Ladies. Do me a favor. Resist the temptation to fast forward through the latest Cialis commercial. Watch it on mute. It contains valuable secrets and new information about how to keep your man happy. Remember, no sound. Just focus on the messages sent by the obviously very wise and sexually fulfilled couples.
"Cialis will help your man be ready to love you, but YOU need to do your part! Go beyond embracing your role as a housewife - sing and dance about it to show your joy. This will give your husband many erections. Encourage and support mid-life crisis purchases with smiles and above all, silence. The result will be so many erections! Buy him shiny toys, especially cars, he is after all just a large child. Take him to see fast cars zoom around race tracks! Then there will be more erections than you can imagine!"
Turn the volume back on after a minute or so, but only after you're confident that you now understand the male species. You wouldn't want to miss the important warnings that let you know your man will die if he flosses his teeth while using Cialis. Or does 1 jumping jack with a Cialis induced erection. But he will die happy.
Showing posts with label Woman's World?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Woman's World?. Show all posts
Monday, November 5, 2012
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Silly Foal
You spend so much time and energy getting your feet under you in your 20's. I imagine watching a young 20-something girl get up onto her feet with any measure of strength and stability must be similar to watching a developmentally challenged foal repeatedly trip over her own lanky, fuzzy, Lincoln Log legs as she attempts to rise onto her hooves for the first time. No matter how young, beautiful and determined a young female might be, she'll always know how to get in her own way unlike any other species.
I spent much of my 20's coming to terms with the fact that the decade wasn't at all about reading Harper's Bazaar by the pool or drinking martinis 8 days a week while maintaining the perfect figure and balancing a wildly successful career. I held on tight to that misconception for a few (wasted) years, and then I spent the rest of the decade meandering down a messy path towards finding myself. It was a path riddled with equal parts achievement and disappointment, loneliness and fear, peace and happiness.
At the end of it, I was glad to wave goodbye to my 20's and usher in a new decade. My 20's truly were a roller coaster, on which I often felt exposed, lost and confused. I was excited to enter a new phase of my life with all the knowledge gained from the climb I conquered in the decade before. I was convinced it would be at least a little bit smoother sailing from 30 on. And then the molehills and mountains started popping up everywhere again. I did have a "What the F&(K!" moment at first. But then I realized that the whole point of getting your feet under you in your 20's is so you can learn to pick yourself back up with a little more grace every subsequent time the rug gets pulled out from under you.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Dirty Little Secrets Part 2 - What Are Your Dirty Little Secrets?
As life became increasingly complicated after college and I was forced to tackle career, relationship, family, and physical challenges, I found myself needing the counsel of women who had faced similar challenges more and more often. I was new to San Francisco and had only 1 friend I felt I could trust and rely on – the one I moved here with. I missed the security of a big network of friends living within a few blocks and was apprehensive about being able to duplicate those friendships - ones that now consisted of phone calls and emails and very occasional visits. I was stubborn about it for too long – hoping the new friendships would come to me easily as social matters always had. It took a lot of solo walks along the Embarcadero and tearful calls home to remember the true importance of building a strong network of female friends where you are– one comprised of the invaluable confidants that are needed to survive as a woman. You may never be able to duplicate the friendships you have in your youth, but you can certainly build ones equally as precious, and they often come once you accept that it isn’t about finding the same type of people, but the same kind of friendship.
I finally admitted that I was going to have to put myself out there if I wanted to make it happen. I started talking to more and more women, with increasing candor as time went on, and found that so many of them were looking for the same brand of friendship I was looking for – one with a level of honesty, openness and truthfulness. One that brings comfort and reassurance and maybe even makes you feel a little less alone when you’re hovering on the edge.
Once I realized how eager most women were to confide in someone about their “dirty little secrets” I started to think about what a shame it is that we haven’t found a way to be more open and honest with each other in the 50 years since our grandmothers were coming of age. I believe that there is so much value in being real with each other, and I know now how many other women feel the same. And yet our instincts keep us from doing so most of the time…
I started asking women why they keep a lot of their bigger secrets close to the vest – below are the top 3 answers I encountered. What do you think?
