More Than Chocolate

As a general rule, 7th-grade boys are gross. They smell funny, their voices are changing, and they think they're cooler than they are. Straddling the age between kid and teenager, they're still wearing boy scout uniforms, but stuffed in their pocket is a crumpled page from a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition that they swiped from their uncle's garage. Their idea of humor is fart jokes, shooting girls with rubberbands, and stepping on the backs of our shoes to give us "flat tires." Charming.

But Ryan was different. He was my 7th-grade boyfriend in 1984. A preppy boy with green eyes and freckles, he played tennis and wore one of those braided rope bracelets. I had my eye on him in 6th grade but it wasn't until 7th that I mentioned my affinity for him to a girl at the busstop. The loudmouth promptly told everyone at the busstop, and upon reaching school that morning went directly to Ryan to tell him that I thought he was cute. Nothing is secret in 7th grade. I silently prepared to have my affections rejected.

To my surprise, that didn't happen. In fact, Ryan said hi to me in the hall. And then I started running into him more between classes. We wrote notes back and forth. He'd walk me to class, and hold my books while I went to my locker. Sometimes he'd call me in the evening. He was a really sweet boy, genuinely nice, and never once made fun of me or blew me off. He was my introduction to the Nice Guy. When I cut my hair, he told me it looked nice, which is funny because it looked like a boy's haircut to me. And he didn't care that I was 6 inches taller than him.

Best of all, on Valentine's Day he gave me a great big heart-shaped box of chocolates; so big that every other girl could see me carrying it (yesssss!). And every girl on the bus was suddenly my best friend--the ones who'd previously laughed at me when they found out I liked Ryan now wanted a piece of my prize. Sorry, suckers.

In our yearbook he signed, "Love Always, Ryan" and drew a heart around the words in red pen.
As it turns out, the last time I ever saw him was the last day of the 7th grade school year. That summer my family was out of the country for a few weeks on vacation, and when we returned I called Ryan to tell him about my trip. His phone number was disconnected. I like to think that he tried to call me before he (assumedly) moved away, but this was pre-voice mail, pre-caller ID, and my family didn't have an answering machine.

This photo was taken on that last day of school. I grabbed a friend to snap it just before Ryan got on his bus home.



I eventually married another Nice Guy. My husband is a genuinely sweet, honest, thoughtful man. It took me a while to find him, but I knew he existed out there somewhere. I knew since way back when that the Nice Guy was worth searching for. So today, on Valentine's Day, before I have a glass of wine with my lovey and cuddle on the couch, I give a quick thought to Ryan, wherever he is, and appreciate the hope he gave me about the existence of men worth holding out for.

Introverts: A User's Manual (part I)

You think you know yourself, and then one day BAM! You discover a third hand. Ok, maybe not quite that dramatic. But this is pretty much how I felt when I made the realization--at 39--that I am an introvert. I'd heard the term many times before, and I thought I knew what it meant. But until a friend showed me a tongue-in-cheek article from the Atlantic called Caring for Your Introvert, I didn't know I was so clearly one of them. Or that it wasn't a bad thing. I'd never seen it explained so succinctly and plainly before.

My entire childhood I'd been told I was shy. I've been told I'm standoffish, and that I think too much, and that I "should get out more." I've been asked what my problem was when I wouldn't go to a jumping dance club, sing karaoke, or to popular rock concerts.

As it turns out, I'm neither of those first two things and I don't have a problem. I'm simply introverted.

It's important to understand that introversion is not a diagnosis or a condition, but rather an orientation. Yes, baby, I was born this way. There's nothing wrong with me, my dials are just set to different frequencies than extraverts. THIS one doesn't go to 11.

So I'd like to dispel some misconceptions about introverts:

--I'm not averse to social situations. What I have is a need to decompress, debrief, and re-energize after social activities. Intoverts find social interaction to be enjoyable but mentally draining. Inversely, reflective time spent alone bring us back to life, kind of like a laptop computer which needs periodic recharging at home.

--I don't have an aversion to bright lights, big cities, loud noises, or hopping parties. I DO have time limits to all of them. I've learned to not commit to parties two nights in a row. I typically can't be fully socially "on" and at my best this often. Since being less than myself makes me feel worse than politely declining an invitation, sometimes I just have to say "no" and stay home.

