbing agent ending in -caine was injected into my gums. I thought "Oh, good, I won't feel anything now." Then the deep cleaning began, and things went blurry. Pain rendered me stupid. Water and saliva mingled and sprayed from my mouth in the general direction of my retinas, forcing me to shut my eyes. Mistake. The pain sharpened in my mind. So did the awareness that my legs were losing feeling, my pulse had sped into panic mode at the urgency and ruthlessness of the drilling, and my hands were no longer folded against my abdomen - they were locked together in a death grip, at the urging of my unconsciously-contracted biceps.
There were moments when I remembered to breathe, moments when I could hear my pathetic groans, catch glimpses of two solemn, masked faces peering into my mouth as if at some gruesome yet riveting horror movie. And then, finally, it was over, the chair righted itself, and the dentist was addressing me as if I still had full control of my mental capacities. The young man set a cup of pink liquid beside me. I eventually understood that I was meant to pour it into my mouth and swish vigorously. Unfortunately, the lower half of my face was numb, and when I tried to swish, I merely spouted a fountain of pink onto my flimsy bib. "Oh yes," the dentist said,"I forgot you were numb." What a silly billy! I succeeded in not grabbing her by the throat her as she handed me tissues, but I blame the PTSD for that.
She kept talking the whole time I was spitting the wasted pink stuff - now suspiciously more red than pink - into the sink, and I must have been touching my face a lot, because she said "Your face isn't swollen, I promise, it's just the numbness. Then she did me the kindness of holding a mirror in front of my face. Sadist! She claimed to be reassuring me, but what I saw was a frighteningly crooked grimace disfiguring my ashen face. Insult to injury.
Looking like a stroke victim and feeling like a professional boxing victim, I walked out into the waning sunlight, ready to start my weekend.
Once in the dentist chair, everything happened really fast. A young man draped a heavy lead apron on me. The dentist took x-rays and then explained that my teeth were really dirty and that she'd have to do a "deep cleaning." Imagining the bottle of face wash in my medicine cabinet, with the pretty pink "scrublet" for deep cleaning, and lured by the dentist's generous offer to do this extra service without cost, I agreed to the procedure.
What I'm about to describe is graphic, so sensitive readers may want to turn to something more pleasant, like the highlights reel from Nascar's most explosive crashes.
The chair was tilted back, tools were wielded, I felt a series of more-than-teensy pinches as a numbing agent ending in -caine was injected into my gums. I thought "Oh, good, I won't feel anything now." Then the deep cleaning began, and things went blurry. Pain rendered me stupid. Water and saliva mingled and sprayed from my mouth in the general direction of my retinas, forcing me to shut my eyes. Mistake. The pain sharpened in my mind. So did the awareness that my legs were losing feeling, my pulse had sped into panic mode at the urgency and ruthlessness of the drilling, and my hands were no longer folded against my abdomen - they were locked together in a death grip, at the urging of my unconsciously-contracted biceps.
There were moments when I remembered to breathe, moments when I could hear my pathetic groans, catch glimpses of two solemn, masked faces peering into my mouth as if at some gruesome yet riveting horror movie. And then, finally, it was over, the chair righted itself, and the dentist was addressing me as if I still had full control of my mental capacities. The young man set a cup of pink liquid beside me. I eventually understood that I was meant to pour it into my mouth and swish vigorously. Unfortunately, the lower half of my face was numb, and when I tried to swish, I merely spouted a fountain of pink onto my flimsy bib. "Oh yes," the dentist said,"I forgot you were numb." What a silly billy! I succeeded in not grabbing her by the throat her as she handed me tissues, but I blame the PTSD for that.
She kept talking the whole time I was spitting the wasted pink stuff - now suspiciously more red than pink - into the sink, and I must have been touching my face a lot, because she said "Your face isn't swollen, I promise, it's just the numbness. Then she did me the kindness of holding a mirror in front of my face. Sadist! She claimed to be reassuring me, but what I saw was a frighteningly crooked grimace disfiguring my ashen face. Insult to injury.
Looking like a stroke victim and feeling like a professional boxing victim, I walked out into the waning sunlight, ready to start my weekend.
Jul 16, 2012
This Old Thing
I found a shirt. It must have been under the dryer for years. A tank top with pink and brown diagonal stripes, pink lace trim and adjustable spaghetti straps. As soon as I set eyes on it, the buzzing of vague memories quickened my pulse. Powerful memories, but beyond the grasp of definition. Just a strong and sudden sense of something important, some critical event or occasion in my biography.
It's baffling how the mind operates. How some moments implant themselves, and can remain hidden, or dormant, or just plain forgotten, until triggered. Impressions. That's the word. This tank top evoked an impression I'd long since forgotten. I recall an icy, citrus-y beverage...lemonade, perhaps, and almost certainly spiked. A pool hall. Q Billiards. A summer backyard party at the barely-livable eyesore of a house a friend was renting at the time. Humid air and cold vodka lemonade, manic conversation fueled by chemicals, and manufactured ecstasy laced with fuck-it-all impulses. Unrestrained impulses.