Shame. A lot of women are ashamed of what we think, feel and do when we’re overwhelmed or falling apart. Or we’re ashamed of the things we do behind closed doors to keep it together. Perfect example: “Send the baby back syndrome.” I’ve spoken to so many women - with and without postpartum - that have had moments, or days even where they question whether or not they were meant to be a mother. I am told it is hard as hell in the beginning and you question your instincts, abilities and fate as a parent over and over again. From what I’ve heard in the past two years, it is not uncommon to panic and think you’ve made a mistake in having a baby at all, or think you might have waited too long to do so. And it isn’t rare to dread you’ve had children for the wrong reasons altogether. Some women are apparently honest about these experiences, and some women aren’t. And to be fair, I’m sure there are a few out there that don’t experience any major bumps in the “mommy road.” But those that do, are often too ashamed to talk about their feelings with their husbands or mothers because they are convinced that simply thinking “Can I send it back?” makes them a horrible person and a bad mother. Well it doesn’t. It makes you human. And trust me, your sons and daughters would most likely choose an authentic, compassionate mother over one that encourages false pretenses and acts as if everything is ok when its not.
Judgment. More people cheat in marriages than we would all like to know or even think about. But regardless of how unfortunately common infidelity has become, most women still have a terribly hard time discussing it when their own relationships have fallen victim. I have a friend whose mother said she knew that her husband cheated on and off for the duration of their 25 year marriage, but she never spoke up because she was convinced her children would find a way to blame her; and she said they had always favored their charming father to their abrupt, strict mother anyway. Another (unmarried) woman explained that she had always been warned of her (younger) boyfriend’s philandering ways for so long that she couldn’t bear to talk about it when he finally fulfilled everyone’s expectations. She didn’t want to expose herself to “I told you so” after “I told you so” when she was already devastated enough.
Ammunition. Because true transparency is so rare, and often even frowned upon, our first instinct is to bury the feelings we question are valid, rational or socially acceptable. When the unthinkable happens in our marriages, our homes, and our careers - we tell some abridged version of the truth because it is often easier to tell and gives people less ammunition in the future. Mistakes and failures are hard enough to endure, so burying the truth behind them is safer than giving people the opportunity to tear us down or criticize us. You tell the whole story, you expose yourself to attacks.
So….what are your dirty little secrets? And if you don’t dare tell, why do you hold your cards so close to the vest?
I finally admitted that I was going to have to put myself out there if I wanted to make it happen. I started talking to more and more women, with increasing candor as time went on, and found that so many of them were looking for the same brand of friendship I was looking for – one with a level of honesty, openness and truthfulness. One that brings comfort and reassurance and maybe even makes you feel a little less alone when you’re hovering on the edge.
Once I realized how eager most women were to confide in someone about their “dirty little secrets” I started to think about what a shame it is that we haven’t found a way to be more open and honest with each other in the 50 years since our grandmothers were coming of age. I believe that there is so much value in being real with each other, and I know now how many other women feel the same. And yet our instincts keep us from doing so most of the time…
I started asking women why they keep a lot of their bigger secrets close to the vest – below are the top 3 answers I encountered. What do you think?
Shame. A lot of women are ashamed of what we think, feel and do when we’re overwhelmed or falling apart. Or we’re ashamed of the things we do behind closed doors to keep it together. Perfect example: “Send the baby back syndrome.” I’ve spoken to so many women - with and without postpartum - that have had moments, or days even where they question whether or not they were meant to be a mother. I am told it is hard as hell in the beginning and you question your instincts, abilities and fate as a parent over and over again. From what I’ve heard in the past two years, it is not uncommon to panic and think you’ve made a mistake in having a baby at all, or think you might have waited too long to do so. And it isn’t rare to dread you’ve had children for the wrong reasons altogether. Some women are apparently honest about these experiences, and some women aren’t. And to be fair, I’m sure there are a few out there that don’t experience any major bumps in the “mommy road.” But those that do, are often too ashamed to talk about their feelings with their husbands or mothers because they are convinced that simply thinking “Can I send it back?” makes them a horrible person and a bad mother. Well it doesn’t. It makes you human. And trust me, your sons and daughters would most likely choose an authentic, compassionate mother over one that encourages false pretenses and acts as if everything is ok when its not.
Judgment. More people cheat in marriages than we would all like to know or even think about. But regardless of how unfortunately common infidelity has become, most women still have a terribly hard time discussing it when their own relationships have fallen victim. I have a friend whose mother said she knew that her husband cheated on and off for the duration of their 25 year marriage, but she never spoke up because she was convinced her children would find a way to blame her; and she said they had always favored their charming father to their abrupt, strict mother anyway. Another (unmarried) woman explained that she had always been warned of her (younger) boyfriend’s philandering ways for so long that she couldn’t bear to talk about it when he finally fulfilled everyone’s expectations. She didn’t want to expose herself to “I told you so” after “I told you so” when she was already devastated enough.
