Not the most fun, for me or anyone within the blast radius.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
9:30 on a Wendesday morning and this article has me sniffling at my desk. A Special Olympian responds to Ann Coulter's abhorrent use of a derogatory term with astonishing grace and compassion. It's the sign-off that gets me. After her display of ignorance and hate, this man still signs his letter, "A friend you haven’t made yet." That, friends, is the mark of a good person.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Maintenance, cont.
Taking up where the last post left off, another form of maintenance we can talk about is in appearance. As I said, I don't do a lot in terms of grooming. I'm not into makeup, or high-upkeep hair. I get a mani-pedi about once a year as a big splurge. My cuticles are the stuff of nightmares. Where I do put some time and effort is my clothing. I believe strongly that it does not take much (time, money, discomfort) to present myself in a way that makes me feel collected and confident. Not every day is a success, but I shoot for an over-50% success rate in not feeling like a total disaster.
And that is at the root of why I do put care into my appearance. "Appearance" is a fraught subject for people of all kinds, obviously, but in this case I'm writing about it as a young, white, feminist, biologically female and also self-identified as female. So what I will discuss here is my relationship with physical appearance coming from that place, which is the only place I can speak from with any authority. Having established that, I can move on to the actual point: there's really no winning in this arena.
I've always felt torn between wanting to be presentable and wanting to be valued for more than my looks. There is an assumption I've felt more than heard that a woman who is concerned with appearance is categorically vapid. On the other hand, there's the pervasive valuation of women based on physical and sexual merit that we see in every ad, magazine, novel, everywhere.
To be clear, I do not try to dress well because I want to be more attractive to men. I don't do it because I feel I'm only worthy if I assimilate. I don't do it because I want to be admired for my sense of style. There are all manner of terrible things you can have in your head when you're getting dressed every day, and I try not to listen to them.
I put in the effort because I view clothing as a way to construct an exterior identity. No matter what I'm feeling inside, I can use the things I put on my body to project what I'd maybe like to be feeling, or to help me feel differently. When I'm sick, or exhausted, I tend to dress up more because my clothes can make me feel excited, composed, and sometimes awake, even if I am none of those things. And I do believe that clothing tells people about us before we can open our mouths. For example, I think it's pretty clear from my wardrobe that I do not dress for the benefit of straight men. You'll not find me in many miniskirts, resplendent with cleavage. My ex, in fact, always used to say, "I like that you dress so modestly."
Nor am I a classic twinset-and-pearls, though. I am more likely to wear the twinset with this fantastic, gaudy, alligator broach I found at a flea market. Or to wear the pearls with mixed patterns and a hat. These choices reflect fundamental aspects of my personality. I am largely composed and polite, with a sense of humor and a streak of snark a mile wide. I'm interested in fashion, the arts, and other fine things, but can't stomach pretension. If you know what you're looking for, you can see all of this in what I'm wearing. Today, it's a Scottish wool scarf with a cable-knit cashmere sweater, slim-cut maroon pants with hot pink polka dots, and patent driving mocs the color of Kermit's face. It's all there, just a different way to read me. I don't think this is frivolous, nor do I think it's the only interesting thing about me. It's one more aspect of me, and one of the few things I can control.
And that is at the root of why I do put care into my appearance. "Appearance" is a fraught subject for people of all kinds, obviously, but in this case I'm writing about it as a young, white, feminist, biologically female and also self-identified as female. So what I will discuss here is my relationship with physical appearance coming from that place, which is the only place I can speak from with any authority. Having established that, I can move on to the actual point: there's really no winning in this arena.
I've always felt torn between wanting to be presentable and wanting to be valued for more than my looks. There is an assumption I've felt more than heard that a woman who is concerned with appearance is categorically vapid. On the other hand, there's the pervasive valuation of women based on physical and sexual merit that we see in every ad, magazine, novel, everywhere.
To be clear, I do not try to dress well because I want to be more attractive to men. I don't do it because I feel I'm only worthy if I assimilate. I don't do it because I want to be admired for my sense of style. There are all manner of terrible things you can have in your head when you're getting dressed every day, and I try not to listen to them.
I put in the effort because I view clothing as a way to construct an exterior identity. No matter what I'm feeling inside, I can use the things I put on my body to project what I'd maybe like to be feeling, or to help me feel differently. When I'm sick, or exhausted, I tend to dress up more because my clothes can make me feel excited, composed, and sometimes awake, even if I am none of those things. And I do believe that clothing tells people about us before we can open our mouths. For example, I think it's pretty clear from my wardrobe that I do not dress for the benefit of straight men. You'll not find me in many miniskirts, resplendent with cleavage. My ex, in fact, always used to say, "I like that you dress so modestly."
