My First Bra - An Auntie Jean Story

My Auntie Jean knew how to laugh. Not the polite laughter of someone struggling to find amusement in the midst of life’s foibles, but the true gut wrenching, tear streaming, peeing your pants laughter of someone who knew how to find beauty, glee, and hope even while drowning in heartbreak. A fan of Lucille Ball and Monty Python, Auntie Jean found humor in the inane, in the ridiculous, and in the ordinary. However, I think nothing amused her as much as the human body. Body shapes, bodily functions, and body cycles provided hours of entertaining and, to my prepubescent self, embarrassing discussions. Ironically enough, these embarrassing discussions have led to my fondest memories, not only those of Auntie Jean but also of my adolescence, and all the awkwardness it entailed, while also providing me with life long laughs.

Gangly, boyish, and flat best describe my physique at the age of twelve, and at sixteen for that matter. However, despite my lack of womanly charm, I craved the curves that so many of my friends and classmates were quickly developing, including my best friend, and Auntie Jean’s daughter, Valerie. Periods, pubic hair, and bras were regular topics of conversation amongst my girlfriends. I listened with a growing sense of excitement and horror as my friends, including Valerie, talked about first kisses, fondling in dark movie theaters, and hickies. Topics my friends’ parents generally avoided were openly discussed, and laughed about, in both Valerie’s house and in my own. Therefore, it was no surprise when one day while having a ladies day lunch (which included myself, my mom, Auntie Jean and Valerie) the topic of breasts arose.

Breasts are not a subject individuals usually discuss over lunch. They are definitely not a topic individuals usually think to discuss while enjoying a fondue lunch at The Melting Pot in downtown Berkeley, California. However, there the four of us sat with breasts on the mind. How my breasts, or Valerie’s breasts, crept into the conversation I do not recall, but in the course of conversation, our desire for, and need for bras arose. It was becoming uncomfortable to play sports, embarrassing even. Boys were starting to notice the non-bandaged mosquito bites beneath our shirts. Many of our friends were wearing bras and were beginning to talk, to distinguish between wearers and non-wearers. We were ready to be women! Our mother’s were ready to joke, jab, and most importantly, embarrass! However, recognizing our need, formulated a plan for the remainder of the day.

At the time, my mother was a student at The Pacific School of Religion, which was a part of the Graduate Theological Union a collection of 9 religious schools in the area. Conveniently enough the Graduate Theological Union Library was located in Berkeley, a short distance from The Melting Pot. It was here that we speedily traveled, all the while listening to Auntie Jean and my mother crack jokes about “training” bras and “training” boobies.

My Auntie Jean carried a purse, or “pocket bag” as she liked to call it, similar to that of Mary Poppins’ carpetbag. If you needed an item, she would shuffle through the apparent chaos and very nonchalantly present you with that item. She believed in preparedness for all events, even, I believe, natural disasters. Therefore, it was no surprise when, upon entering the library and being quickly ushered into the ladies’ room, Auntie Jean, ever the seamstress, rummaged around in her bag and presented us with a tape measure. Standing in the middle of the bathroom, Auntie Jean then instructed Valerie and I to lift our arms in order to take our measurements and determine our bra size. Our laughter echoed off the tiled walls, disturbing more than one library patron in the process. Our business complete, we hastily exited the library, embarrassment apparent by our red faces and nervous giggles.

I was, and still am a very modest individual. I have never been comfortable with showing inordinate amounts of skin, or accentuating my body with skimpy or tight clothing. It was not until college that I owned a bikini and even then made it a point to wear some kind of cover-up unless working on my tan. The public display of women’s undergarments in department stores made me squirm in discomfort. I may have wanted cute bras and panties, but I did not want the world knowing how intimately those flimsy pieces of material were caressing my skin. Walking into the intimate apparel section of Macy’s department store while my mother shopped was embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as choosing items for myself; especially, when men, women, and children were passing by on their way to buy innocent sweaters, jeans, and turtlenecks! As much as I wanted a bra, I did not want to display the fact that I was wearing one.

Therefore, imagine my horror when Auntie Jean and my mother ushered Valerie and I into the intimate apparel section of Macy’s and in concert hall crescendo inquired of the dour faced sale’s lady where the “training” bras were located.  My horror turned to utter mortification when that same dour faced sale’s lady insisted on measuring Valerie and I again, in the middle of the sales floor, in order to accurately check Auntie Jean’s measurements and properly calculate our sizes.  As I stood with my arms out to the side, and praying no one I knew happened to pass by, Auntie Jean and my mother proceeded to examine our available choices. Holding up each bra the two of them loudly exclaimed, “Isn’t this adorable?” “Look at the cute little pink bow on this one!” and, “This little one has a cute little pattern.”  It was becoming increasingly clear that this was a game to the two of them, a very fun game called Embarrass My Daughter!

