Big Girls Don't Cry

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This past weekend I went out to a karaoke bar with friends. I had some delicious beverages, and observed complete strangers make a mockery of themselves. After a couple brief hours, I called it a night in favor of my bed and a good night's rest before an early morning. While waiting in line to close out my tab, a rather inebriated young gentlemen wandered aimlessly in my direction. He stopped in front of me, and gaped.

"Are you even old enough to be here?" he inquired with genuine concern in his voice.

Though I assured him that I had been "old enough" to be there for the better part of a decade, the man remained suspicious.

"You look like you're 12!" he argued with me.
"I'm not," I responded abruptly, but he persisted. He went on and on about his misperception of my age. I simply stood there speechless, staring daggers at him, until a nearby friend came over.
"You are not making friends right now," she said. "You need to say something nice, and leave."
"It's just that you look..."
"Think about it," I urged him.
"...like you have a wonderful smile."
"Nice job turning it around," I affirmed. "You should probably go now."

With that he was gone, but his words still linger in my brain.

For the most part, I have pretty thick skin. However, those who know me well, know that being older than I look is one of my truly sensitive areas. And it gets picked on quite frequently. In the past year, I have been called pet names, offered children's menus, had solicitors ask if my mom is home, and had the validity of my ID questioned on numerous occasions. People hear me talk about school and want to know what grade I'm in or what college I'll be attending. In the past, my adolescent clients have asked if I was a teacher or a student, and my child clients have told me I look more like a kid than an adult. The general population seems to struggle with categorizing my appearance, and they all feel the need to share that difficulty with me.

I wish I were tougher. I wish these observations didn't get to me as much as they do. I want to be able to confidently stand up to the world and say, "so I'm short and I've got a mad case of the baby face. No need to make a formal report. It's not like this is news to me. I do own a mirror." Sometimes I even try this, but I lack the most key component: confidence.

I act all resilient and talk a big game about it not bothering me, but the truth is that this infuriates me. See, I believe that life is a long journey of self discovery and growth. I write about growing up so often, because I think that's what we're all trying to do. Myself included.

I'm trying so hard to grow up, to become the mature, poised, and competent woman I know I can be. I'm desperately seeking opportunities to prove professionally, socially, and personally that I am an adult. I constantly feel like I'm ready to start my life. I want a career. I want love. I want a family. I want to move on from adolescent angst and finally feel comfortable in my own skin.

Though well-intended, all of the jokes, comments, and assurances that "one day I'll like it," seem to be forming a barricade in my own development process. When others see me as juvenile, it stunts my personal growth. Even if only for a moment, I loose any progress I've made in life in a regression back to my early insecurities.

I mean, I get it. I look young. But, I can't do anything about my appearance. My hands are tied behind my back on that. All I can do is recite my birth date repeatedly, and hope that one day someone will believe me.

Tabulation of Terror

Fears are a normal part of growing up. We all had those panic inducing phobias that sent us crying for our mommies and daddies.  For many of us it was the monsters under the bed and in the closet. For others it was the ghost in the wall that sounded a lot like your big brother. Whatever they were, they made grown-ups giggle and smirk as they assured us that the world was not as ghastly as we thought.  Though we doubted adult assertions of safety, we eventually overcame these terrifying beliefs. One by one those monsters got smaller, and eventually moved out of our rooms...except when they didn't. 

Here's a list of irrational fears I have that carried over from my childhood.

Mirrors in the dark
Don't act like you don't understand this one. We all played Bloody Mary, and it was terrifying. Problem is, I took it to the extreme. In my mind, that chick wasn't waiting around for the triple utterance of her name, she was just going to appear Hogwarts-style, any old time she felt like it. Still might! That thought freaks me out to this day. Seriously, I may be the only adult woman in the country who, when faced with entering a dark bathroom, will close her eyes and blindly grope along the wall until I hear the light switch click. I'm just not ready to die that way y'all.