Ammunition. Because true transparency is so rare, and often even frowned upon, our first instinct is to bury the feelings we question are valid, rational or socially acceptable. When the unthinkable happens in our marriages, our homes, and our careers - we tell some abridged version of the truth because it is often easier to tell and gives people less ammunition in the future. Mistakes and failures are hard enough to endure, so burying the truth behind them is safer than giving people the opportunity to tear us down or criticize us. You tell the whole story, you expose yourself to attacks.
So….what are your dirty little secrets? And if you don’t dare tell, why do you hold your cards so close to the vest?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Dirty Little Secrets
As twenty-something women, we live our lives wedged between the generation that raised us to believe it is unsavory, unladylike and unacceptable to divulge details of personal and family matters; and a generation that has buried any concept of privacy under social media networks, twitter feeds and explicit reality television shows. Our mothers and grandmothers - the same women that shared not much more than household tips and baking secrets with each other in their day - must choke on their homemade cookies when they see strangers marveling over tampon technology and erectile dysfunction cures in between features on the evening news. Somewhere in the last century, a “don’t ask, don’t tell” society has evolved into a “please ask, please tell,” one where full disclosure is well compensated to say the least. But regardless of shifting social paradigms, two things seem to remain the same for women: many of us tend to say what we believe people want to hear, and even more of us try to be something we think we’re supposed to be.
To me, it seems as if women just went from painting falsified pictures of perfection with their carefully chosen words to portraying processed, sensational versions of ourselves across varied mediums. Somehow, all this media-centric “progress” has changed how women express themselves in public realms without changing how we express ourselves and communicate in our personal lives - where change matters the most. Yes, twenty-something and thirty-something women more willingly discuss constipation and orgasms than our mothers did, and the generation that follows us eagerly reveals much more, but where does that get any of us if we still can't be open and honest about the issues that have significant impact on our happiness and well being?
We readily talk about matters of vanity and prefer to focus on celebrities who bear their bodies and souls to the cameras, but many of us hesitate too long before turning to our mothers, sisters and friends and bearing enough of our own souls to get the help, advice and reinforcement we need. What are we afraid of? Why is it so easy to skate along the surface of who we are as women and so hard for us to expose our vulnerable selves and our most harrowing emotional experiences? What makes being unabashedly honest about motherhood, relationships, body image issues, mental health, and anything profoundly challenging so taboo? When did our real lives and real problems become dirty little secrets?
To me, it seems as if women just went from painting falsified pictures of perfection with their carefully chosen words to portraying processed, sensational versions of ourselves across varied mediums. Somehow, all this media-centric “progress” has changed how women express themselves in public realms without changing how we express ourselves and communicate in our personal lives - where change matters the most. Yes, twenty-something and thirty-something women more willingly discuss constipation and orgasms than our mothers did, and the generation that follows us eagerly reveals much more, but where does that get any of us if we still can't be open and honest about the issues that have significant impact on our happiness and well being?
We readily talk about matters of vanity and prefer to focus on celebrities who bear their bodies and souls to the cameras, but many of us hesitate too long before turning to our mothers, sisters and friends and bearing enough of our own souls to get the help, advice and reinforcement we need. What are we afraid of? Why is it so easy to skate along the surface of who we are as women and so hard for us to expose our vulnerable selves and our most harrowing emotional experiences? What makes being unabashedly honest about motherhood, relationships, body image issues, mental health, and anything profoundly challenging so taboo? When did our real lives and real problems become dirty little secrets?
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Higher Education
Most people go off to college looking for a good time - and in a city like Boston, which seems at times overwhelmed by its collegiate population, God knows it’s all too easy to find. There are 50 plus institutions of higher education in the city, (one of which I attended,) and when they’re all simultaneously in session, it’s as if the whole place is bathed in youth and sex and naiveté. Young men and women dive into a murky sea of possibility overflowing with post-adolescent fishies who attend classes and float across grassy quads by day, and bob up and down from keg party to bottom bunk to frat house by night. They strip themselves of their pasts, their family baggage and high school identities and blend in, standardize. I remember having the sense that at least 1/3 of the city was perpetually in search of a party, a beer, and a body to keep the bed warm. Somehow, I was fortunate enough to find something wonderfully different in my own search. Something in addition, that is, to a bit of a binge drinking habit, a closet full of regretful animal skin clothing and pictures too indefensible to show even my future husband.