Nor am I a classic twinset-and-pearls, though. I am more likely to wear the twinset with this fantastic, gaudy, alligator broach I found at a flea market. Or to wear the pearls with mixed patterns and a hat. These choices reflect fundamental aspects of my personality. I am largely composed and polite, with a sense of humor and a streak of snark a mile wide. I'm interested in fashion, the arts, and other fine things, but can't stomach pretension. If you know what you're looking for, you can see all of this in what I'm wearing. Today, it's a Scottish wool scarf with a cable-knit cashmere sweater, slim-cut maroon pants with hot pink polka dots, and patent driving mocs the color of Kermit's face. It's all there, just a different way to read me. I don't think this is frivolous, nor do I think it's the only interesting thing about me. It's one more aspect of me, and one of the few things I can control.
Monday, October 15, 2012
In Which I Consider Maintenance
In a blog post today, my dear friend Traveling Marla discusses the idea of being "high-maintenance." In the comments section, she let slip that she thinks of me as a "high-maintenance, confident" friend. I think she meant this as a compliment.
It's had me thinking all day. The thing is, I am incredibly lazy in most ways. I wash my hair once a week. I wear dresses because it takes the guesswork out of pairing separates. I pluck my eyebrows because I can't commit to a threading appointment. I got highlights in August for the first time in my life, because I've always known I won't keep up with coloring. And that's just the grooming.
I think that Marla may have been referring, at least in part, to exercise. Specifically, to the idea of exercise of which the purpose is becoming or staying physically attractive. We all know the type: women you see at the gym every single time you're there, all waxed and bronzed and highlighted, with sinewy muscles that haven't felt the sweet touch of gluten in years. I admire the resolve of these women, but I am not one of them.
I do exercise regularly, but not for the sake of vanity. I do it because I was raised by parents for whom physical activity was a given, so it was always something we simply did, much as we ate and bathed and my sister and I fought. I started dancing when I was four, and later took up cheerleading and track as well. I became accustomed to the satisfaction of exhausted muscles before I knew there was any other way to do it.
These days, I work out for my sanity. When I'm too sedentary, I get lethargic, moody, restless, easily offended, and start to eat terribly. This is such a distinct pattern that when I talk to my mother and get unreasonably irritable, she says, "Honey, are you getting enough exercise?" And every time I say, "No, I'm not." And that, really, is the crux of it. I work out so I can sleep at night, and so I don't bite the heads off of everyone I interact with in a day. That it means I don't have to worry as much about my carb-and-dairy-fat-heavy diet is another bonus.
Having said that, tonight I did absolutely nothing except eat an entire box of Amy's shells and cheddar. So.
It's had me thinking all day. The thing is, I am incredibly lazy in most ways. I wash my hair once a week. I wear dresses because it takes the guesswork out of pairing separates. I pluck my eyebrows because I can't commit to a threading appointment. I got highlights in August for the first time in my life, because I've always known I won't keep up with coloring. And that's just the grooming.
I think that Marla may have been referring, at least in part, to exercise. Specifically, to the idea of exercise of which the purpose is becoming or staying physically attractive. We all know the type: women you see at the gym every single time you're there, all waxed and bronzed and highlighted, with sinewy muscles that haven't felt the sweet touch of gluten in years. I admire the resolve of these women, but I am not one of them.
I do exercise regularly, but not for the sake of vanity. I do it because I was raised by parents for whom physical activity was a given, so it was always something we simply did, much as we ate and bathed and my sister and I fought. I started dancing when I was four, and later took up cheerleading and track as well. I became accustomed to the satisfaction of exhausted muscles before I knew there was any other way to do it.
These days, I work out for my sanity. When I'm too sedentary, I get lethargic, moody, restless, easily offended, and start to eat terribly. This is such a distinct pattern that when I talk to my mother and get unreasonably irritable, she says, "Honey, are you getting enough exercise?" And every time I say, "No, I'm not." And that, really, is the crux of it. I work out so I can sleep at night, and so I don't bite the heads off of everyone I interact with in a day. That it means I don't have to worry as much about my carb-and-dairy-fat-heavy diet is another bonus.
Having said that, tonight I did absolutely nothing except eat an entire box of Amy's shells and cheddar. So.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
The Times has a story today about an orphaned baby walrus finding a new home, and it is adorable. The best part, though? This face.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Dear Pittsburgh drivers,
It would mean a lot to me if you could stop:
It would mean a lot to me if you could stop:
- honking when I stop at a stop sign.
- honking when I stop at a red light.
- honking when I do not block an intersection because that is how traffic patterns get fucked.
- honking when I yield to pedestrians.
- riding up my ass when I accelerate at a reasonable speed because we are on an uphill entrance ramp and while you seem to have jet packs strapped on the back of your car I am driving a manual with a touchy transmission that's old enough that, were it a person instead of a car, I'd have to be having awkward talks with it about responsible sex.
- thinking that "yellow light" does not mean "slow to a stop," but rather, "GO GO GO DO IT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
- thinking that a four-way stop means "everyone stops except me."
- thinking that having our bumpers make out while our cars are moving will make me drive faster.
- thinking that because you are mean to me while we are driving, it will make me also drive like a douchehat.
Kisses,
C
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Monday, October 1, 2012
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