Toilets - Pardon the pun, but this shit is scary 

Just like everyone else, I spent the first few years of life not having to deal with my own crap. It was glorious. I simply did my business and someone always cleaned it up. Then suddenly that was over, and I was forced to suspend myself over a cold bowl full of water that roared when I was done. Sure, that could have been the sound of a flush, but it was probably more likely a flesh-eating monster angry about his missed meal. Maybe that sounds crazy, but consider all those stories about rabies-infested rats living in the sewers, climbing up pipes, and biting people on the butt. Now you want me to yank my pants down and sit on that thing?! Suddenly, constipation doesn't sound so bad does it?

Don't trust that smile.

Ernest P. Worrell
Some said his idiocy was amusing, but, I see who he really is. This mastermind unleashed an army of child-stealing trolls on helpless townsfolk! So, of course he petrified me. The trolls looked like the thing I imagined devouring me from within the toilet after I escaped Blood Mary's resurrection. Though my friends loved him, I would leave the minute anyone even mentioned this unnerving simpleton. As with any avoided fear, I never really got over it. Even still, the mere thought of him makes my spine curl. I mean, look at him. He's petrifying!




Rats/Mice
In my youth, a friend forced me to hold Speedy, her pet rat. I stood stupefied as his beady eyes pierced mine. His tiny razor claws scratched my sweaty palms. Then, he deliberately whacked my arm with his thorny worm-like tail. Naturally, I screamed and released my grasp. I had to protect myself from such a vicious threat. Oddly, my friend didn't understand my reaction to this onslaught, and she spent the rest of the day berating me for it. Ever since, I've been convinced that all rats are demon-spawn. I still make Homeric expeditions around pet stories to avoid the rodent section. Go ahead and say this is irrational if you want, but I say you're irrational. They crawl out of toilets and chomp peoples' junk for god's sake! That's clearly evidence of their evil. 

Whining

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Though I do not do it often, I think there is something to be said for a plaintive cry and a grumbling stomp or two. After all, there's a reason that kids do it.

Children have many tasks to achieve as they grow and develop. They need to absorb their cultural expectations, acquire the appropriate languages, and learn the rules of social interactions. They need to simultaneously figure out who they are and begin to understand the world as they perceive it. It's not easy work, and it results in a lot of struggles and setbacks.

As many of us have observed, these disappointments frequently result in outbursts. Kids get upset. They become distressed with other people, their circumstances, and themselves. When this happens, it interrupts the learning process. Being agitated fogs up the mind; making it difficult to process surrounding information. For this reason, one of the principle tasks of growing up is learning to calm oneself. Initially, when kids self-soothe it's not so pretty. Sometimes they tantrum, but often they whine. And why do they whine? Because it helps.

No. Whining doesn't solve problems. It's irritating and hard to listen to. Frankly, it's an annoying behavior that repels most people, but the whining isn't really for other people is it? It's a personal expression that serves the whiner more than anyone else.

Obviously, whining communicates. It tells those around them when a child is frustrated, overwhelmed, or discouraged. It places a sound to a feeling they have yet to identify, and allows them to begin expressing their concerns. But, it's so much more than that.

Whining is cathartic. It's a release of negative emotions that, if held in, would make the difficult work of children even harder. It gives them a chance to let go of disappointments in a physically tangible way. This is important, because once they let go of their unpleasant reactions kids can finally begin to move on.

As we grow up, we learn better, more mature mechanisms for deescalating and pacifying ourselves. The majority of us completely eradicate tantrums from our behavioral repertoire. We start to see whining for it's unpleasantness, and make every effort to rise above this innate reactivity. On the whole, that's a positive example of adaptation. However, it is notable that very few of us are able to cease whining entirely. Personally, I think this is because whining continues to serve an unidentified purpose. I try and acknowledge that whenever possible, and sporadically practice controlled whining as a tool for coping.

