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A Fractional Indemnity

MissM10 Comments

Today, I experienced a situation that caused me to feel like a hypocritical, shallow imbecile. Partially.

I shall now set the scene for you. *Clears throat.* AHEM.

There I was, draped on a barstool, my legs resting on the adjacent chair (let’s be honest, I’m not lunching with anybody. No, really, I am eating alone.) in the university’s cafeteria. I snatched the Ziploc bag from my backpack and began self-consciously scarfing down my Mayo-less turkey sandwich on Sara Lee’s 45-Calories-And-Delightful Bread. (Cuz screw you, patriarchal fat-shamers, for making “getting fat” one of my biggest fears in life.) Mid-bite, I was approached by a fellow student-perhaps my age, maybe even a few months younger, but the opposite gender.

This fellow had on an untucked flannel shirt and jeans that were a size or two too big. He had on glasses-the kind that morph into sunglasses when you walk outside, and hadn’t quite yet changed back to glasses-glasses, giving the lenses a bluish tint. His skin was as clear as sand, and he had a “baby face.”

“Excuse me,” he said as he approached my lonely lunch table of one, and I jerked my head away from my sandwich, half a chunk of lettuce hanging out of my mouth. I sheepishly covered it and forced the giant leaf of lettuce down my throat.

“Ooops, sorry, bad timing on my part.” the lad said, apologetically, as if it were his fault that I have yet to figure out how to consume edible substances in a socially acceptable manner.

After I’d finally swallowed a mouthful of dry sandwich (more a chore to eat than anything else), I shot him one of my winning smiles, baring my slightly-yellowed-by-excessive-green tea-drinking teeth.

“This is going to sound weird,” the boy continued, “and you can say no, but, um, uh, can I have your number? You can say no.”

My social skills are a bit impaired, and I could feel all the blood in my petite body rush straight to my cheekbone-lacking face.

I let out one of those nervous half laughs and hesitated just a beat.

“I actually have a boyfriend…” my mouth said before my brain could give it the O.K. A flash of disappointment came over his spectacle-covered eyes, his thin lips curving into a gentle frown.

“Oh, okay, I understand,” he managed, “I hope you have a great day. Enjoy your sandwich!” and with that, he took a step back from my table, down the hallway of rejection.

Again, my tongue reacted seconds faster than my brain ever could, and I turned and blurted, “thank you, though! I am so flattered!”

My brain’s only thought was, “I hate myself.”

I remained there, a solitary slump of a girl in a Victoria’s Secret hoodie with a half-eaten sandwich in hand, letting guilt take over my mood, and in awe of my own hypocrisy. I couldn’t believe that I had done just exactly what I’ve been demanding our society stop doing-qualifying a person’s value based on his/her external appearance. I had become, in that instant at least, the epitome of what I have been working so hard, (via this website and my own personal behavior) to advocate against. I had lied to this boy about my relationship status simply because the way he presented himself did not appeal to me.

But then, good old feisty, feminist M crashed this guilt party.

Wait a second, boys and men are allowed to have preferences on the type of person they find attractive. On Tinder, it is not uncommon for men to post in their “description” section indications of physical preference. (i.e. “Blondes only. “Cup sizes C and Up.” “Real Men Like Brunettes.” “No Whales Allowed.*”) I highly doubt that these online heart-throbs ever have episodes of guilt for their own displays of shallow behavior. So why should I? I like what I like, and I know what I don’t like.

Granted, I should not have lied to this boy with the cliche “I have a boyfriend” line. Why do I owe him any excuse at all? I don’t demand a reason why “real men prefer brunettes” on Tinder. I don’t owe this boy an explanation for not reciprocating his feelings of attraction for me. But honestly, what were my options for gently rejecting this boy?

I have found a couple of societal pressures that I theorize could be the cause of the “I Have a Boyfriend” Phenomenon.

1. Assumption: 

     “Assuming makes an ass out of “u” and “me,” the saying goes. I assumed, (probably rightfully) that this boy inquired for my cell phone number in order to initiate some kind of romantic relationship with me. Because rare is a boy and girl who share a strictly “No, Really, We Are JUST FRIENDS” relationship. Which is rather discouraging, seeing as I’ve always wanted and older brother figure in my life. But then we get into the whole “friend zone debate” which is an entirely separate argument on its own. Point being, had I given this kid my number, we could have possibly become dear friends, although the odds are slim as rice paper.