--Introverts don't only hang out with other introverts. We enjoy all types of friends, both quiet and dynamic.

--Introverts aren't afraid of crowds. One of my favorite places to vacation is Las Vegas, in all of its crowded, non-stop, over-stimulating gaudiness. But my limit is 4 days, and day 3 is usually a sleep-late-and-order-room-service kind of day. After bailing out early on a raucous bachelorette party there, I spent two hours sitting alone in my darkened, quiet 12th-floor hotel room watching planes approaching McCarran Airport at night. This is a perfect example of the introvert's deflation and recovery. The next day I was once again able to join our group and be fully involved in the wedding and subsequent reception, at 100% of my social capacity.

--Introverts don't go off to be alone because they're upset. We go off to be alone to maintain balance. Introverts are typically more introspective and mentally attuned to themselves than extraverts; trust them to know when they need time apart from the group. We are are productive and more receptive to others when we get silent moments alone.

--Introverts are not always easy to spot. Until last month, I did not realize that a friend I've known for over 20 years considers himself an introvert. He related a story of being at a birthday party when he was 8 years old, and needing to get outside for a bit. He was sitting on the kid's swingset by himself when the birthday boy's dad came out and asked him what he was doing all alone. My friend said he just shrugged; he didn't really have an answer. Clearly not upset, the host dad back brought him back in to the house for birthday cake. Looking back on it now, he says, he just needed to get away from all the stimulation for a little while. Classic introvert behavior. And totally normal.

After hearing that story, I felt closer to this friend. It's not easy for an extravert to "get" what an introvert needs because extraverts thrive on the same events that introverts fade under. So having friends who share your social orientation is comforting...even if you just now discovered what that orientation is.

The Nylon Hurtin'

In the movie Steel Magnolias, Dolly Parton's character, Truvy, claims she hasn't left the house without pantyhose on since she was 14 years old. To this her friend Clairee confirms, "You were raised right!"

Does this make you cringe, or raise your white-gloved fist in prim solidarity?

Generation X women came of age on the cusp of the change in dress code attitudes, balancing on the cotton crotch of the Great Pantyhose Divide. We grew up when hose were still the norm, but we entered the professional world realizing we weren't so keen on spending our paychecks on clothing that had a life span of about 2 wearings. When casual Fridays became popular the first thing we tossed were the pantyhose. And yet, I still struggle with "appropriate" times to wear them, much as I struggle just to put on the blessed things.

On Friday I had a job interview, and while dressing I once again pondered my bare legs with apprehension. My stylish-yet-conservative dress fell just above the knee--the norm for me at just shy of 6 feet tall. I worried it was too informal this way. Surely the second skin of some L'eggs would solve this problem and make my ensemble more...respectable.

This is where it gets weird.

Why do pantyhose equal "respectable"?

Why did I think that going bare-legged would somehow negate the validity of my master's degree and corporate experience? Why did I place so much weight on the power of an ounce of woven nylon? Years and years of condemnation from older generations, that's why. Gen X girls were taught that to be perceived as mature, professional, and/or proper we must wear pantyhose. Without question.

I worked my way through college in about 20 different retail jobs. Most of them required me to wear pantyhose. At least one even prohibited us girls from wearing pants. That was 1992.

But we have a powerful woman on OUR side now. Our own First Lady, Michelle Obama (by broadest definition a member of Generation X herself), has been quite vocal in her disdain for pantyhose. As a guest on The View she said, "I stopped wearing pantyhose a long time ago. They're painful...it's inconvenient."

She garnered some vitriolic backlash from this comment, being called everything from "unfeminine" to "vulgar" because of it. Crazy, isn't it?

So I'm taking a stand, a bare-legged stand. Those pantyhose I wore to my interview, the ones that caused my shoes to fit too loosely and hence fly off my left foot in the lobby of said interview, they are history! Those fancy silk-like pantyhose that cost $8.95 a pair and still rip when I barely bump them with a hangnail...history! I'm done with you, you antiquated casings of synthetic torture. I refuse to allow my character to be judged (real or imagined) by the presence or absence of some Underalls. The debate continues, but I'm standing with the First Lady on this one.

I Won't Go Gentle Into That New Millennium

Two and a half years ago I wrote about my disdain for a cute Asian girl who showed up on TV claiming "I'm a PC and I'm 4 and a half," while she showed off her deft technology skills. This little tyke put me to shame. At the time I was "37 and a Walkman."