Misunderstandings

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I had some rather comical misunderstandings about the world as a child. These moments ranged from private fears I was too worried to ask about, to embarrassingly public declarations of misinterpretations I was confident were true. As I grew older and began to navigate the world in a semi-independent manner, I had a lot of these. Elementary school in particular was rather rough for me.

For instance, I remember being secretly terrified that my father was serious when he warned me that eating handfuls of dried oatmeal would cause an undigestable pit in my gut that I'd need surgery to remove. I mean, the man was a doctor! Who was I to question this logic? Of course it was frightening. Especially when you consider that he always told me surgery should be avoided at all costs. My slightly portly belly was obviously proof that I had been snacking on potential death.

Another time I was playing in our basement (a dream for any hoarder of the medical supply and sporting enthusiast type), and I stumbled upon my brother's athletic cup.
    Yup. I thought it was a breathing apparatus. Naturally, I began to play with it. This isn't so strange when you think about it. I was welcome to play with most of the other medical supplies. I couldn't tell you how many times I used a stethoscope or made balloon animals out of medical gloves as a child.
    So, there I was, running around with my yucky brother's crotch protection on my face pretending it was a mask. I discovered it's real purpose when I ran up to my brother and, in a breathy voice, declared myself to be his father. I thought I was so clever. Being a typical teasing brother, he ridiculed me extensively. Imagine a recently amputated Anakin Skywalker's expression, and you've got my reaction.

Perhaps my most distressing blunder was the insolated blanket confusion. While preparing one of those yearly survival kits for school with my mother, I started giggling at the idea of an upset blanket. "What's an insulted blanket?" I asked with mixed humor and confusion. Oh boy! That was the wrong question to ask in this particular crowd. See, in my family you don't get to just skate by with a question like that going unnoticed. We are a sarcastic bunch, and we show affection through mockery. So, let me just say: I got a lot of love that night. .

At the time, these experiences were all stressful. The associated embarrassment is no doubt the foundation of my neurotic ways. Luckily though I'm human, and I have the inherent ability to grow and move past this shaming history of hilarity. My current vantage point affords me the ability to fondly look upon these memories as my own battle scars of a normal development process.

See, being a kid is sort of like starting a new job. There you are, in a new environment trying to learn what you are supposed to do and how to do it all. Acutely aware of your lack of knowledge about this place, you feel free to ask more questions than those around you. However, at times you are forced to take a leap and guess. Sometimes you're right and your supervisors are impressed, but frequently you are wrong. You may occasionally receive the somewhat condescending chuckle of someone who knows all to well what you're going through, but mostly people cut you some slack. You are, after all, new here.

I Must Not Tell Lies

I don't believe in good and bad.

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There is goodness and badness, but I don't believe the two qualities exist in vacuums independent from one another. I think that is too black and white for this confusing world of grey. It seems fairly obvious to me that the two are interconnected. So many of the bad behaviors in this world are informed by good things.

Traits like conviction, passion, strength, and love are widely believed to be positive attributes. However these qualities, and others like them, can takeover a person's whole world. They can become powerful enough to influence terrible actions.

Many people find it easy to holistically declare a person malevolent based on what they have done, but for me it's not so simple. I see people for their morals, values, and conduct. I'm hesitant to speak to the motives of another when they have not been explicitly shared with me, and I'm skeptical about the existence of pure evil in this world.

Falling

Image from Batman Begins. Found here

I'm supposed to write a blog today. It's Monday. That means I have to muse, but it's just not happening. While I have numerous musings knocking around in my noggin, none of them are coherent enough to share. I have tried to force some eloquent bit of wonder out for all of you to read, but I'm struck at the fried blankness that is my overstressed mind.

