My Sixteen-Year-Old Self: A Reflection and Contest Entry - Part 1

Thanks to the Diet Coke drinking habits of my husband, and Coke’s rewards program, I receive several magazine subscriptions free. One of the magazines I receive and read regularly is Martha Stewart’s Whole Living Publication. Each month the magazine asks its readers to submit answers to a question about health, life, and relationships. If your answer proves creative or endearing enough, it is published in the next month’s issue and you, the writer, win a variety of products. Each month, I take note of the winning answers, and contemplate how I would answer the next month’s question. However, I have never taken the initiative to enter an answer. Whether due to my lack of interest in the question, my lack of time, or the other more pressing issues topping my “to do” list, I do not know. This month, however, I had fifteen minutes and a passion for the question. Therefore, I decided to take the initiative and send Whole Living an email to their question, “If you could go back and tell your 16 year old self one thing, what would you tell her?” The following is that email:

I grew up in, what used to be, a small California town. As with most small towns, running to the store or enjoying a sundae at the local ice cream parlor was a social event, since we would inevitably run into one, if not two or three, people we knew. Misbehaving was out of the question, since getting caught was unavoidable. Though some people would find this sense of community stifling, I loved it. I continually felt loved and protected. Today many of my friends still live within a 30-mile radius of my hometown. I, however, have lived in four different states, in four different regions of the United States. It often pains me to watch my best friends raising their children together, having girl's weekends together, and continuing to bask in the joys of a small tight-knit community. I often have to remind the sixteen year old inside me, that the places I have lived, the experiences I have had, and the people I have befriended, though not what I had dreamed, have shaped me, my life, and my outlook, in a positive way, as opposed to a negative way. That though I do not have the life I once dreamed of, I have something more real and dynamic.

Running – Fitness, Confidence, and Serenity…NOW!

Fitness

My career as a semi-serious runner began shortly after moving to Baltimore and at the beginning of my third year of college. Always physically active (I played basketball throughout junior high, danced throughout high school, and during the first two years of college ice skated four to five times a week), I found myself three thousand miles away from home, at a new school and in a new town lacking the resources I had previously depended upon for physical exercise. Forming a relationship with Jody, an avid runner, was, therefore, propitious timing.

            When I first met Jody, and for months after meeting him, I was unaware that he was a runner, and an avid one at that. I knew that he swam in high school and college and that he coached two swim teams, a club team and his school’s team. I knew that he played tennis growing up. That he played golf and worked at a golf course one summer. I even knew that, as children, he, his brother, and their friends liked to play Evil Knievil by jumping bikes over each other while lying in the dirt. However, I did not know he ran. That is until I inquired as to his whereabouts after an almost two-week absence from work. He answered, “Ireland with my dad.” “Touring?” I asked. “Yes” he very nonchalantly answered, “but mainly went to run the Dublin Marathon.” I must admit that at that time I had no idea that a marathon entailed running 26.2 miles. My knowledge of marathon distance was limited to “many miles”, especially to run. I believe my jaw was slightly ajar in “ah” at the time. However, I must have appeared the gawking idiot as I pried further, only to find out that Dublin was not his first marathon. In fact, it was his third or fourth in addition to several triathlons.

As our relationship progressed from friendship to formal dating, Jody and I often talked about running and its physical benefits, but more importantly, we discussed the emotional and mental health benefits that he derived from hitting the pavement 5-6 times a week. It was these discussions, my increased lack of physical activity, and my desire to find a sport that did not require gyms, dance studios, or ice rinks that drove me to lace up my running shoes, which I had only ever run in once or twice, and to venture out for my first very painful, pathetically short run.

Confidence

            Not only were my lungs on fire, but I was developing a sharp cramp in my rib cage and I was only a quarter of a mile into what I hoped would be a two mile run. By a half a mile the cramp had worsened, my breathing had quickened, and my legs were beginning to feel gelatinous. However, I pushed on, hoping that I could get into a reasonable pace, take a deep breath, and, if necessary, complete the two miles I had hoped to accomplish without stopping to walk, even if it meant running at a snail’s pace. At three quarters of a mile, I stopped. The cramp had become so severe I could barely stand up straight. My legs were giving out on me and I was gasping for air. I was mad. Make that livid! My body was not doing what I wanted it to do and the confidence I felt ten steps into my run was now ground into the pavement by my sparkling new running shoes. I walked the three quarters of a mile back to my parent’s house feeling hopelessly defeated and questioning whether I would ever do this again.