I just--finally--got my first iPod this Christmas, exactly 24 years to the day after I got my first (and only) Sony Walkman cassette player. Last night I spent two hours trying to set it up. Download this program, register this gadget, create this account, autosign this legal agreement, oops you're due for updates (really, Apple? three sets of updates in one evening??). And every step contained several subsequent pop-up boxes with various options that required checking and unchecking tiny little boxes.

I don't like this kind of commitment, mainly because I will NEVER find my way back to any particular set of checkboxes. Basically, the choices I made last night will stand forEVER.

It's not that I don't embrace technology, I simply don't want all these blessed questions. My Walkman had the following instructions (in 8 languages): Pop in a cassette and push "play."

DONE.

That is why I kept it for 18 years.

Don't get me wrong, I love my iPod. I'm so glad to finally be caught up to 2001. I'm just a little awkward with it. I found myself listening to it while walking around the house, holding the thing in my hand. It's what, an inch and half squared and weighs all of one ounce? I could clip it to my earlobe and barely notice it, yet I felt like I had to CARRY it because that's what I know. Even more embarassing is that I *almost* needed to put my glasses on just to read the miniscule touch screen on my nano. I didn't have to READ my Walkman, it had four buttons.


So while I try to reconcile the fact that my entire iPod nano is smaller than the mere belt clip on my old Walkman, I'm reveling in the ease and speed at which I can now search for, find, purchase, download, and listen to songs I haven't heard in years, without having to buy nine other unwanted songs on an album. And without having to sit there while I re-record them onto a tape, hoping the tape doesn't run out in the middle of a song.

Ohh, 2001, you've got your hooks in me.

Generation X and the Mom-Made Costume

My brother emailed me yesterday with the news that our hometown is having its 53rd annual Halloween parade this weekend. This is the same parade we participated in ourselves every year as kids.

The parade still follows the same route through downtown, still hands out the same "goody bag" to every participant, still gives prizes for the best costumes. That parade was something every kid in town looked forward to, racing home from school on October 31st to change into our costumes to meet up to march. I love that the tradition continues. I only wish I still lived there to go watch it this year.

Gen X costumes were usually Mom-made. Our moms had craft closets and dress-up suitcases from which we pieced together odss and ends.

Some years my brother and I were dressed as a theme...

1973 was Nurse/Doctor. Mom was a nurse, so the props were easy:



In 1974 we were Gypsies:



1975, ladybug and lion. Mom spent a lot of time on these, cutting the newspaper into layers of strips for the lion's fur. Brother was a real fire hazard that year.



In 1976 my mom was really motivated in her creativity. She fashioned a totem pole for my brother, and covered it in original designs she cut from construction paper. I think it was terribly uncomfortable for him to wear. Meanwhile, my costume was a piece of cake--literally. This was clearly my mom's idea, and that's her in the picture in the chef's outfit. My costume was made out of a folded cardboard box which was too awkward and heavy for me to carry with the handles she attached inside, so she made shoulder straps out of rope to ease some of the weight. I challenge my brother to a debate on who was more uncomfortable that year. I chose my own costumes after this.



In 1977 my brother was sick, so I paraded alone in a pilgrim costume my grandmother had hand-sewn for my aunt in the 1950s. I LOVED wearing this outfit. I loved the long flowy skirt and the smell of the old material. I won a 2nd place award in the costume contest that year. I think my prize was a $2 bill.



1978, hobo and fancy lady: I wasn't much into scary costumes. This Halloween we had a torrential downpour, which wasn't unusual in Florida. We lived on a dirt road, and it was so muddy that my mom made we wear plastic bags on my feet while trick-or-treating so I wouldn't ruin my Sunday shoes. I was so embarassed, I kept trying to hid my feet from the neighbors. "Trick or treat, don't look at my feet, give me something good to eat!"



1979 was the last year my brother and I dressed up together. While waiting for the parade to start, a very concerned kid walked up to him and asked "what happened?" He really thought my brother was injured. Duh. My Flamenco outfit was one my mom had worn 20 years prior, and it was huge on me. I think I wore it 3 years in a row, hoping I'd eventually grow into it.