At this point, I was beginning to regret I had even mentioned bras, much less purchasing them. I began to truly lament this very ladylike endeavor when Auntie Jean and my mother insisted that we not only try our favorite bras on, but also model them to see how they fit and how they made our molehills look beneath our shirts. Usually very particular about my clothing, I ceased to care. I remember grabbing three or four bras amongst the continuing hilarity of my mother and Auntie Jean, quickly trying them, subjecting myself to the commentary and critique of the adult ladies, and prepping for a quick exit.

My embarrassment during this event was very real! However, as I sit here recounting that day, I cannot help but also remember the joy, amusement, and love present. It is a day that Valerie and I talked and laughed about for years. A day my mother and I still recount. A day, that Auntie Jean, if she were still here today, would retell in full detail with eyes full of mischievous amusement. It is a day that is forever branded in my memory, not only because it was a milestone in my adolescence, but also because it was a day spent with the woman who taught me how to laugh despite my embarrassment! A day spent with the woman who had discovered the true meaning of mirth. A day spent with Auntie Jean.

Cover Letters: The Bane of My Existence

I once again find myself in need of a cover letter. I once again find myself stalling the application process because of the required cover letter. I despise writing cover letters. Cover letters, simply put, are the bane of my existence.

I have heard from friends, acquaintances, and strangers about "form" cover letters. A cover letter that has been used multiple times for multiple job applications...change the receiver's name, click, print, attach to resume and VOILA, a completed application. Curiously, I have never been able to create one of these convenient masterpieces. I am unsure whether this is due to the varying institutions to which I have applied, the varying jobs, or my own inherent need to be creative and create the best "first impression" possible. Most likely it is a combination of the three. Regardless, I find myself in the possession of numerous cover letters, all seemingly inappropriate for the current job to which I am applying. Once again, I find myself thinking, and thinking, and thinking, and thinking about the direction I want this next letter to take, the impression I want to make, the skills and qualities I possess that make me a perfect candidate for this job...thinking in a constant circle, no finish line in site.

Cover letters are, in part, difficult for me to write because I am not good at tooting my own horn in a serious manner. I can easily joke with you about my genius, wit, and skill...however, all I am truly doing is joking. Cover letters, take a certain amount of conceit, or appearance of conceit. They require the writer to believe or be able to convince the recipient, that they are truly the best candidate for the job, the most qualified, the most invested in the job and the institution. I rarely believe any of these things nor am I skilled in the art of deceit, making it difficult for me to write about myself and my skills in an inflated manner. If there is one thing this life has taught me it is humility. Humility is, in life, a virtue. In business and education, it is a huge flaw! Businesses and educational institutes survive and financially thrive because they convince their employees that they are special. Delude them into thinking they are irreplaceable. What really is an interview but an assessment of how easily that possible employee will buy into the philosophy of the institution? How willing that possible employee will be to focus their time, energy, and effort on the job, and the politics of the job? How desperate that individual is to feel a part of something larger than themselves, something unique and meaningful? Fortunately, or in this case, unfortunately, I have no delusions about my place in the business world! I am a number. Easily hired, easily fired. Easily replaceable. This does not mean I am not passionate about what I do. That I feel like I make no difference. I definitely believe in my importance to individuals, but not to larger institutions. I am passionate about what I do, but passionate because I believe in the power of knowledge...the self-growth and discovery it brings. The walls of hate, poverty, and prejudice that knowledge can destroy. The beauty it unearths. I am passionate because I believe knowledge improves people, and it is the collection of those people that bring positive change to the world. It is this passion that usually comes out in my cover letters. Unfortunately, I know that neither businesses, nor educational institutions (hard to believe, I know), are interested in an individuals passionate ideologies. They want commitment and sacrifice to their ideologies, ideologies that more often than not are in direct conflict with my own, making it difficult for me to commit to cover letters of any kind.

The frustrations I feel writing cover letters and sending out resumes is only exacerbated by the lack of response I usually receive. I respect those businesses that take the time to at least send a postcard confirming the receipt of my resume and cover letter. Those businesses at least make the pretense of valuing any possible employees. Unfortunately, those businesses are now rare. More often than not I receive no reply. The cover letter I have so painstakingly crafted enters into the those mysterious black holes, otherwise known as the garbage cans or filing cabinets of executive assistants and human relations officers. Those institutions so bent on having loyalty, commitment, and effort from their employees can hardly take the time to show their candidates the same respect.

Thus, I sit here. Thinking, thinking, thinking, and thinking about the next cover letter I must compose, hoping it can resist the gravitational pull of those pesky black holes.