My therapist once told me that anger is, in reality, a positive emotion. Unfortunately, individual’s negative actions because of anger have made it a taboo emotion. However, anger is a driving force, one that, when used positively can help achieve great things. Thank God, it is not in my nature to surrender gracefully. Otherwise, that first run would have been my last, depriving me of a life long sport, confidence booster, and coping mechanism.

The blind rage I felt at the end of that first run motivated me to venture out again, completing a mile; then again, increasing my runs by another half a mile, until I was running three miles regularly and working my way up to four miles, three to four times a week. During many of these runs, I felt like stopping, throwing my hands up in the air and saying, “Fuck it!” However, the thought of failing fueled my anger, forcing me to ignore the physical pain, silence the negative voices in my head, and focus on the finish.

Soon I was training for my first five-kilometer run, a small fundraiser that began and ended at Jody’s place of employment. Most novice runners would simply strive to finish the race, and if I were not such a perfectionist, I would have been smart to do so. However, being the perfectionist I am, I set two goals for myself. First, I vowed not to stop and walk and any point during the race. Second, I strove to complete the race in thirty minutes or less, a not unreasonable time considering the ten-minute mile average I had been maintaining.

The moment I committed to the race, my nerves were highjacked. The thought of stopping at any point during the race produced tears of frustration. The thought of finishing with more than thirty minutes on the clock made me want to scream. In order to calm my nerves and release some tension, I decided to run the course the race would take three or four times before race day.

Standing on the starting line early that misty Saturday morning, I thought I might vomit. My nerves were wound so tightly they would have twanged if plucked. When the gun went off signaling the start of the race, I stood stunned for a moment before I remembered that I must put one foot in front of the other. Heart pounding in my chest, I took off, remembering that three quarters of the race was a steady uphill climb, and pacing myself was the key to achieving both my goals. I plugged along steadily, watching a handful of individuals sprint by me, stop and walk, then sprint by me again a half a mile later. I trudged on trying to ignore the uphill climb by staring at my feet and the pavement in front of me. While reciting, “I think I can, I think I can” repetitively, I looked up briefly only to realize I had reached the summit. My heart leapt with joy. All I had to conquer was a downhill mile. I crossed the finish line in just over 29 minutes, having run the entire race.  

Driving home that morning, I felt accomplished and confident. I had not only set a goal and achieved it, but also overcome my own doubt and nerves. I had pushed myself both physically and mentally, running a distance that six months before would have been unthinkable. I had competed against myself, and I had won.

Serenity NOW!

            Most of my friends, and a few brave souls that have dared to ask, know that my daughter, Lucy, came into being through In Vitro Fertilization. Less well known is the severe post-partum depression I suffered approximately 5 months after her birth. Having a baby is a life altering experience. An experience that though joyful, is also physically, and emotionally, taxing. The coping mechanisms I had previously used in order to deal with stress, such as a couple of hours alone or the ability to have a good soul cleansing cry, ceased to be options with an infant whose every need I was responsible for meeting. Through intensive therapy, an hour every day when at my worst, I not only got to the heart of my anxiety and depression, but also worked on formulating a list of coping mechanisms that had worked in the past and could be fit into my daily routine with Lu. Conversation after conversation, list after list resulted in one reliable answer: exercise.

            When Lu was small, running was not the best option. We lived in Baltimore city. Pushing a running stroller in the street was unsafe. Pushing the running stroller over the pitted and pitched sidewalks was not only difficult but I feared would give Lu whiplash. Therefore, I turned to walking. The worse I felt, the more I walked. Most days I walked no less than 4 or 5 miles. My schedule soon revolved around my morning walks to Starbucks and when Lu was nine or ten months old, the playground. From 9am until noon, I walked. On the rare occasions Jody was not working, I snuck in a run. That walking, and those periodic runs, not only helped me lose what was left of my pregnancy weight, but also saved my sanity.