I never had a store-bought costume, not even a mask! Our candy bags were old pillowcases, and trick-or-treating was done on October 31st, not the weekend before when it's more "convenient" like so many towns do these days. And the next day at school everyone compared the candy they'd acquired. If you could make yours last until Thanksgiving, you'd done good.

For more Gen X costume photos, visit my friend Jen's blog, GenerationX

The New Ladies of Leisure

I was watching an episode of a new MTV show called Awkward recently. In a scene involving a mother-daughter party, an angst-ridden teenage girl described a group of mothers who fit into the mean-girl-turned-trophy wife category. "These women don't work, they work out," the teenager said. As this line was uttered, the women were admiring the toned and tanned biceps of their hostess. It made me think about how the physical traits of status have evolved over the centuries.

On a visit to the Cairo Museum when I was 12, I saw statues of Prince Rahotep and Princess Nofret, each sitting on a throne. Our tour guide explained that the prince was tanned because as a man he was outside, working (or overseeing the slaves); the princess statue was very pale, because a woman of such status did not labor in the sun. I remember thinking at the time how everybody where I lived was tan...on purpose! In fact, the tanner you were, the cooler you were. What a difference a few millennia can make.

Now, as evidenced by the characters on the MTV show and others, women with defined musculature are the modern picture of status. But it's not because they are perceived to be in better health, or admired for their athletic prowess. Rather, it is because a sculpted physique infers an excess of leisure time. Bodies like these require significant time to achieve...and usually money to pay for gym membeships, personal trainers, and trendy private classes.

Take a look at most of those "Real Housewives" shows; those women are competitive in seeing who can lay claim to the most spin classes in one week (in between comparing shoe closets, fancy cars, and private jets). The Bar Method classes I attend have a reputation for attracting this distinct demographic of women. They work out 5 days per week, morning and afternoon, in a different matching designer outfit each class. There's no denying how fit they are, and that in itself is undeniably admirable. Physiques like theirs require committed effort. If I didn't have a job I'm sure I'd work out a lot more. And there's my point.

When a celebrity like Victoria Beckham or Kate Hudson is photographed six weeks after giving birth and already has her figure back to swimsuit model perfection, most of us have the same reactions. First we ask, "How did she lose the weight already?" Then we concede, "Well if I had a couple million in the bank, three nannies, and no job responsibilities, I could spend six hours a day with my personal trainer, too. And then I'd look like that."



Ergo, a thin, muscular body equals leisure time and wealth. Check out actress Julie Bowen's biceps from Sunday night's Emmy Awards. This is the what women in their 30s and beyond are striving for (visible sternum notwithstanding), which is quite different from even my mother's generation.

But as with any good symbol of status, there can be a backlash that follows. A professional woman and mom of three once made an underhanded comment to me that I have the luxury to work out because I don't have children. In reality, I am forced to work out because if I don't I will be in constant pain from a twisted, crooked spine. How odd that I have to defend my habit of exercise. I didn't know if I should be offended by her comment, or impressed that she thought I was so well-off to be able to lead such a luxurious lifestyle of leisure.

While I can't deny the high that comes with a particularly effective workout, I still occasionally long to live just one week in the baroque period, when the height of beauty was having a plump rump. It was an era where leisure time was spent lounging around eating grapes, and not by logging hours on a treadmill.

One Dish, Gold Dish, Two Dish, Old Dish

This summer I’ve spent weekends in three different beach condos in three different Florida towns. Interestingly, the kitchens in all three came furnished with the same exact dishes…Correlle brand’s “Butterfly Gold” pattern. I noticed this not because I’m a china pattern aficionado, but because this is the same dish set I grew up with in the 1970s and 1980s. Every meal of every day from birth until adulthood was eaten off Butterfly Gold.



First introduced in 1970, Butterfly Gold’s universal appeal was that it matched the harvest gold appliances and countertops so popular at that time. I dunno, I’m making that up, but our house did have harvest gold everything. And it seemed like everybody had that set. Even now when I visit friends and relatives in other states, most everyone has at least a piece or two of this set stashed in the back of the cabinet.

These dishes refuse to die, they’re utterly unbreakable. Countless times one of us kids dropped a plate while drying dishes, and as we braced for the expected crash, all that resulted was a quick smack sound followed by a spin…like a hula hoop that’s dropped to the ground. They never broke!