2. Justification 

As I mentioned earlier, for some reason, (girls especially) feel like we have to apologize for everything. It’s a scientific fact-they made a Youtube video about it. And we all know Youtube is the all-knowing, 100 percent reliable, online video database on this world wide web. In this particular situation, I was apologetic for not being physically attracted to this boy as I assume he was to me. What is there to be sorry for, though? Why is it so hard to simply say, “no, thank you, I’m not interested.” I can think of a couple of reasons. First of all, some people seem to think that no means yes, so they persist until they finally get what they want. (In his case, a seven-digit number granting access to instant communication with me) which would make each time I had to reject his inquiry harder than the last. Second of all, I was trying to be considerate of his feelings. Rejection is hard. Nobody wants to be told “no,” which is why I linked an excuse on to my rejection to soften the edges a little.

In conclusion, I stand by my decision to withhold my phone number from this boy. I did not want to give it to him, it’s as simple as that. However, I do regret the method in which I avoided giving it to him, and am working on alternative strategies for the “boyfriend excuse.” If y’all think of anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know.

M.

*I got this horribly offensive quote off of a T-Shirt from my dearest ex-suitor, “Derek,” which is one reason amongst a dozen others as to why I am okay with his terminating our relationship. What an ass, amirite? (See  Prevaricator  for that whole story.)

Prevaricator

MissM2 Comments

I am kind of becoming the Taylor Swift of the blogging world.

Yes, I have endured yet another unfortunate break-up. Kissed another frog. (Insert whatever other cliche, yet encouraging phrase here.)

This past week has been the week from Hell. My family is kind of falling apart (another story for another day) and I had just gotten in quite the quarrel with my mother over familial issues. I was reduced to pathetic sobs and tears, and after leaving my mother’s house, texted this ex-suitor of mine, (let’s call him Derek, that’s a liar-face name, isn’t it? Oh, and sorry if your name is Derek and you’re not a liar-face. It’s unfair of me to generalize. Please don’t take offense and discontinue reading my blog, truthful Derek’s of the world.)

Anyway, I texted Derek and told him I was now available to hang out. He responded to my SMS messages swiftly, that is, until I had physically pulled my Camry out of my parents’ driveway. As according to plan, I drove to Derek’s bro-mance’s house and parked right out front. I shot him another text message, informing him that I’d arrived.

Ten minutes passed, and I sat and waited in my car for a response, still sobbing, though gentler now, and listening to my favorite angsty Fall Out Boy songs. I waited another five minutes before sending him another message to notify him that I was just going to head home now.

The next morning, Derek told me that he’d been sleeping in his car, which was also parked outside his bro-mance’s house, while I had been waiting for him. I responded bluntly, as I was having a horrible day, and still somewhat traumatized by the fight I’d gotten into with my mother the previous night.

Later that afternoon, Derek sent me the notorious frowny face.–> 😦

“What’s wrong?” I texted back, genuinely concerned.

“I’m not good enough for you. You shouldn’t waste your time on me, M.” Blah, blah, blah. All of the “It’s not you, it’s me,” bullshit you could think of.

I think now would be a good time to say that I am NOT in a good position to be broken up with, if there ever was such a thing. We’re talking breakdowns on the nightly, folks.

So there I was, on campus, attempting to prepare myself for a required assessment for a job i’d been pursuing, when this breakup happened.

I’m not going to lie, my initial reaction was laughter-laughter of confusion and unbelief.

Because I will probably not get the chance to ask Derek why he is not good enough for me, I am forced to jump to my own conclusions, in the sake of closure.

Although to me, this breakup seems to have come without warning, I think I can figure out just exactly what caused it. Derek, you didn’t break up with me because “you’re not good enough for me.” Well, I take that back. Perhaps that was partially it, seeing as my standards and morals are levels upon levels higher than yours, as are my ambitions. I am simply more grown up than you, and you feel pressured by me to change your boyish behavior, but aren’t quite ready to drop your bad habits. But it’s way more complicated than that, isn’t it?

No, Derek, the underlying reason as to why you’ve decided to drop me like a hot spoon is the mere fact that I won’t put out for you. Which is fine, and I completely understand that. You are a 19-year-old man-child hybrid with hormones. This is only unfair to me because we had discussed this earlier in our pathetic, little fling, and you assured me that you were fine with taking things slow.

You insisted that I “open up” to you and that you were here for me.

You told me next time I have a breakdown to call you so you can at least hold me while I cry.