At first glance, our individual backgrounds, family lives, interests and personalities in general indicated that we were more likely to become enemies than best friends. But the chemistry we shared from the moment we all laughed together over cheap alcohol and cold pizza was uncanny. We were 7 wildly different people from towns throughout the Northeast that although not far from each other, were most certainly worlds apart. With Greek, Italian, Irish, French, Portuguese, Scottish, and Austrian coursing through our veins; we could not have looked and sounded more unalike. We came to college from private schools, public schools and catholic schools and grew up wealthy, poor and everything in between. Despite our differences, or perhaps because of them, we grew to be the closest of confidants and most reliable partners in crime thanks to a never-ending supply of embarrassment, countless shame-filled mornings and enough alcohol to drown a small village.
To this day, I have a difficult time putting my finger on exactly what it was that led us to open our hearts and minds enough to get the ball rolling. How did 7 kids that may not have even spoken to each other in high school end up being the kind of friends that screw you later in life by setting impossible standards? Was it because we shared those pivotal moments in which we thought we were going to be arrested, evicted, or fired? Or was it because we were always there when one of us thought her heart was broken for good?
Whatever led us down that path, we ended up better off for traveling it. Once we realized we could trust and rely on each other, that new found sense of security unhinged something in every single one of us. We gave each other the strength to face demons few of us had the courage to admit were even there before we mad met. There was a veritable spring cleaning of all the skeletons we had previously kept in our own closets. We divulged all our dirty little secrets, greatest weaknesses and vulnerabilities, cried over the battles we fought with ourselves and our families, told stories we had always feared would scare people off or make them want to run away. When we saw no one was going anywhere, passing judgment, or using any of it against anyone else, we became a strong impenetrable unit.
I think we were so insulated by our unencumbered acceptance of each other, that we grew to be even more blissfully ignorant to the reality than your average college students. We formed a safety net so tightly woven, that we were dangerously unafraid to fall as long as we lived together. We indulged each other over and over and supported every bad decision – or at least made excuses for the worst of them. It was phenomenal really – this group of intelligent, strong, opinionated and very stubborn women threw all rationality and reason to the wind in the interest of offering a kind of support that, for a long time, I feared I would never experience again. I realize now that it was that profound acceptance and blind loyalty to each other that made our transitions into adulthood and true independence that much more difficult. We afforded each other the luxury of living in our own world for over 4 years, rarely did anything but stand by each other, laugh and have the time of our lives.
I never realized what a double edged sword that was until a recent reunion in Boston. We ended a long weekend of 18 year old partying and 40 year old hangovers on the couch with photographs, scrap books and stories scattered across our laps and falling in between our legs and the couch cushions. Everything has moved so rapidly in the years since that wonderfully chaotic and comedic stage in our lives, I had forgotten exactly how nuts I had been. As I flipped through pages covered in vulgar but hysterical quotes and pictures I hope are never seen by outsiders, familiar tears of laughter rolled down my cheeks and that recognizable ache curled around my ribs from the constant contractions that come with uncontrollable laughter. I turned to the girls and said, “Wow. Why didn’t any of you tell me that NONE of this was ok?”
They all looked at me a little confused and didn’t even bother to respond to my question. I should have known that in those days, any honesty which might have mildly resembled criticism or judgment (regardless of how founded) simply wasn’t in the repertoire.
At first glance, our individual backgrounds, family lives, interests and personalities in general indicated that we were more likely to become enemies than best friends. But the chemistry we shared from the moment we all laughed together over cheap alcohol and cold pizza was uncanny. We were 7 wildly different people from towns throughout the Northeast that although not far from each other, were most certainly worlds apart. With Greek, Italian, Irish, French, Portuguese, Scottish, and Austrian coursing through our veins; we could not have looked and sounded more unalike. We came to college from private schools, public schools and catholic schools and grew up wealthy, poor and everything in between. Despite our differences, or perhaps because of them, we grew to be the closest of confidants and most reliable partners in crime thanks to a never-ending supply of embarrassment, countless shame-filled mornings and enough alcohol to drown a small village.