To this day I compare every cereal bowl I use to the Correlle cereal bowl, which I dare say is the world’s most perfect cereal bowl. It has the perfect lip, contoured at just the right arc for precision drinking. Generation X kids ate a LOT of cereal while watching Saturday morning cartoons, and when it came time to drink the last of the milk after eating your Honeycomb, with the Correlle bowl you never missed a drop.

Twenty-five years ago my older brother took some pieces of the set with him when he got his first apartment after college; my parents still have a few stragglers from the original set. I figure I’ll inherit what’s left someday. It’s a piece of Gen-X childhood that, while not necessarily the most attractive, still makes any kitchen feel like home.

Can an X Change Her Shape?

I’m not exactly what you’d call a fitness fanatic, but I do like to sweat on a fairly regular basis. With the added bonus of scoliosis (curvature of the spine) in my medical history, my reality is that consistent core-strengthening activity is the best way for me to stay pain-free and upright.

Since my spine is in an S-shape with a slight twist, my back muscles work in a constant dance of compensation for misalignment. My right shoulder drops lower than my left shoulder, my right hip sits higher than my left hip, and my waistline is uneven. It sounds worse than it feels. Until, of course, I get lazy and my back muscles get a little soft. So exercise I must. My back will never be straight, but it can be strong.

A few weeks ago I was overjoyed to discover that a new exercise studio was opening in my town. It’s called The Bar Method, and is a regimen of exercise geared toward sculpting and elongating muscles through the use of isometrics and deep stretching. The “bar” comes from the ballet barre, which is used for balance and support during some of the exercises and stretching. The method has its origins in ballet combined with rehabilitative therapy.

Before signing up for classes, I researched online for class reviews since Bar Method studios exist across the country. 99% of the reviews echoed the same sentiment: “My muscles were trembling after the first 5 minutes.”…“serious kicking of my muscles’ asses”…“your whole body feels like someone beat it with a stick.” Ahhh, sounds fun! I promptly signed up for a month’s worth of unlimited classes. I’ll go 5 days per week, I mused to myself.


Today was my first class. We started promptly at 9:30 with 40 standing leg lifts. Then push-ups. Then triceps work with 3-pound weights which were astonishingly heavy after 50 repetitions of the tiniest pulsations. That’s where this method gets you. Every movement is tiny but works the muscles to utter exhaustion (which is when the uncontrollable trembling surfaces).

Every exercise consists of tucking this, squeezing those, tilting this, and pressing that….60 times. Twenty-five minutes into class, I passed out. I felt all the blood drop out of my upper half so I promptly lowered myself to the softly carpeted floor, where I stayed for 10 minutes with a cool towel on my head, sipping juice brought to me by the instructor. This isn’t the first time I’ve had this reaction to intense exercise, so I was able to recognize it immediately and drop safely. I’ve learned the hard way not to ignore lightheadedness.

After I regained bloodflow to my noggin, I rejoined class and carried on through to the end of the longest hour of my life. Jelly-legged and out of breath, I walked to my car and quite literally plopped into it.

When I got home I tried to redo my ponytail, but couldn’t lift my arms high enough to do so. It wasn’t pain and it wasn’t soreness, but a complete lack of any strength.

I inhaled my lunch, and by 3:30 this afternoon I couldn’t fight napping any longer. I laid down on the couch and instantly fell asleep. I slept so hard that I dreamed about sleeping. When I woke up an hour later, my body felt like I had just disembarked from space flight and was still re-acclimating to gravity. Every limb felt like it was tied to the floor.

Now, twelve hours after class, my upper hamstrings are as tight as bowstrings. I cannot wait to go to bed. I am pooped.

I have committed myself to a full month of classes, and I intend to do at least three per week. Periodically I’ll post updates on how I’m doing and what results I’m getting from it. Changing the shape of an X isn’t easy, but I’m fighting middle age with every step.

Atlantis Rising

Even when I’m fully expecting its arrival, a double sonic boom always makes me jump, and this past Thursday morning was no different. At precisely 5:35 a.m., the space shuttle Atlantis passed over my home in Central Florida, its swift but thunderous re-entry into the atmosphere signaling the end of an era. Still lying in bed, heart pounding from the surprise and preventing any further snoozing, I thought about what the end of the shuttle program means to me.