It's been the kind of perspective-commanding rough day that puts my recent "bad days" to shame. Today I was reminded that I have no real experience with suffering. It's a balanced world, and my lack of suffering implies that others have no experience with safety, security, or success. Additionally, I learned that sometimes, there's nothing that can be done for these people. Sometimes limits must be set and lines must be drawn. The high volume of compassion that pours out of my bleeding heart made that last lesson exceptionally hard to swallow, and I suspect it will continue throughout my career.

Frankly, I was rather dumbstruck by both of these lessons when I sat down to produce my Monday Musings this evening. I wasn't sure what to make of these recent experiences, and I couldn't focus on writing a profound or entertaining essay. That is, until my wild little kitten had one of her eccentric adventures.

While she is relatively new to my life, I have already grown accustomed to her sudden bursts of energy and cacophonous surprises. So, when a clutter of clanking noises came from the blinds to my right, I barely even reacted. Slowly, I paused my blank stare and unproductive editing to investigate. This is when I found the curious cat bridging the gap between my propped-up bike and the window sill it leaned against. Closed blinds were no barrier for this daredevil. She awkwardly pushed her way through the metal slates, and then set forth on a rock-climbing-like expedition up the window screen. Nearly two feet up from the base, she dangled helplessly and cried out with a desperate tone.

"Should I go help her?" I thought to myself. I carefully surveyed the situation. Though she was likely to fall, she probably wouldn't drop far and her odds of injury were minimal (if they existed at all). So, I watched patiently to see how she was going to handle this predicament.

Sure enough, she couldn't hang on long. My little feline friend dropped down to the window sill, and subsequently slipped off the ledge. Luckily, she was able to exercise her cat reflexes, and caught the pane at the last minute. As she managed to pull herself back up to her precarious perch, I reminded myself of something I frequently remind others.

That's how they learn.

With that, I remembered that you can't help everybody all the time. Sometimes this is because you lack sufficient time, resources, or energy to give the support you want. Other times, people aren't ready to get your help. They may think they are ready and willing to change. However,  numerous signs that you just aren't reaching them will make you think otherwise. This is when it is important to remember that a little failure can be a good thing. It's not pleasant, but sometimes people have to fall before they can get themselves back up.

So, thank you Schrödinger the kitten for giving me some much needed perspective.

Inquisitive little kitten dismounted by balancing on my top-tube.

Broken Moments

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Like most girls, I experimented with "dating" during my early adolescence. I called boys on the phone, sat next to them in the cafeteria, visited them at their houses, and even let a few lucky ones kiss me on my front porch. Together we ignorantly applied boyfriend/girlfriend labels to explain our hallway hand-holding, and we escorted one another to coed spirit dances.

In my mind, this was all very serious. I believed I cared deeply for each of these boys. I was sure every one of them was The One. When these infantile romances fizzled out I was convinced it was a travesty.

Looking back, this reaction amuses me. My responses seem so silly and forced now. I was merely acting something I had expected. I had formed an archetype for romantic relationships and shoved whatever cutie I could into the heartthrob role. Together we'd put on a play about union and happily ever after. Then we would call it quits when we tired of that particular script. I'd end the whole show like a proper tragedy; acting distraught over love lost. I'd belly ache about my broken heart (even penning a few stanzas).

On the surface I'd seem melancholy, but deep inside I knew I was fine. I was aware that nothing had really changed. I was who I always had been. It was safe to behave this way because I hadn't truly lost anything.

Then, during my later teens, I stopped playing at relationships, and started actually having them. At 15, my first real boyfriend came along. My first real break-up followed a year later. I remember it distinctly because the sensation was more vivid than any other split I'd experienced.

The weather was moderate that winter afternoon. So, he had invited me for a walk. We strolled in silence for some time. As the tension built, I became aware that something had shifted. When he began "the talk," my nerves danced and my stomach dropped.

I can't remember if he initiated the final blow, or if I identified it as the thus unstated option. Regardless of the build up, I was startled when the words were finally released. In that brief moment, with that small and quickly stated sentence, something changed between us. In one single instance, my perception was completely altered. Though still side-by side and rubbing shoulders as we walked, we were no longer an us. It was over. He knew it, and I knew it. Our bond had broken, and the air we now breathed seemed somehow different.