An ex-boyfriend, most of all. The one I loved in the way that only happens when you don't know any better than to fall, unrestrained. Reckless love. Young love. First love. Squandered love, ultimately. Wasted in the way that only happens when you don't know any better, when you take it for granted. When you don't know yourself or love yourself or understand yourself enough to appreciate the profundity, the rarity of true love. When you have no business falling in love. When you have no fear of it, either. And by you, I of course am talking about myself.
The shirt is a relic, a memento from my past. A message, its meaning unclear, perhaps incomprehensible, but important. I think, I was a different person when I wore it last. Smaller in size as well as in scope. But I am not entirely separate from that person; I still contain my smaller self. It's just been hidden under the dryer for a while.
It's not altogether unpleasant, this reminder. It holds regret, but also love. Destruction, as well as innocence. It has depth and fullness that surprise me with persistent, choking sentiments. As these feelings rose and swirled like ribbons of smoke, I washed the shirt, and folded it. It's in my closet now. To a visitor, it probably looks like just another piece of clothing.
It's baffling how the mind operates. How some moments implant themselves, and can remain hidden, or dormant, or just plain forgotten, until triggered. Impressions. That's the word. This tank top evoked an impression I'd long since forgotten. I recall an icy, citrus-y beverage...lemonade, perhaps, and almost certainly spiked. A pool hall. Q Billiards. A summer backyard party at the barely-livable eyesore of a house a friend was renting at the time. Humid air and cold vodka lemonade, manic conversation fueled by chemicals, and manufactured ecstasy laced with fuck-it-all impulses. Unrestrained impulses.
An ex-boyfriend, most of all. The one I loved in the way that only happens when you don't know any better than to fall, unrestrained. Reckless love. Young love. First love. Squandered love, ultimately. Wasted in the way that only happens when you don't know any better, when you take it for granted. When you don't know yourself or love yourself or understand yourself enough to appreciate the profundity, the rarity of true love. When you have no business falling in love. When you have no fear of it, either. And by you, I of course am talking about myself.
The shirt is a relic, a memento from my past. A message, its meaning unclear, perhaps incomprehensible, but important. I think, I was a different person when I wore it last. Smaller in size as well as in scope. But I am not entirely separate from that person; I still contain my smaller self. It's just been hidden under the dryer for a while.
It's not altogether unpleasant, this reminder. It holds regret, but also love. Destruction, as well as innocence. It has depth and fullness that surprise me with persistent, choking sentiments. As these feelings rose and swirled like ribbons of smoke, I washed the shirt, and folded it. It's in my closet now. To a visitor, it probably looks like just another piece of clothing.
Jun 19, 2012
This is a mess. I have no explanation.
Perhaps it's the 90-degree weather, or the generic soft rock they play in the bathrooms, or the way the mirrors here make my outfit look less like free-spirited whimsy and more like an ill-fitting jazz recital costume. Maybe it's this morning's realization that I failed to fulfill my responsibilities to one of my extracurricular commitments, or the anxiety of applying for an apartment and feeling completely unprepared to actually move. It could have been the vigilante truck driver this morning who took it upon himself to block the would-be shoulder-drivers trying to get past the I-90 traffic to merge onto I-294 (I was obeying the law, but I resent the self-righteous impulse of the vigilante; such behavior, like gaping at traffic accidents, disgusts me, because it is the result of common human impulses, which I depise, probably because I lack self-acceptance).
There are many possible explanations for today's emotional discomfort, but none of them provide me any relief. Oh well, thanks for listening.
There are many possible explanations for today's emotional discomfort, but none of them provide me any relief. Oh well, thanks for listening.
Jun 8, 2012
On the importance of taking a stand on inconsequential issues concerning the entertainment industry.
I'd really like to see Grizzly Bear at the Riv this September, but I can't get past the "convenience fees" and "order fees" that Jam Productions tacks on to every ticket price. This offends me. If the $34 ticket price weren't enough to turn me off, $10 in arbitrary fees sure is. I'm taking a stand. In fact, I've been taking a stand for as long as I've loved live music. I think it's really starting to influence the music industry, insofar as I'm very delusional.
Jam Productions, I hope you've learned your lesson. I may be loathe to part with my money, but I'm very generous with my indignation. And you, sirs and madams of corporate douche-baggery, have been served. Holler.
Jam Productions, I hope you've learned your lesson. I may be loathe to part with my money, but I'm very generous with my indignation. And you, sirs and madams of corporate douche-baggery, have been served. Holler.
May 7, 2012
Lunch Break Learning Time.
When I turned my car on this afternoon, I heard this on the radio:
Chicken eggs have two purposes. One, they can be eaten, and two, they create more chickens.
This is why I have two settings on my radio dedicated to NPR. Hard-hitting facts. I'm going to be a huge hit at the next dinner party I attend.
Chicken eggs have two purposes. One, they can be eaten, and two, they create more chickens.
This is why I have two settings on my radio dedicated to NPR. Hard-hitting facts. I'm going to be a huge hit at the next dinner party I attend.
Apr 30, 2012
Self-Esteem Plan B
I'm either sleep-deprived or suffering from a progressive illness that attacks my intelligence and ability to reason. Somehow, I still managed to get an impressive amount of work done, but I've forgotten how to add. Also, I have nothing clever to say. This is particularly upsetting, as much of my self-esteem hinges upon on my wit and mastery of the English language. I need to get some new skills. Back-up skills. Like lip reading, vegetable gardening, or harmonica playing.
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