I watched the very first launch of Columbia with my family from the beaches of my hometown when I was nine years old. I stared at the so-obviously-wrong contrail of Challenger from the parking lot of my junior high school. I spontaneously cheered with my high school friends during the triumphant launch of Discovery that restarted the shuttle program. But my favorite shuttle memory is from February 7, 2001.

My husband and I had our third date at that launch, STS-98 of the space shuttle Atlantis. For a February afternoon it was warm even by Florida standards, and I drove to the coast from Orlando with the car windows down, breathing in the familiar marshy scent of the river.

Shuttle launches have remained a big deal to the local population and tourists alike even 20 years into the program, and cutting out of work early to head east was a common occurrence. Reaching the town of Cocoa that afternoon I began to see lawn chairs of spectators on the sides of the road. The bridges at Merritt Island slowed traffic down as more cars pulled off onto any open space along the Banana and Indian Rivers. From the top of the bridge I could see the Vehicle Assembly Building at Kennedy Space Center in the distance.

We decided to sit along the boat channel near Jetty Park. With an hour to kill before liftoff we parked ourselves on a beach towel with the other gazers, mostly locals.


For some Floridians, shuttle launches were like weekend football. You’d pile up the car with food and coolers and chairs and spend a few hours tailgating before liftoff. It was another great excuse to relax outdoors. Even if a launch was scrubbed, you’d still spent some quality time just being a Floridian.

As the sun was setting to our left, the moon simultaneously rose to our right. We found ourselves sandwiched between a blazing sunset and an emerging full moon, an amazing combination. The blue skies were clear directly above us, in perfect condition for launch. Florida has incredible sunsets, but this scene was an extraordinary convergence of beauty from one extreme of the horizon to the other.

A few spectators held portable radios picking up the live audio feed from Mission Control. Liftoff was a go for 6:13 p.m., precisely intertwining with the sunset and moonrise. Our spot was about 15 miles due south of the launch pad.


It was then I pondered I was about to witness something that only exists in this one little corner of the world. No other country has a space shuttle. Nowhere else but in coastal central Florida could I sit by the ocean and see the culmination of decades of work by some of the most brilliant engineering minds in the world, in a massive structure of machinery that leaves Earth with such brilliance and power that witnesses to it are moved to tears each and every time.

The voice from Mission Control spread through the air, “10...9...8...we have go for main engine start...5...4...3...2...1...booster ignition and liftoff of the Space Shuttle Atlantis and five American heroes!”

The excitement of the first glimpse of the glow of the rocket boosters caused everyone to point north and cheer. The speed with which it soared upward was astounding. After a few moments we began to hear the roar of the engines rolling in, and then we felt the thunderous vibration of the roar. Even at 15 miles away we got a rumble in our tummy. First-timers to a launch are easy to spot by their astonished facial expressions upon feeling this sensation.

What was most awe inspiring on this night, though, was the divinely created display of light and color. The setting sun cast a rainbow of hues onto the vertical exhaust trail, unlike any launch I’ve seen before. The first stars were starting to twinkle, the full moon was golden in a pink and blue sky, and we all stood enamored by it. This is the kind of experience you want to freeze in time. There was too much beauty happening at once, and fleeting too fast to take it all in.



And within moments it was gone. Only a blurry trail of white smoke was left fading away.




Whether or not you believe in the necessity of space exploration, the billions of dollars spent on it, and the lives lost within it, it is undeniable that there was something magical about this program. I am sad to see it end because it’s been a constant in my life. From grade-schooler to middle-ager, on school trips and romantic dates, I’ve grown up with my eyes looking eastward and upward, wishing “Godspeed” to those American heroes.

This duo of photos of a boy and his dad watching the first and final shuttle launches together went viral last week. It perfectly captures the culture of shuttle enthusiasm that I grew up with on the east coast of Florida.

The Significance of You

Fellow generational blogger JenX67 recently wrote a really smart piece about how her many pairs of Nikes have carried her through the various stages of her life. It immediately reminded me of an old Nike ad I’d torn out of a magazine 20 years ago. It was eight pages long—unheard of in the typical rules of brevity in advertising—and began with the phrase, “You were born a daughter.”






It replayed some of the desires and dreams girls all have when we're little.

























It evolved through many of the typical insecurities girls go through growing up.



No matter what you went through, the ad touched on it. You were included.



When I first saw it, I was 19 years old; I had no boyfriend, no job, had dropped out of college and had just moved back in with my parents. I didn’t know what the heck to do with my life. My ideas changed daily but were backed by no real motivation. I was living in a new town and didn’t know anyone.