You told me you liked me, and that you cared about me.

And then, when I finally gave in and decided that yes, I was ready to let you be there for me, you were nowhere to be found.

You, sir, are a liar.

Over the past few days, I’ve spent plenty of time over-analyzing this, and being plenty hurt by your deciding to go away at the time I could have used someone’s company most. And now I have blogged out my feelings. And now, I will move on.

Being alone sucks, but it’s nothing I haven’t done before.

I swear I become more and more cynical with age, or maybe people are just gradually sucking more and more?

M.

Misapprehension

MissM3 Comments

Last week, I decided it was time for me to move out. So I did. (Well, sort of.) I decided to pack up my Camry with my seasonal belongings and make the 12 minute drive to Oma’s* house and become her brand-new, live-in best friend. Now, i’ve only been here a week, but this week has been the bomb-diggity. (Excuse my informal language.)

Living with her has been awesome because I have this sense of independence that I don’t get at my parents’ house, but also there is always somebody here to help me with my laundry or make Crepes even on a Thursday morning. And also, my favorite aunt lives right next door now, and enjoys taking me to Applebee’s for half-priced appetizers after 9 PM. It’s like the half-step between paternal dependence and complete independence. And that works for me.

However, regardless of the happiness this move has brought me, not all affected by this move walked away without their toes being stepped on. I think I hurt my parents in doing this, and that tears me apart. My dad, and probably one of my closest friends lately, was a little wounded by my choosing to live elsewhere. He told my mom that he felt like he was not a good father for not providing me with an environment that I can flourish in.

My mom is also not exactly happy by this choice of mine. She feels as though I am pushing her away. Geographically, this holds true, but you know what they say- “distance makes the heart grow fonder.” (Or something like that.)

I have an overwhelming burden of guilt for making my parents feel this way. I am more than frustrated that a decision that can make me so happy (or at least, less unhappy) could be seen as a ding to my folks’ parenting skills. My intentions have been entirely misunderstood.

Even though I can’t seem to clear up my reasons for leaving the nest to mom and dad, I am going to clarify them here.

Reason #1: No Curfew. 

My Oma works late a lot, and our schedules make it so that we are rarely home at the same time. Since she is so busy working and also being the best Oma in the history of forever, she rarely asks me interrogating questions. Which means I am free to go out and do teenager stuff with the abundance of friends I don’t have at 2 AM. It’s the principle of the thing.

Reason #2: New Environment=removal of temptation to be a girl with an eating disorder.

As silly as it sounds, living in a new house with a different kitchen has helped me start to mend my skewed relationship with food. I haven’t binged yet, and even my thoughts toward myself have improved. I am starting to lose the rigidity of my routines and rituals. This, on its own, is reason enough for me to not live in my house, as it saves me a significant amount of time, grief, and self-loathing.

Reason #3: No more Condescending, Contentious Little Sister

Woah, that was a rather bold and hurtful statement for a Monday morning, eh? Before you start grabbing your virtual pitchforks and picket signs that say “M deserves the ‘Worst Big Sister In The World’ award,” allow me to explain.

My relationship with my darling ‘little’ sister (quotes have been inserted around ‘little’ because my 16-year-old sis has probably 6 inches and 20 pounds on my short, non-athletic frame) is very unstable. We go through brief phases of alliance followed by extended periods of complete and utter hatred and/or avoidance. When we fight, homegirl gets pretty damn condescending and rude, radiating too many negative vibes for my already too negative self to cope with.

I haven’t spoken to her in a month. Not a word, nor an acknowledgement. And she doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, I’m not even sure she noticed I even moved out, and that stings. Granted, she’s a self-absorbed Junior whose entire world revolves around herself and her friends, but I just thought that I had a little higher ranking of priority in her life. But you know, it is what it is, and if moving out removes the possibility of yet another heated, estrogen-slathered quarrel, then so be it.

Reason #4: Java

I’m allowed to have a coffee maker here.

So that’s where I’m at right now. Still not making anybody happy with my life choices. Still trying to please everybody. Probably about to move back home to relieve myself of this overwhelming feeling of guilt for hurting the parents. Still on the quest to find the path to lifelong happiness. Still no where close.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to breakfast over crepes with my Oma and gossip about our wacko family.

*Oma: German for Grandma. No, I will not refer to her as my grandma, for she is not. She is my Oma.