            In 2009, Jody and I moved to Vermont to create a better life for ourselves and for Lu. For the first time in the twelve years we had known each other, Jody would only be working one job. Shortly after our move, we began working on a schedule that allowed both of us the opportunity to exercise by alternating days or meeting up at the gym after Jody had had the opportunity to work out. I once again began running three to four times a week and lifting two or three times a week.

            In August of last year, I registered for a half marathon. I trained for ten weeks battling sickness and the inclement weather that a Vermont fall can produce. However, I also treasured those healthy days when my long runs consisted of brilliantly crisp, indescribably beautiful fall days through the Vermont countryside.

The day of the marathon brought with it freezing temperatures and snow. The route, described as moderately hilly by the coordinators, included a thousand foot climb. Despite these factors, I crossed the finish line a mere four minutes shy of my two-hour goal and surprisingly at peace with my “failure”.

            Motherhood, and life, remains as challenging as it did three years ago. The challenges just change with each passing day. The crushing depression I suffered from three years ago, periodically tries to rear its ugly head. However, it is on those bad days that I now lace up my running shoes, plug into my iPod, and bask in the knowledge that the next thirty minutes to an hour will bring me solitude, clarity, and an increasing sense of serenity.

             

Ashley R.: A Fart and A Smile

Ashley R: A Smile and A Fart

I accepted the teaching position at Mercy High School, an all girls’ school, because, frankly, it was the only offer I had received upon graduating from college. It was hardly an ideal position. The school failed to pay its teachers a living wage, the English department head was an absentee head, three of the five English teachers, including myself, were new hires, it demanded teaching five classes with three preparations (all four of the other teachers taught four classes and had two preparations), and it was, after all, an all girls’ school.

            I am not now, nor have I ever been, a girl’s girl. I generally prefer hanging around guys more than chicks because men are rarely cold, caddy, or dramatic. I have never had a plethora of girlfriends simply because I cannot stomach the games and backstabbing that usually accompanies the female race. The girlfriends I have had over the years are straightforward, intelligent, driven, and generally defy gender stereotypes. Therefore, working with a staff comprised mainly of females, and teaching approximately 135 females, all at the height of teenage drama, did not give me the thrills or the excitement I imagined my first teaching job would produce. However, I gave myself two years in the position to develop the necessary experience to find the teaching career of my dreams, and hoped to find a handful of students who shared my love of literature and all things academic. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I would find a kindred spirit in the form of Ashley R.

            A petite girl, Ashley could not have been more than 5’5” at the time I taught her, she often wore her hair piled high on her head in a ponytail that bobbed as enthusiastically as she spoke. A natural brunette, Ashley highlighted her hair blonde, as if in protest against the dullness of brown. Her eyelashes, which were extraordinarily long and always coated in mascara, framed wide eyes, giving her what appeared to be the vapid stare of a porcelain doll. Rosie cheeked and red lipped, Ashley was a walking Mary Kay advertisement.

            Ashley’s physical appearance, combined with her ever-present smile, light bouncing step, and dramatic inflection when she spoke made it easy, upon first inspection, to write her off as nothing more than an airhead cheerleader with hardly a brain and even less depth of personality. However, Ashley had the power to captivate and surprise with her exuberance, humor, and spirit; that left little doubt as to both her extraordinary intelligence and depth of character.

            It is hard to reconcile the fact that I do not remember the first time I met Ashley with the lasting impression she has had upon my time at Mercy and my life. I am sure I called role on the first day of class. I am sure she answered, “Here.” A response that would have been, for Ashley, entirely mundane. More likely and appropriate would have been a barrage of questions from her, regarding the class, regarding the books we were going to read, and regarding my personal life.

            Each time Ashley raised a hand, I both dreaded and eagerly anticipated the coming question or comment. I never knew whether Ashley’s contribution would be meaningful and insightful or so humorous that the tenuous order I fought hard to keep would dissolve into complete chaos.

The year I taught at Mercy was the year of my engagement. Though all of my classes loved to try to distract me from the task at hand by asking me questions about my wedding, no one succeeded in doing so more than Ashley. I simply could not refuse her eagerness and zeal. Her genuine interest in knowing and understanding people captivated me. Most memorable, however, was Ashley’s penchant for farting in class. A trait that after Parent Day, I believed would cost me my job.