Writing: Not Your Normal New Year's Resolution

Thoughts come into my head at all times of the day and night. Thoughts for short stories, personal stories, character sketches, and novels. Many I ignore. Others, I jot down in a notebook. Some I even begin. I have an iphone full of notes. Ideas I have written at 3am when insomnia gets the best of me. Ideas I have jotted down while making Lu breakfast. Ideas that come to me while running, while gathering wood, while sitting in front of the TV. It seems my brain is an endless producer of ideas. Unfortunately, my brain loves to produce ideas but lately lacks the capacity to finish them. Ironically, this lack of follow through was brought to my attention this afternoon while, once again, jotting down the beginning of an idea. One paragraph into my story and the creativity cord was cut. Thus, I decided to save a draft, in order to further think about the direction I would like this vignette to take, when I noticed the "Writing" folder to which I was saving my work contained more than one or two unfinished documents. These numerous unfinished pieces naturally led my brain to ask a host of questions. The most important one being, "Why don't I finish any of my writing?"

The normal excuses, of course, were the first to fly to the forefront of my mind...I have a three year old who does not afford me much time to write or much time to have a complete thought of my own. Hell most days I am happy to just get five minutes without Lucy's voice drowning out my own...The few moments I do get to myself are usually spent doing laundry, trying to keep the house in some pathetic semblance of order, or trying to stay connected to my friends around the country through Facebook or email...Some days and nights, I am just too damn tired to even attempt to put two coherent thoughts together.  Each of these reasons, while true, does not, however, truly touch on the real reasons my writing never progresses past the brain storming phase. Because really, there are plenty of writers out there with children who manage to produce finished pieces. There are women out there crafting it up, blogging it up, and being involved in a host of other activities, all while raising their children. Now mind you, I hardly think their children have the same, shall we say, tenacity and loquaciousness of my child (those who know her would not argue with me on these two points), but regardless...I should be more invested in my writing, or should I say finishing my writing. So why aren't I?

The answer, minus the excuses, is both simple and complex. Simple because it involves but one factor, confidence. Complex because that simple factor is multi-faceted.

As many of you know, I am seemingly a relatively confident individual, in the sense that I am secure in who I am, fairly happy with myself (minus a couple of character flaws), and do not apologize for being me by trying to change myself for others. However, I am also deathly afraid of negative criticism, shy away from exposing my true vulnerability, and do not have an inflated sense of my importance in the world. Three facets, which have prevented me from finishing much of my writing, and probably prevented me from having a truly successful professional career.

No one likes negative criticism. In fact, even the constructive criticism so popular in business and education is, most of the time, simply a means of negative criticism. I, however, literally have anxiety when thinking of criticism of any sort. Whether that criticism be directed at my hair/clothing/makeup, my running, my teaching skills, or my writing, criticism produces in me a negative physical reaction...nausea. I dislike criticism not because I believe I am undeserving, but because I am a constant subject of criticism...my own. No one can be, or is, harder on me than me. Therefore, heaping external criticism on top of my self criticism is like watching myself doubly fail. Writing, especially for publication, is opening oneself to a host of criticism. Criticism that by itself might drive me to try harder, do better, be better, but heaped on top of my self criticism is, most days, crippling.

The greatest pieces of writing, art, or music are those that not only expose the frailty of humanity and society but also those which expose the frailty of the artist. Writing is a deeply personal act. A writer must be willing to expose his/her most vulnerable moments, thoughts, relationships, and feelings; but if this were not enough a writer must then entrust his/her readers to carefully handle those vulnerabilities, to own those vulnerabilities as their own. I do neither well; expose my vulnerabilities, that is, nor trust people, especially complete strangers. I suppose my lack of trust in people comes from being hurt too many times when I have exposed those vulnerabilities. Whether I have been hurt from harsh criticism, a lack of emotional regard for the sensitivities I am exposing, or by individuals using my vulnerabilities against me...all have led to an unwillingness to share the bits of me I expose in my writing, even the unfinished bits.

To write is one thing, to publish is another. I write for personal pleasure. However, why write if not to share one's writing? However, sharing my writing would imply that I believe I have something important to share, something worth reading, something enjoyable or pleasurable, funny, heartbreaking, or stirring. Something people will want to read, share, and cherish. Even something special enough that people will want to criticize it. Unfortunately, I don't feel that my story or the stories I write are especially unique or interesting. I grew up in a middle class town, in a middle class neighborhood. Though I have had experiences that many have not, there are simply others that have had far more wild adventures than I. Others have had greater heartbreaks, greater successes. I do not have an inflated sense of my place in the world. I am in my own way quirky, but not necessarily memorable. The people I have met are quirky and yes, some are very memorable. Many I have included in character sketches. But are they memorable enough, bizarre enough for the world to want to read about them? Are my stories so? I'm not sure. Thus I sit with a handful of beginnings...and vow that before the year ends so too will one piece of writing.