To this day, I have a difficult time putting my finger on exactly what it was that led us to open our hearts and minds enough to get the ball rolling. How did 7 kids that may not have even spoken to each other in high school end up being the kind of friends that screw you later in life by setting impossible standards? Was it because we shared those pivotal moments in which we thought we were going to be arrested, evicted, or fired? Or was it because we were always there when one of us thought her heart was broken for good?
Whatever led us down that path, we ended up better off for traveling it. Once we realized we could trust and rely on each other, that new found sense of security unhinged something in every single one of us. We gave each other the strength to face demons few of us had the courage to admit were even there before we mad met. There was a veritable spring cleaning of all the skeletons we had previously kept in our own closets. We divulged all our dirty little secrets, greatest weaknesses and vulnerabilities, cried over the battles we fought with ourselves and our families, told stories we had always feared would scare people off or make them want to run away. When we saw no one was going anywhere, passing judgment, or using any of it against anyone else, we became a strong impenetrable unit.
I think we were so insulated by our unencumbered acceptance of each other, that we grew to be even more blissfully ignorant to the reality than your average college students. We formed a safety net so tightly woven, that we were dangerously unafraid to fall as long as we lived together. We indulged each other over and over and supported every bad decision – or at least made excuses for the worst of them. It was phenomenal really – this group of intelligent, strong, opinionated and very stubborn women threw all rationality and reason to the wind in the interest of offering a kind of support that, for a long time, I feared I would never experience again. I realize now that it was that profound acceptance and blind loyalty to each other that made our transitions into adulthood and true independence that much more difficult. We afforded each other the luxury of living in our own world for over 4 years, rarely did anything but stand by each other, laugh and have the time of our lives.
I never realized what a double edged sword that was until a recent reunion in Boston. We ended a long weekend of 18 year old partying and 40 year old hangovers on the couch with photographs, scrap books and stories scattered across our laps and falling in between our legs and the couch cushions. Everything has moved so rapidly in the years since that wonderfully chaotic and comedic stage in our lives, I had forgotten exactly how nuts I had been. As I flipped through pages covered in vulgar but hysterical quotes and pictures I hope are never seen by outsiders, familiar tears of laughter rolled down my cheeks and that recognizable ache curled around my ribs from the constant contractions that come with uncontrollable laughter. I turned to the girls and said, “Wow. Why didn’t any of you tell me that NONE of this was ok?”
They all looked at me a little confused and didn’t even bother to respond to my question. I should have known that in those days, any honesty which might have mildly resembled criticism or judgment (regardless of how founded) simply wasn’t in the repertoire.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
"Do you suffer from inadequate eyelashes?"
One evening a few months ago, I was cooking an egg-white omelet at home and had the television on in the background. The faint sound of a recognizable female voice went virtually unnoticed-until Brooke Shield’s seemingly ageless face appeared on the screen. She was dressed in a crisp, plain white ensemble and surrounded by unremarkable looking (but very happy!) people in a stark, modern minimalist room. The general lack of visual stimulus in the background forced my eyes and attention to the only source of color on the television: Brooke’s face. I thought to myself “God, she looks good even with imperfection-magnifying HD technology!” And then she opened her mouth.
In a tone which I’m sure was meant to sound concerned but came off rather condescending, Brooke asked, “Do you suffer from inadequate eyelashes?” I shook my head and thought, “Bitch! Are you serious!?”
I stood there, arms crossed, spatula in hand, and listened as Brooke shared all the details of this purported effective solution, sure to end all suffering over traumatic eyelash inadequacy issues with only a few freakish side effects. All I could think was, “That’s dirty. Its just so dirty. They’re going for the eyelashes now!?”
Its commercials like these, (admittedly in conjunction with other sources of scrutiny, many of which I endorse by purchasing – i.e. rag mags, or watching – i.e. 90210,) these blatant manipulations of our physical insecurities, that have forced me to at one time or another to examine and criticize my cellulite, tummy rolls, formerly (as in at 11 years old) perky breasts, double chin, back of the arm flab, funny shaped little butt, acne, huge earlobes, drumstick-shaped oh my god they’re chafing in the summer heat thighs, facial peach fuzz (a new treat,) uneven skin tone, thinning hair (on my head,) premature age spots, sun spots, freckles, spill over the bra even when you’re reaching for something on the very top shelf back fat, liver lips, excess tissue on the end of my nose, overlapping two front teeth, yellowing of the teeth, shifting of the formerly straight teeth, love handles, wrinkles, knee fat, excessive skin/tissue in the arm crease and Buddha belly.