Each year, during Catholic School’s week, Mercy allowed parents to visit our classrooms. I simply dreaded this day. I had several difficult classes, full of students who had mastered the art of lying and manipulation. I felt that allowing these students’ parents into my classes would only give these girls the opportunity to negate the suggestions I had been giving their parents regarding their academics and behavior. Ashley’s class was not one of these classes. In fact, it was the class I most enjoyed teaching. Therefore, it did not concern me when I had the largest number of parents’ attend this particular class; these girls were well behaved, studious, and fun.

The class began as every class did, with role call and journal writing. With ease, we then transitioned into the lesson of the day, a writing lesson. Things were going smoothly. The girls were participating respectfully. I was happy. Things seemed to be in control. That was until Ashley began farting, and the class began hilariously laughing.

When I say Ashley farted, I do not mean that she sat quietly at her desk and tried to conceal her indiscretion. Ashley was a proud farter. If her farts did not make the necessary noise to attract the attention of the class, the smell did, and she would, without embarrassment, claim the smell as her own. Ashley’s farting was so commonplace that the girls eventually began to direct every “icky”, “yuck”, and “gross” at her. Throughout the year, I struggled to address her farting in a professional manner because, frankly, I found it hilarious and most days had to struggle not to laugh aloud.

Therefore, I found it particularly difficult on this day, with parents’ judging my every move, and panic setting in, to not only regain some shred of order in my class, but to also address Ashley’s farting without exacerbating the situation and encouraging the behavior. As calmly and firmly as I could, I said, “Girls, that’s enough. It is time to calm down. Ashley, do you need to use the restroom?” A large grin spread across Ashley’s face, as she shook her head no.

 With the class now chatting, snickering, and generally acting like wild squirrels, I attempted to continue the lesson. Ashley continued to fart. The parents continued to stare. I felt a hot red rash fight its way from my chest to my neck and conquer my face. I stumbled my way through the remainder of the lesson, tripping over my words, and praying for the peace and sanctity of my car; all the while feeling like a naughty child who would, the next day, be called into the principal’s office for a verbal thrashing.

            Ashley was a leader. She could control a crowd with a look, a laugh, or a comment. Her peers admired her. Her teachers adored her, and not because she was an A student who sat at attention and listened with interest and intrigue, but because she was dynamic, energetic, and full of pizzazz. Ashley was also interesting and optimistic. However, most importantly she was simply herself.

            In October 0f 2009, Ashley was killed in a car accident. I remember being at home, in my living room, when Jody delivered the news. At first, I was convinced that it was a different Ashley R. Ashley R., the girl who farted in class, who had a special way of saying, “Miss Coupe”, who made me laugh daily, and who embodied what it means to live could not possibly be lifeless.

I write this with tears in my eyes, and then I think about the last time I saw Ashley R. and I smile in remembrance of her vivacity. She was a senior, working at Abercrombie and Fitch in Towson Town Center. Jody and I had gone to the mall for a romantic food court dinner. As we walked toward our destination, I heard the unmistakable voice of Ashley say, “Miss Coupe?” After chatting for ten or so minutes about how she was, what she was up to etc., we bid Ashley farewell in hopes of seeing her again sometime soon. Though three years had passed, Ashley had remained unchanged. She was, and will remain, the one and only Ashley R.

Comfort

This morning progressed like every other Tuesday morning. I woke around seven to Lu crying, “Mommy, I need to go pee”, ushered her into the bathroom, prepared her breakfast and lunch, bundled her up for the walk to school, bundled myself, and headed out the door (all while listening to her whine and cry about nothing in particular). Having arrived at her preschool we went through the necessary routine of stripping her layers, washing her hands, shoving her backpack, coat, snowsuit, and lunchbox in her cubby, writing her name, signing her in and kissing her goodbye. I arrived at home ready for a cup of coffee, some tummy warming oatmeal with blueberries and maple syrup, and a bit of quiet relaxation before heading to the gym for an ass-kicking, sweat-inducing workout. However, I decided that before making myself too comfortable in the warmth of my home, I should try to start my car, since the cold temperatures have made it moody, some days starting immediately, some days starting after 10-15 tries, or refusing to start altogether without a jumpstart. Putting the key in the ignition, my hopes were high. After all, I had run it the day before despite it taking 15 minutes or so to get started.  The first turn of the key resulted in a quick VROOM before the engine shut down completely. This caused me no worry, this had happened before. The second turn of the key produced the same results. Still I had gotten it started after trying many more times than this. Five or six tries later, the VROOM ceased and the CLICK, CLICK, CLICKING of a dead battery began. “Wonderful,” I thought and headed inside with the intention of working out later in the evening, once Jody could come home and either provide me with transportation or work his magic and get my van running.