All of my break-ups since have had a similar moment in which, no matter who instigated it, the end instantly fell upon us like that. Each time I'm amazed by the power of these moments. It still baffles me how just a few puffs of air can alter your whole world view. One look, a tilt of the head, or even a slight tone can put something out there that instantly forces a new reality without physically changing anything.

Asocial Networks

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Today, while riding the train home, I watched a teenage couple flirt with one another. Without touching, they sat next to each other red-faced and enthusiastic about their conversation. A distinct inch of space was visible at all times between their oddly stationary bodies as they giggled about the latest gossip. Their innocence was refreshing amidst a crowded car full of an exhausted workforce, and listening to their conversations made me smile with reminiscence.

However, when I turned to observe what they were discussing, I realized neither one was making eye contact with the other. Their bodies were hunched and kyphotic while their blank gazes stared at screens in their palms.

Upon further investigation, I realized that their conversation was entirely centered around a cyber world. The duo discussed dynamics between virtual friends and situations that had taken place online without any physical interface. As they began to narrow the conversation to their own lives, the discussion revolved around what kinds of things were "too stupid to post" and who each should "follow" or "retweet."

From my vantage point, any relating here was minimal. Neither could see the mutual attraction that was evident in their blushing cheek, and any awareness of the tension that pulsated in that one inch electric field between them went unacknowledged. They were missing the whole experience.

The whole thing reminded me of a similar duo I had observed just days before. I had gone to the theater with my mother and sister, and was fortunate enough to watch a powerfully evocative piece of musical theater. The first act moved me to tears, and the break left the three of us craving more. However, not everyone felt the need to share their thoughts and reactions during the intermission.

The older couple seated directly in front of us, spent the entirety of the intermission on their phones, both logged into the same social networking site. Any sharing they did do, went in the form of leaning over and pointing at their own device. Like the first duo, this couple exhibited a complete lack of eye-contact and minimal physical acknowledgment of the other.

I'm seeing this more and more. Morning and evening commuters blankly stare at their phones each day as they wait for the train to hit their stop. Café patrons pull up screens as they drink, dividing their tables into private cubicles for social networking. Even red lights induce text-writing and tweet checking. This technologically advancing world is quickly pulling us away from one another.

Frankly, I find it depressing. I miss the days when families sat around the dinner table discussing their days without plugging into a device. I miss those awkward moments that cause us such stress when we accidentally make eye-contact with a stranger on the train. Mostly, I miss being truly bored.

We're forgetting what it's like to just sit without feeling the need to check in with our entire social circle. We're losing the ability to gain information from another person without immediately searching for the source. We are missing the real world as it passes us by.

The Neglected Stage of Change

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Regardless of how you feel about it, change is an inherent part of life on this planet. It's a constantly revolving world with an ever present need for mutations and adaptations. Nothing ever is for very long.

Because of the continuous nature of change, people have a tendency to be looking forward. We've got our eyes peeled for the next shift in our circumstances. We are continually planning our responses to an endless array of future scenarios.

Those who dislike change are no different. They seem to cling to the past as they fixate on how things used to be and struggle to accept that their previous lives will never fully return. In reality, they are like everyone else with their eyes focused on the horizon; still waiting for the next change to come even if it's simply to restore the life they had grown fond of.

These forward thinking tendencies are adaptable traits. They enable us to prepare for the future and adjust quickly when it arrives. Our future-oriented minds jump immediately to solutions, requirements, and necessary actions. They help us take care of what needs to get done. Although, all this focus on what will come, and how to respond results in some neglect.

Perhaps the most forgotten aspect of change is the grief component. We so rarely remember that change, whether exciting or dreadful, requires loss. In this constantly changing world, we have adapted to quickly move past our losses and adjust to the shifts of life. In doing so, we avoid acknowledgment of our feelings, and bar ourselves from mourning that which seems unworthy.

