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Every lady knows and loves and yearns for this guy. The One Who Got Away.
By definition, he’s not in my dah, but he’s been in my life for practically all of my 27 years.
We met – as it were – as toddlers in the mountains, where our families vacationed at the same rustic resort. There’s a photograph of five-year-old, platinum blond, chubby-faced me staring at him across a wildflower field. He had long, curly, silken dark hair and in the picture, he’s wearing a red t-shirt and looking back at me cooly, like a miniature rebel without a cause.
If you go up to the resort even now, there’s a piece of driftwood where we both wrote our names in magic marker, probably that same year. He’s a year older than I am, so his name is spelled correctly and mine has a backwards B and Y.
It wasn’t until much later that I consciously knew I was in love with him. I was 12-years-old, with knobby knees and ears that stuck out, but I was still a sun-kissed, freckled blonde and had happily evaded the awkward ‘awkward phase’ that had stricken most of my friends during this time. At home in the suburbs, I was making out against lockers and in his bunk-bed with Rob The Hockey Player, though refusing every day to ‘be his girlfriend.’ I had that compulsive desire for male attention (even adolescent, slightly be-pimpled male attention), but I knew I was saving up my “official” love life for someone truly epic.
That’s when I re-encountered him, The One Who Got Away, on vacation with my family in the mountains.
I knew everything was going to change when I turned thirty and got married in two consecutive days. But I figured there was no reason to space out these major life events. Bring it on, I told myself. Let’s see what the future holds.
Then nothing changed. My husband and I had been together for a year and a half, and we had moved into a new apartment in the months preceding our wedding. I had already phased out my dah of guys and adjusted to a warm and easy routine of contented coupledom. I’d also gone through a ‘process of strategic career adjustment’ (as I deemed it) and was finally embedded in a creative day-to-day of reading about medieval art and philosophy, attempting to write plays, screenplays and novels, and playing music on my piano, flute and guitar.
My world had changed without my noticing it. I realized, with some shock, that I had changed as well.
What had happened to the flitting, pugnacious, amorous and shameless twenty-something lady I had been? How had she disappeared, fading away even from my mind, absolutely, and without saying goodbye?
I became introspective. I had changed, but how and into what? Who had I become?
My favorite English teacher had always said, “people don’t change, they just become more themselves.” I felt this observation to be true. I had evolved, or returned, to a more authentic version of myself. But I was caught pondering: How did the disparate decades of my life cohere? What the heck had I been doing then and what the hell was I doing now?
Read the rest at 40:20 Vision, where a celebration of ‘thirty-somethings’ is underway!
photo credit: Aisha Singleton Photography
So I went to the doctor today, and I was dreading it for so many reasons. The first is, everyone knows doctors are scary. They’re like society’s acceptable bogeymen. They take your blood and judge your lifestyle. And this was my first time seeing this new doctor (thanks, Obamacare, for screwing with my insurance), and I was especially nervous. Thankfully, she was a doll.
But another secret reason that I was apprehensive about going to the doctor is that I know I’ve gained some weight, and I was afraid of being weighed. Yup, that’s something I’m ashamed to admit, but there you go. I told the nurse I didn’t want to know my weight, and she complied.
BUT THEN, I found out anyway, by mistake. I saw the number. And my heart sunk into my fat chest. This is the most I’ve ever weighed. It’s the highest that number has ever been. If it was a Donkey Kong score, I could be proud of that number. But it wasn’t. It was my weight.
Something weird is happening to me and my female friends — we’re unable to accept even the simplest little compliment. I don’t mean to sound like we’re getting complimented all day because we’re just oh-so-wonderful; I mean that when one of us is complimented, or if we compliment each other, we’re unable to just accept the compliment. It usually comes with some form of, “Oh, no, I look that crap today, but thank you” self insult.
Ladies, accept the compliment!
Sometimes I wonder, “how much stupid shit on the Internet can I be offended by, and am I overreacting?” So I present to you, this cartoon I found on lolTen and was immediately offended by. Described, “how to understand women better”, the cartoon depicts a woman in a button down shirt in various states of undress:
They included, “It is pretty much easy to find the relationship status of the girl that you are interested in. The neck position of a girl’s shirt will tell us what her relationship status is. Quite simple, isn’t it?”
Let me explain why I am offended. This cartoon boils women down to the basic principle that their body dictates their entire personality, wants, wishes, and life. Because according to this cartoon, it’s “simple”. According to this cartoon, “happily married” women never show cleavage. According to his cartoon, women are defined by their neckline.
I find this cartoon in poor taste. Am I overreacting?
You may be inclined to say yes; something like, “yes, it’s just a silly cartoon”, and you may even find it funny. But to me, it’s just one of thousands of ways that women are continuously being put down and objectified online. We are consistently and constantly being judged based on our bodies. We are consistently and constantly slapped with labels. We are consistently and constantly made to feel inferior or small based on our appearance.
This cartoon implies that good, married women never show cleavage, because showing cleavage is something only desperate single women do. Why should we feel bad about our bodies? It’s as if it’s suggesting we’re 1950′s housewives who button up and save our bodies for our husbands. It implies there’s something wrong with wearing a low cut shirt.
It’s possible a woman did this cartoon — I don’t know. The “source” offered on lolTen only linked to the image on a page hosted by “Goon Feed”, so I have no idea who did this drawing. If it was a woman, I’m dismayed.
Do you find this cartoon as offensive as I do?