These lovely commercials and print ads are major ingredients in what must be a completely irresistible recipe for self-loathing, because women (including myself) just keep on mixing up big old batches of it. Start with one cup of "is there something wrong with my/face/body/eyelashes?" add a drop or two of any useless beauty product, throw in the pre-requisite conviction, "I know THIS will be just the thing to make me feel better about myself!" bake at 350 for a few weeks and you still end up with a batch of "something still isn't quite right."
Do you know why? Because we spend money most of us don’t have, time none of us have and energy we should be using for other things looking in the wrong place for self-assurance, confidence and a positive self-image. I know now that I won’t feel better about myself, (or any closer to looking like a younger Brooke for that matter,) if I do ask my eye doctor for some of that magical eyelash serum. I might not be 100% at peace with every inch of my body yet (or even close,) but at least I’ve learned I have a better chance at finding that peace inside myself than I do in a closet full of overpriced beauty products.
I went back to my eggs and thought, “Step off my eyelashes Brooke. I don’t care how long and fluffy yours look, you’re not convincing me that ANYTHING ELSE on this body is ‘inadequate’. And besides, I have to pay my colorist $160 tomorrow to cover up the dark roots tainting my fake blond ‘do.’ Oh and I need a new $540 Bar Method class pack this week. And a new tube of Roche-de-Posay. But those things are totally different.”
In a tone which I’m sure was meant to sound concerned but came off rather condescending, Brooke asked, “Do you suffer from inadequate eyelashes?” I shook my head and thought, “Bitch! Are you serious!?”
I stood there, arms crossed, spatula in hand, and listened as Brooke shared all the details of this purported effective solution, sure to end all suffering over traumatic eyelash inadequacy issues with only a few freakish side effects. All I could think was, “That’s dirty. Its just so dirty. They’re going for the eyelashes now!?”
Its commercials like these, (admittedly in conjunction with other sources of scrutiny, many of which I endorse by purchasing – i.e. rag mags, or watching – i.e. 90210,) these blatant manipulations of our physical insecurities, that have forced me to at one time or another to examine and criticize my cellulite, tummy rolls, formerly (as in at 11 years old) perky breasts, double chin, back of the arm flab, funny shaped little butt, acne, huge earlobes, drumstick-shaped oh my god they’re chafing in the summer heat thighs, facial peach fuzz (a new treat,) uneven skin tone, thinning hair (on my head,) premature age spots, sun spots, freckles, spill over the bra even when you’re reaching for something on the very top shelf back fat, liver lips, excess tissue on the end of my nose, overlapping two front teeth, yellowing of the teeth, shifting of the formerly straight teeth, love handles, wrinkles, knee fat, excessive skin/tissue in the arm crease and Buddha belly.
These lovely commercials and print ads are major ingredients in what must be a completely irresistible recipe for self-loathing, because women (including myself) just keep on mixing up big old batches of it. Start with one cup of "is there something wrong with my/face/body/eyelashes?" add a drop or two of any useless beauty product, throw in the pre-requisite conviction, "I know THIS will be just the thing to make me feel better about myself!" bake at 350 for a few weeks and you still end up with a batch of "something still isn't quite right."
Do you know why? Because we spend money most of us don’t have, time none of us have and energy we should be using for other things looking in the wrong place for self-assurance, confidence and a positive self-image. I know now that I won’t feel better about myself, (or any closer to looking like a younger Brooke for that matter,) if I do ask my eye doctor for some of that magical eyelash serum. I might not be 100% at peace with every inch of my body yet (or even close,) but at least I’ve learned I have a better chance at finding that peace inside myself than I do in a closet full of overpriced beauty products.
I went back to my eggs and thought, “Step off my eyelashes Brooke. I don’t care how long and fluffy yours look, you’re not convincing me that ANYTHING ELSE on this body is ‘inadequate’. And besides, I have to pay my colorist $160 tomorrow to cover up the dark roots tainting my fake blond ‘do.’ Oh and I need a new $540 Bar Method class pack this week. And a new tube of Roche-de-Posay. But those things are totally different.”
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Television, magazines, books, our own mothers and grandmothers have always led us to believe that our 20’s are the years to look forward to and the years we will most fondly remember. We grow up with the idea that on our 20th birthdays we will be given a lounge chair next to the fountain of youth, upon which we’ll sip brightly colored cocktails in our spare time, tiny designer bikinis stretched across our impossibly tight bodies, surrounded by our fabulous, beautiful friends. Oh I couldn’t wait to start dancing my way through clubs and bars in ridiculously high red-soled stilettos. It was my time to weave through crowds of gorgeous men at parties where the walls eternally vibrated with laughter and the chords of my favorite songs.