            Feeling frustrated, and more than a little exacerbated, I prepared myself that much needed cup of coffee and oatmeal, knowing that at that moment the two, combined with some quiet “me” time, would provide me with the necessary comfort to get me through the day. In the course of these preparations, I began to think about comfort, what it means to be comforted or to give comfort, the times I most need to be comforted, the importance of being comforted and giving comfort, and both the small and large things that comfort me on a daily basis.

            One of my numerous carnal rules as an English teacher, when writing a paper, is to avoid opening a paragraph with a definition, or using a definition as an attention grabber. Comfort, therefore, is both a verb and a noun, defined by the Merriam-Webster Dictionary as giving strength and hope, or easing the grief and trouble of an individual or group of individuals. It means to cheer or console. Comfort is a strengthening aid, consolation in a time of trouble or worry, a feeling of relief or encouragement. Comfort is also a contented well-being or a satisfying or enjoyable experience. Comfort is a surprisingly powerful word. It is a surprisingly powerful action. It is a surprisingly powerful concept.

            I am a person who likes order, organization, and control, not necessarily over other people, but of my thoughts and actions, as well as life’s outcomes. These three traits are both my greatest strengths and my greatest weaknesses.  Chaos, messes, and mayhem cause me anxiety, frustration, and anger. Comfort helps me process these feelings, and regain a sense of control and clarity.

 As a parent, I find that I am frequently the comforter as opposed to the comforted. An irony, since it is usually I who needs more comfort than Lu as I struggle with feelings of doubt regarding the daily decisions I make for her, for myself, for my relationship, and for my family. It is me who needs comfort as I fight the pure exhaustion that comes from taking care of another’s physical, emotional, mental and spiritual needs 24 hours a day, 7 days a week; and it is me who needs comfort as I try to reign in the complete and utter madness that the presence of a child entails, especially a child as gloriously spirited as mine. With little time and even less energy, the years have taught me how to seek comfort in the smallest gestures of friends, in the smallest items, and in stolen moments with myself.

 A trip to Barnes and Noble, a run to Starbucks, and a kind word from a stranger excite me. A shopping trip by myself leaves me euphoric these days, while watching birds fly to and from our bird feeder mesmerizes, and calms, me. Compliments from friends, a warm house, the smell of apple pie baking in the oven, and a hot shower without interruptions all result in a dimpled smile. Running hard with angry chick music blaring on my iphone not only brings me a measure of contentment regarding the shape and size of my body, but produces sun fuzzies in my brain, otherwise known as endorphins. Jody offering to take Lu for an evening or a day makes me feel loved and cared for. A glass of sangria relaxes me and makes me forget about the chaos around me, if just for one evening. Looking at old pictures helps me remember the happy days of my youth, the carefree fun with friends basking in the warm California sun and recalls joyful firsts; my first love, my first dance, my first kisses, my first vacation, the first time I moved, and my first adventure. Creating and maintaining my blog allows my brain the necessary outlet for its wanderings, frustrations, memories, and musings. Each of these comforts is necessary for my daily sanity. However, it is my contact with friends, specifically through Facebook, that provide me with the most consistent comfort.

I am, admittedly, a Facebook addict. I post frequently, check profiles frequently, and leave comments for my friends frequently. Having now lived in four different states, in four different regions of the United States, these small gestures allow me to feel connected to friends whose physical absences I feel on a daily basis. Facebook allows me to exchange blows with the loneliness and isolation that staying at home and being so far from home (meaning the west coast) can entail. Witty comment exchanges, email messages, and photo comments on Facebook are enjoyable distractions. They provide me with a feeling of relief and encouragement. Facebook reminds me that despite time and distance, I am continually loved. That my friends are working daily to comfort me, even if they are unaware that they are doing so. Facebook also allows me a means to comfort my friends. With the click of a button, I can send encouragement, condolences, and laughs. I can be both comforted and comforter, both noun and verb.

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.