Kim Kardashian gave an interview with CNN in which she proclaimed, “My mom kind of taught us girls we could have it all.”
She was responding to PepsiCo CEO Indra Nooyi’s remark, “I don’t think women can have it all. I just don’t think so. We pretend we have it all. We pretend we can have it all…Every day you have to make a decision about whether you are going to be a wife or a mother, in fact many times during the day you have to make those decisions…”. Miss Kardashian clearly believes the opposite, going on to say, of Nooyi’s statements, “I mean, I think that’s just not really, like, a positive outlook. … You know, [my mom] works hard. She taught us that if you work hard, it’s just all about prioritising.”
Sarah and Sara weren’t in a fight. They were best friends and had ruthlessly stuck by each other since middle school, when there had been three other Sarah’s and two other Sara’s in their grade. So they would never fight now, let alone “over a guy.” They were not in a fight over Mark.
But they could disagree about who had the right to email Mark first after he and Bev broke up.
As it turned out, they had both emailed him that morning, shortly after learning about the breakup via mass text from Aaron, who always knew the gossip. Aaron had suggested that the friend group rally to support Mark, because Bev had, in fact, been sleeping with her good-looking Russian co-worker, whom she had nicknamed Sergei the Great while swearing he was gay. Mark’s ongoing jealousy of Sergei had seemed so mean-spirited that everyone had interpreted it as insecure paranoia. They had all, over the course of many months and in group emails as well as one-on-one, persuaded Mark to “tone it down” and “trust Bev.”
Now they all felt guilty and complicit in her deceit. As if the glint in her eye every time she said “Sergei the Great” hadn’t been a dead giveaway.
Greetings, Council Members, members of the Junior Council, and Franky, the transmissions operator. I hope this transmission finds you all in a state of gelatinous comfort.
Thank you for this opportunity to share my secret alien observations about humans with you today. I understand the consequence of delivering insubstantial information will result in my being sent to Space Prison for the commencement of my shoplifting sentence regarding which I wholeheartedly maintain my innocence.
Eh-hem.
EARTH…. It’s blue, green, round, and chaotic. There are rocks and plants, and oceans, and kangaroos. It is a place where many strange and interesting things happen. There are a lot of creatures co-existing, with some creatures trying a lot harder than others. The human species in particular encapsulates a broad spectrum of different cultures, values, and personalities. A single human may feel the Angry, the Happy, and the Sad Emotions all within the same earth day. In fact, they are subject to so many thoughts and feelings it is no wonder they have trouble living in harmony with one another. They’re often not even in harmony with themselves.
I can now say with some authority that it’s not easy being a human. It’s not.
Council Members, it’s tricky business.
First of all there is a lot, and I mean A LOT, of shit you need to stay on top of.
I am an alien from outer space. I was banished here by the rulers of my home planet for a perceived misdeed, to observe life on earth while disguised as a human female. I am called L.
It all started a while back, when I got pinched for intergalactic shoplifting.
I was just minding my own business one day, doing a little light shopping, when out of nowhere The Intergalactic Criminal Police Organization, also known as Space INTERPOL, also known as SPINTERPOL, apprehended me and took me to Space Court. They were like, “She’s guilty!” and I was like, “No I’m not!” and they were like, “Yea you are, we have you on film at multiple Trader Yoda’s locations throughout the Local Cluster, your face is clearly visible in every instance, blah, blah, blah.”
Look, obviously I am innocent of these charges. Obviously, a being with my level of integrity would never do a thing like this. Obviously those surveillance videos were totally fraudulent because I was obviously framed.
But the jury didn’t see it that way. Instead of sending me to Space Prison, however, they decided to hand me over to the Council of Interdimensional Species Activity, so I could work off my alleged debt to society. That is how I came to be exiled on Earth. I was sentenced here to do research.
It’s hard being a space alien living inside of a person. There are still so many things I can’t get right! How not to act weird at funerals, for example. Remembering to send cards to people, for another. There are a ton of rules to keep track of: eat, sleep, brush teeth, obey social cues, avoid creepy eye contact! It’s taken me a long time to get used to how things work within the confines of society, and it’s hard to balance it all while trying to stay focused on my mission.
Every 10 Earth Years I am required to beam a transmission back home and report my findings to the ISA Council. The Council reviews my performance and determines the effectiveness of my research here. If the review is good, I get to stay and continue my work. If it’s bad, I get booted from the program, leave the Earth, and serve my full term in Space Prison, where I’ll no doubt face unspeakable horrors.
Unfortunately, my transmissions have a history of not going very smoothly.
Comedy duo Kat&Nat illustrate what it feels like to be the third wheel with absolutely no exaggerations. Absolutely none.
(Brilliant “hipster” rendition of myself, done by a close friend. But can I be defined by the limited accessory options available?)
Shopping, chocolate, gossip, self-deprecation. These are all major components to my life. So much so, in fact, that my boyfriend has taken to calling me a Cathy Comic. And, I don’t disagree. That bitch had it going on; SHE HAD HER OWN COMIC STRIP.
But apparently, I’m not just a Cathy. I’m also a Daria, whom I received as the result of my “Which 90’s Babe is Your Style Icon” Buzzfeed quiz. And, again, I don’t disagree. I’m totally a Daria. I even have a Jane, who coincidently ended up with Angela Chase as her 90’s babe.
But, I have to ask, is it possible to be both a Cathy and a Daria? They couldn’t be more different.
I think the answer is a resounding: YEEEEEEES!