Forbearance

MissM5 Comments

I had my personality professionally dissected and labeled today, (Don’t ask-long story) and I learned some very valuable nuggets of information about the way I’m “wired.”

First of all, aforementioned professional diagnosed me with an “avoidant” personality type, in regards to my relationships to other people. This means that I am the type of person who prefers minimal contact with my few loved ones. A human with an avoidant personality doesn’t necessarily want to be around people in which they have relations to on a frequent basis. They like their space. They feel overwhelmed when people try to get close to them too fast and are frequent ignorers when reached out to.

My, my, my, this professional really knows her stuff. This personality type just so happens to describe me to a tee. I hate being around other people. Alone time is BLISS. I typically end up pissed off or frustrated after interactions with my fellow human beings.

And that most likely explains why I spend the majority of my evenings wrapped up in a burrito of blankets, cradling my Mac, and producing pointless blog posts about my uneventful existence with my faithful sidekick, Fred the Abnormally Large Cat, by my side.

Also, it means i’m probably gonna die alone.

In other news… Gay marriage is finally legal in Utah! Wahoo! Reddest state in the nation for the win.

Oh, and also, apparently seasonal squashes are gendered now, according to the asshat in my Creative Writing class who asked “what is it with you females and your obsession with pumpkin spice during the month of October?”

M.

Pretension

MissM4 Comments

I’ve been doing some over-thinking again.

Y’know, i’d be willing to bet that one of the main contributing factors to the modern woman’s demolished self-esteem is the paradox that self-adoration is wholly frowned upon.

When we give compliments, we practically expect the receiver of said adulation to refute our kind words.

When you say, “oh my goodness, Sally, that dress looks stunning on you!”, which response from Sally is most acceptable?

a) “Ew, oh my goodness you think? I think it looks like a sausage casing!”

b) “Oh please, you look better, though!”

c) “Really? I was just considering going on a diet.”

d) “Why, thank you! I quite like it, as well.”

Realistically, if Sally were to answer d), we would assume that Sally is a conceited, stuck-up snob.

Why is it so unacceptable to like parts of ourselves? Why is it such a crime to verbally agree with someone who has paid us a compliment?

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I am a hypocrite. Whenever I am paid a compliment, especially on my appearance, I automatically completely disagree, both mentally and verbally. It’s what i’m supposed to do, right?

Except for when I don’t. Believe it or not, I get an occasional comment of recognition from others in regards to my sense of humor. And you know what my response is every time someone tells me that they think i’m funny? A sincere “Thank you,” and an acknowledgement that I agree with their opinion that I am a notably comical young lady.That’s one thing i’ve decided I like about myself, and I appreciate anyone who concurs. Does this make me conceited? Snobby? Self-centered? If so, I want to be the most conceited, snobby, self-centered brat there is.

What i’m trying to get at here, is that it is absolutely more than okay to like yourself, granted that it’s virtually impossible to like yourself in its entirety, due to our toxic media and societal pressures to be discontent and self-hating.

It is possible to be humble while liking your own traits. No need to go parading yourself around, but I don’t believe that giving yourself a couple of put-ups will do your psyche any harm. It’ll be a refreshing change from that radiating stream of negativity that goes through a lot of our heads on a constant basis.

I think that if liking ourselves weren’t such a taboo, we’d be able to avoid all sorts of problems like eating disorders, guilt, jealousy, what ever else ails you.

The way I see it, i’m the only me I’m ever gonna get, so i’d better learn to start liking it, or it’s gonna be one long, self-loathing themed life.

Easier said than done.

But, like most things, it’s a work in progress.

Down with the societal encouragement of hating ourselves.

M.

Complacent Vs. Contentment

MissM4 Comments

As most of you are rightly assuming from my previous blog posts, I am quite the philosophical thinker. It’s a curse, really. All this engagement in deep thought is draining on a poor lass, and instills a lingering, permanent sense of worry in me. 

Lately, i’ve been concerning myself with matters involving complacency. You see, my worst fear in this life (aside from the typical environmental fears such as heights, snakes, and big bugs) is not achieving my ambitious goals and winding up somewhere in a repetitive, life-running, average 9-5 job in Anytown, USA, and growing wildly unhappy and disappointed with my accomplishments (or lack thereof). 

These concerns haunt me on a regular basis, especially once I’ve fallen into a structured routine. Day after day, with nothing seemingly significant occurring, I begin to fear that perhaps my repetitive little agenda is all that’s out there for me. I feel that I am limited in what I will accomplish. I starve for change. 