Avoidance is understandable. Grief is unpleasant.  Fixing things is a solution-focused coping mechanism that works most of the time.  However, when something is different, it means that something is gone. That thing generally won't return, and if it does it will never be like we knew it before. For this reason it's important that we allow ourselves time, even if just briefly, to mourn what has past before jumping to what will come.

After all, the one thing you can always count on is that things will change.

Rising Above It

This past week I experienced  the worst customer service and business transaction of my life. After a week of red flags, ambiguous responses, and unreturned phone calls, I repeatedly gave this small business the benefit of the doubt. 

Ultimately they failed to follow through with their commitments. They did not arrive to help me move. Then they suddenly stopped answering my calls. Understandably, I flew into problem-solving mode. I tried to contact them repeatedly to no avail. Finally, they responded to my attempts to call from an unrecognized number. I informed them that their business practice was unacceptable. At this point, the employee began to yell at me for not being an understanding person, and attempted to explain how things sometimes don't go as planned.

Although I was strongly compelled to match this person's volume and emotionality, I resisted the urge to explain my work history and the litany of evidence that directly contradicted the assumptions about my lack of patience and empathy. I calmly stuck to the facts at hand, and explained the recent events that led to my frustration. The individual, interrupted me, and escalated further. Feeling my own will to be rational begin to fade, I quietly stated "I am not going to argue with you about this. I've contacted the proper authorities, and I'm done now. Have a nice evening." I promptly hung up, and called a different company to assist me with my needs.

I spent the rest of the evening filing formal complaints with all of the involved agencies. I took special precautions not to let my emotional reaction infect my appeals. I composed, edited, and recomposed several letters that objectively listed the facts as they applied to the improper business conduct. I repeatedly read my letters aloud, and adjusted elements to insure that I came off as professional and competent.

Insuring that I remained mature and adult about this process aided in the alleviation of my distress only slightly. It did feel nice to know that I had not sunk to the irrational level of the individual I was speaking with. However, sitting amongst my uprooted possessions, I still had a highly unsettled feeling about what had occurred. Yes, I was happy that someone would be contacting this business about the impropriety of their service, but I was still somewhat uncool about the whole thing.

Then, while browsing the Better Business Bureau website to obtain information about the complaint process, I ran into a link for complimenting a company. That's when it hit me. Despite my resistance, all of this negativity had still infected me, my mood, and my actions. I had accidentally neglected to acknowledge the impeccable response I got from the gentlemen at an additional moving company. He registered no offense that I had not hired him first, and immediately offered to pick up the slack at very short notice. He provided me with assurance and understanding when I was distressed, and was even grateful that I called him at all. It was remarkable, and, once I acknowledged it, restored my faith in humanity. So, I clicked on that link, and spent just as much time composing one compliment for him as I did on all of my complaints for the other company. After hitting submit I noticed something incredible. I felt better. I felt lighter and reassured.

Now, I'm not publishing that whole story to remind everyone how great I am. I know there was a lot in there about how I stayed calm and collected. There was also a great deal of boasting about my mature response under pressure. All of that sounds like one giant disorienting pat on the back, but I assure you it's not. I provided those details to explain that, despite responding to the conflict in a sophisticated and composed manner, I still felt unease. While proud of my response, it still left me uncomfortable and feeling somehow responsible for my contributions. It was not until I stopped capitulating to the negativity that I finally gained the resolve to move past it.

Once again, this life lesson reminds me of something my parents told me often throughout my childhood. Whenever I became upset about some argument or unfair situation, they would tell me to "just rise above it." I had always translated that to not sinking to low levels, staying cool, and avoiding the pull to engage in anything akin to a fight. While I'm sure that has always been part of the advice, a bigger part of me thinks the lesson actually called for me to walk away from a bad situation and enter into a positive one.