Well, I went to sleep on my 19th birthday with all my fingers and toes crossed and the only things I woke up with were a spare 20 pounds and a penchant for binge drinking. Much like my early teen years, my 20’s have been full of as many breakouts as breakthroughs, as much crying as laughter and many more embarrassed moments than comfortable ones. I have spent much more time asking my girlfriends why no one ever told us about “your second puberty,” than I have sipping cocktails near any kind of fountain. Every other day I find myself discovering a new uncomfortable facet of womanhood and I wonder why they don’t write about any of them in women’s magazines. As I near the end of this confusing, frustrating and very overwhelming decade I realize more and more that our 20’s are nothing but a rollercoaster ride - and I think I would have at least held down my lunch had I known what was coming.
We live in a time when expectations are higher than ever (as are hemlines,) the standards we set for our own happiness are lower (as is our self esteem,) and we’re supposed to pretend that gracefully balancing a career, relationships, children, a tri-athletes fitness regime and a raw-food diet is easy. We’re only ever told about the moments of excitement and anticipation- the parts of the rollercoaster where you feel weightless and on top of the world. Everything we’ve previously turned to for guidance fails to prepare us for those moments on the rollercoaster when you feel inside out and out of control. We find ourselves overwhelmed and exhausted - as if we must have done something wrong or perhaps gotten on the wrong ride at the wrong carnival. We end up at war with ourselves and each other, feeling blind-sided, unarmed and over-exposed. And why wouldn’t we? Nobody wants to ride a rollercoaster blind-folded and naked without so much as a protective harness or padded metal bar!
At the tail end of a decade full of ups and downs, I’ve started to wonder if the motion sickness would have been eased had television and movies been a even a tiny bit realistic, or had the women in my life used a little more candor. After all the roads I’ve traveled alone, all the nights I’ve spent awake wishing someone would tell me what I’m supposed to do next, I can’t help but think that maybe the answers are somewhere in the stories we’ve been too afraid to tell each other for too long. I can’t help but think that if we are more honest with each other about stumbling through the wrongs, we all might start to feel right again.
And so my blog is born…
Well, I went to sleep on my 19th birthday with all my fingers and toes crossed and the only things I woke up with were a spare 20 pounds and a penchant for binge drinking. Much like my early teen years, my 20’s have been full of as many breakouts as breakthroughs, as much crying as laughter and many more embarrassed moments than comfortable ones. I have spent much more time asking my girlfriends why no one ever told us about “your second puberty,” than I have sipping cocktails near any kind of fountain. Every other day I find myself discovering a new uncomfortable facet of womanhood and I wonder why they don’t write about any of them in women’s magazines. As I near the end of this confusing, frustrating and very overwhelming decade I realize more and more that our 20’s are nothing but a rollercoaster ride - and I think I would have at least held down my lunch had I known what was coming.
We live in a time when expectations are higher than ever (as are hemlines,) the standards we set for our own happiness are lower (as is our self esteem,) and we’re supposed to pretend that gracefully balancing a career, relationships, children, a tri-athletes fitness regime and a raw-food diet is easy. We’re only ever told about the moments of excitement and anticipation- the parts of the rollercoaster where you feel weightless and on top of the world. Everything we’ve previously turned to for guidance fails to prepare us for those moments on the rollercoaster when you feel inside out and out of control. We find ourselves overwhelmed and exhausted - as if we must have done something wrong or perhaps gotten on the wrong ride at the wrong carnival. We end up at war with ourselves and each other, feeling blind-sided, unarmed and over-exposed. And why wouldn’t we? Nobody wants to ride a rollercoaster blind-folded and naked without so much as a protective harness or padded metal bar!
At the tail end of a decade full of ups and downs, I’ve started to wonder if the motion sickness would have been eased had television and movies been a even a tiny bit realistic, or had the women in my life used a little more candor. After all the roads I’ve traveled alone, all the nights I’ve spent awake wishing someone would tell me what I’m supposed to do next, I can’t help but think that maybe the answers are somewhere in the stories we’ve been too afraid to tell each other for too long. I can’t help but think that if we are more honest with each other about stumbling through the wrongs, we all might start to feel right again.
And so my blog is born…
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