Justifiably, my problem-solving skills aren’t up to par with seasoned and experienced adults. My solutions typically involve running away to Europe and starting a new life with a new hair cut and convincing accent, or simply just not showing up to things anymore. 

Even though I’m barely 19 years old, I feel like if I’m not accomplishing something huge that will have significant impact on my life, I am wasting time. My sense of contentment is endangered. 

Is it possible to feel content without becoming complacent? To be happy with the way your life is here and now and simultaneously be working for something bigger and better? 

This widespread belief that “things will be better when_____” or “once i’ve accomplished X,Y, and Z, then I will be happy,” is quite the obstacle to tackle when trying to be content with the here and now. 

Anyway, that’s what’s been on my mind as I awoke this lovely Friday morn. 

Cheers to the freakin’ weekend, and down with repetition. 

M. 

Embargo

MissM3 Comments

Recently, my church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, has been making headlines for its decision to excommunicate Mormon activists who are pushing for equality, inclusion, and acceptance for women and gay/lesbian community. 

Heartbroken: The only word in my extensive vocabulary that I can think of to encompass my feelings toward these events. 

Latter-Day saints are representatives of Jesus Christ, and as His representatives in these latter days, we are expected to strive to progressively become more and more like Him. Charity is the pure love of Christ, and an attribute that we are all aspiring to master. 

The God I know loves all of His sons and daughters equally, regardless of how we sin in this life. So shouldn’t we do the same? Who am I to judge another, when I walk imperfectly? 

Clearly, the way His children get along with one another is of great priority to our Father in Heaven. After all, the second commandment is to love thy neighbor as thyself. 

Not just your straight neighbors.

Not just your male neighbors. 

Not just your neighbors of the same faith. 

Granted, we are all human, and will never be able to love everyone perfectly as He does, but the point is, we are supposed to try.

We are not trying nearly hard enough. 

It is so easy to judge one another, and it grows increasingly difficult when the people we are judging are vastly different than we are. 

I want everyone who walks through the doors of my chapel to feel that they are welcome, loved, and accepted from the second they sit down in the pews, regardless if they’re gay, didn’t serve a mission, are female, what have you. I want everyone who attends my church meetings to be able to feel the pure love that Christ has for them, without feelings of guilt, shame, resentment, judgment, etc. from members of the congregation. 

There was a time, in the 1980’s, I believe, when a general authority stated that women are “discouraged from working outside the home.” The Proclamation to the Family states that a woman’s primary role is that of a mother and homemaker. Granted, the times have changed significantly since the ’80’s, but that attitude of the role of women in the church is still predominantly taught as the “right way” to live. 

I am a young woman with huge ambitions and goals that surely don’t involve my getting wifed-up and making babies any time soon. I have prioritized my life in a way that varies from the mold that seems to have been laid out for me by the culture of my church. Yet, as a woman of the LDS faith, I am taught repeatedly from my youth that there is no better or more fulfilling way for me to spend my life than becoming a wife and mother. We spend our Young Women’s activity nights learning how to bake and crochet and all of those domestic tasks that will aid us in our homemaking futures, while the boys go on scout trips in the middle of the winter and river rafting in the summer.

Ask me again in a decade from now, but as it stands, I don’t believe that I will be happiest being a stay-at-home mommy for the next 20 years of my life. Contrary to my gender’s mold, I am most empowered by gaining an education and sense of independence and strength through finding a meaningful and successful career. 

It’s frustrating to hear all this talk of how women are the stronger gender because we can give birth and have a nurturing intuition and all that jazz, but are then expected to devote our lives to pursuing that route of mother and homemaker, regardless of our differing interests. 

People within my local church community have been expressing concern with my lack of desire to have children at all. May I remind you, I am only 19 years of age. I have my entire life in front of me, and an abundance of child-bearing years left. So what’s the rush? I intend to achieve my academic/career goals first. 

My main issue with all of this is that what I want out of my own life is not as important as my predestined role. Men can-and must, according to the church-be the providers for their families. They are free to get a degree and a powerful career and after their 8-5 shift, they can come home and play catch with Junior while Mom slaves away in the kitchen. Best of both worlds. 

But rarely is that the case for a woman. Every situation is different, and a lot of women have to work in order to support their families. I feel that the Church tries to make everything a one-size-fits-all, rather than recognizing that its members are individuals, and that there is no blanket-solution to the right way to set up your family. 

I just want to be treated as an equal member of the human race, and for all of my spiritual brothers and sisters to, as well. 

I find relief in authoring my frustrations. Agree, or don’t-it’s up to you. But also, have respect for my beliefs. 

M. 

Rose Amongst The Thorns

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Y’know how in High school the pretty people always had the easier life? The hot chicks in Human Bio always got a better grade on their group project because Mr. Smith was a single, sixty-something with a thing for blondes? And how the handsome boys just happened to be excessively, athletically inclined and how all the pretty people seemed to gravitate toward each other in an un-penetrable mass of popularity? 

High school never ends. 

You see, in the real world, the pretty people still come out on top. The cruel reality is, beauty is bliss. And your life will be significantly easier if the big guys like what they see when they look your way. 

Exhibit A: My big girl job (see previous post) 

At my new place of employment, I work with a team completely composed of men. I have no problem with this-in fact, I quite like it. When we’re not busy, we talk about dude stuff like food and modern warcraft (is that even what it’s called?) and wrist watches. And we can all make fun of each other without calling each other “bitches” behind our backs. Boys get along nice.

Anyway, our customers get randomly selected and surveyed on the customer service we provide. It’s nearing the end of the quarter, so at our little pep-talk meeting, I was told not to worry about getting bad surveys because I’m “cute and bubbly” and that people will just give me a perfect score because I’m cute. 

Are you seeing the perks yet? 

That’s all fine and dandy, but there are definitely hardships that come with being the chick that invades the wolf pack. 

Some of our customers are full-on sketch. 

My coworker was helping this man with a transaction, and I was standing nearby, shadowing him as part of my training. The customer asked my coworker if he’d been “staying out of trouble,” to which my coworker replied, “i’m trying to!” The customer was an older gent. He looked at me and said, “Well, how can you, when you’ve got a beautiful blonde right next to you?” Instantly, my cheeks flushed the color of ripe tomatoes. Did I mention my coworker is married? Neither of us could vocalize a decent response. 

That same day, I was helping another older man with a transaction. He tipped his hat to me and winked, and before he left, he handed me one of those individually-wrapped lifesaver candies. I know what you’re thinking, “what a sweet, old man!” But if you were a bird on my shoulder, getting a whiff of his stale-cigarette scent and noting his messy and unkempt appearance, you would understand. 

I’ve even been formally warned by my coworkers not to help certain customers because they’re “too creepy” and will “hit on me.” 

For the most part, customers are pleasantly surprised with the my being the new addition to the team. They call me the “rose amongst the thorns.” And who am I to argue? A rose I shall be. 

Sigh. The patriarchy at work. 

 

 

Buzzz

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Hey kids! Please excuse my lack-of-posting. One day, I was a ridiculously under-occupied little lady who had her entire summer wide open with no official engagements and ample time for shenanigins. The world was my oyster. And the next, BAM! Adult life decided to hit me like a ton of bricks. And now I’m all sorts of busy. The kind of busy that required me to stop at Walgreens on the way home from work and purchase myself a planner to keep track of all my appointments and all that jazz. 

I know what you’re all thinking: “Maddie, what could possibly be robbing you of your precious free time?!” Well i’ll tell you. A big-girl job. That’s right. The kind where you have to wear slacks or a skirt, and jeans are strictly prohibited. I am now Maddisen Tingey: blogger, student, competitive eater, feminist, and grown-up employee. 

As part of initiation into professional grown-upism, I have been enrolled into an intensive, virtual class in order to develop my professional people skills and such. It’s an 8-5 kind of gig, which I’m not used to at all. And I have a rather hard time sitting still for prolonged periods of time in an stuffy office that reaches somewhere between 2 and 7 zillion degrees in the afternoon. 

Sounds pretty brutal, eh? 

Eh. 

But I am an optimist. And as an optimist, I have discovered several gratifying features of my new workplace. For starters, my chair spins. And the spinning motion is superbly effective in keeping me alert during the late after-lunch hours when my eyelids are ready to give out and the clock gradually ticks slower and the conclusion of my shift seems to drift further and further away. 

Also, the window of my office faces a self-serve car wash, and I find pleasure in watching its patrons accidentally drench themselves with the hoses when my focus refuses to remain on my computer monitor. The building in which I work has a popcorn machine, so there is always a fresh aroma of movie-theater butter deliciousness in the air. 

And also, I get an hour break for lunch, and there’s a Starbucks a block up the street. 

See, it’s not so bad after all.

I’ve only been at this new job for two weeks, but i’ve already learned many vital, and occasionally painful, lessons about the real world. 

Lesson #1: Nobody cares if it’s your birthday. 

That’s right. This past Tuesday, I turned 19. The big 1-9. I can legally buy cigarettes now. (I won’t, because lung cancer and premature wrinkles wouldn’t look good on me, but I could if I wanted to and that’s what matters.) But in adult-world, your birthday is just Tuesday. And daily requirements persist as if it were nobody’s anniversary of birth at all, and there is no cause for celebration. The cool coworkers wish you a happy birthday, but despite their wishes, your birthday doesn’t get particularly happy until after you’ve commuted back home to the people who appreciate you for existing for the past 19 years and demonstrate said appreciation by showering you in generous gifts, sushi dinners, and cold stone. Image 

That’s me and the sis on the glorious anniversary of my being on planet Earth. 

I have one year left to be able to rationally call myself a teenager. I’m practically ancient. 

Anyway, that’s what I’ve been up to lately. 

And now i’m off to go be a 19-year-old for 51 more weeks. Here’s to immaturity and recklessness! 

M. 

Compelled

MissMLeave a comment

I was browsing through my Facebook Newsfeed this morning when I came across an article entitled Modest Is Hottest? The Revealing Truth. (To my delightful suprise, it was a male cyber-friend of mine who shared this article.) I highly suggest you read it, especially if you are affiliated with a religious organization that promotes the slogan “Modest is Hottest.” 

I am a Latter Day Saint. My church pushes a lot of emphaisis on the cruciality of its female members dressing conservitavely. Their rationale? Because men are incapable of controlling their own thoughts, placing the responsibility of keeping their minds virtuous on the women. As young women, we are often told that we are the stronger sex, and that our influence on men is stronger than we may think. 

However, if men are superior (and there are copious documented cases that clearly illustrate that men ARE indeed the superior gender), they should be more than completely capable of controlling their own thoughts. I’m sorry, but I refuse to believe that it’s my fault that a guy has an “inappropriate thought” simply because I chose to show a little shoulder. 

This is just another circumstance to be added to the book of ways women are objectified. Shaming women into dressing a certain way just reinforces the fact that our bodies are there to be looked at. Our apperence must be altered to gain the approval of those around us-namely the MEN around us. 

The other day, I went on a date with a young man of my faith. The day after our date, he asked me if i’d like to join him and his friends to go hot tubbing. I nodded, and told him that I thought it’d be fun. After agreeing to his notion, he asked me if I wore one- or two-piecers. Rather hesitently, and slightly awkwardly, I informed him that I owned swimsuits of both descriptions. 

He responded by informing me that he does not tolerate two-piece swimsuits. 

In other words, I was not allowed to wear a bikini in the presence of this man because he did not approve of them. After one date, this guy felt that he was entitled with the authority to tell me what aqua-attire was acceptable to wear around him. The converstation continued with him telling me that he needed to improve his “summer body” if he were planning on not wearing a shirt around me.

Clearly, the modesty rule does not apply to the male population. Nobody thinks that maybe his shirtlessness could plague me with inappropriate thoughts, thus causing me to lose control of my actions. Because men are people, and women are bodies. 

Needless to say, we did not go hot tubbing together that evening. 

The article goes on to say that the degree of which women cover themselves up has no impact on a male’s ability to control himself. This claim is backed up by the fact that in cultures where women are required to cover themselves from head to toe, there is still a great deal of sexual violence inflicted upon them. 

I am not against dressing modesty. In fact, I prefer to dress in a modest fashion because it slightly reduces my degree of self-consciousness, not having to constantly check that everything is “tucked in.” I find that dressing conservatively is classy-for both genders. And I am a woman with a great deal of class. 

How an individual chooses to present his/herself is a personal choice, and I believe that everyone should dress in a way that enables them to express their personalities and give them the most confidence. If you’re a size 16, but feel beautiful in a bikini or cutoff, WEAR IT. IF you’re a size 00 but prefer a one-piece and boardshorts, WEAR IT. Your body is NOT just an item to be looked at and approved or disapproved by your peers. Your body is yours. Cover it as much or as little as makes YOU comfortable. I promise, the rest of us have ample control of the brains in our heads, regardless of your choice of dress. 

M.