And then finally...




"You became significant to yourself."






Yesterday I did a quick Google search for phrases from the ad. I was amazed to find other blogs mentioning it, other women talking about how they, too, had ripped out and saved that ad. One talked about taping it to her wall where it stayed for years…and then dozens of her readers commented that they had also ripped, taped, and saved.

This was a brilliant campaign, not just because we all remembered the slogan of JUST DO IT, but because we internalized the core message. It successfully appealed to the deep motivational pit in the souls of women across America, from teenager to middle age. Apparently even Oprah herself read it on an episode of her show.

It was written by then-32-year-old copywriter Janet Champ, whose message was that women who take responsibility for everyone else needed to take care of themselves. Later Nike ads written by Champ (how perfect of a name is that?) further championed the power within women while simultaneously challenging outdated beliefs on the capabilities of women. Not only did she inspire the athlete within us, she inspired legions of burgeoning writers, myself included. Don Draper could learn a thing or two from this chick!

Over the years when I'd rediscover the pages in my notebook, I would mentally check off the items in the copy that I’d reached in my life thus far. If I found that I’d reached another one, I think it reassured me that maybe my life wasn’t so off track after all, that I was just running through the normal milestones at my own pace. Many times the ad's message was in the back of my mind when I made a major life decision; when I ended that relationship that felt too confining, when I enrolled in graduate school at 37, when I started putting my writing out there for the world to see.

I think that becoming significant to yourself has different meanings at different ages. Early on it means finding your voice, standing up for yourself. Later it means letting go of outside influences and negative peers, following your dreams. Later still it can mean regaining an independence you might have set aside for years when you chose to devote your energies to family.

In any instance, it's a profound realization to make the commitment to be significant to yourself...for the first time, or once again.

"Because you know it's never too late to have a life. And never to late to change one."

The Hardest Word

There have been a few days in my life when out of nowhere an apology arrived. Not for missing a meeting or saying a curt word, but for something much bigger and deep seated.

I once reconnected with an old friend after a fallout caused us to not speak to each other for over a decade. In my heart I had long since gotten over any anger or resentment that had once existed, and my only goal was renewing the friendship that had previously been so fabulous.

In one of our first email exchanges after all those years, she apologized for all that had gone down between us (I'm paraphrasing here). I neither expected nor needed an apology from her. She had been globally forgiven years before. It surprised me so much to read it that I didn't know what to do with it. I actually felt bad that she felt she needed to apologize. But it does speak volumes about what a wonderful person she is.

Another even more unexpected apology came from an old boyfriend with whom I'd shared a tumultuous relationship that spanned the emotions from "awesomely perfect" to "how could my life be any worse?" Several years after we'd parted ways and both found and married our respective true loves, he found me on Facebook and promptly apologized for treating me so badly way back when. He said, "You didn't deserve to be treated like that." (yeah, no kidding!) He assured me that he had his head on straight now and was 'towing the line' or some other platitude. There were no strings attached to it, no favor requested. It was just a sincere apology, delivered genuinely and without prompting (and seriously out of character).

There was a real sense of redemption in these offerings. Even when you've already released the anger/resentment from yourself and have learned from the experience and let it go...a sincerely delivered apology, even long after it was needed, does succeed in bringing some peace to the world.

I don't know what triggered the need for these two friends to come to me like that, or how long they'd felt the need to do so, or even the specific events that stuck in their minds as needing correction. It didn't feel proper for me to ask. I felt it was my place to graciously accept what they offered, and move forward.

I don't think it's ever too late to apologize. You can't be sure how it will be received, but a genuine effort does mean something very real.

You Know Where to Find Me

It's a curious place to be dancing on the fringe and have other people tell you that you're not happy there. Disguised by phrases like, "I just want what's best for you," and "You could be really happy/successful/popular if you'd just..", people always seem to know what's best for you even when they don't know what drives you.

I figured out a while ago that I like being on the outskirts. For a long time I fought that. I thought everybody should want to be in the thick of it, the center of attention, on stage for the world to gawk at and (allegedly) aspire to. But then I realized that when you're "there", it's a constant battle to stay "there" and friendships are fragilely based on mutual promotion.

In the outskirts you're freer to be who you want to be. There's room to breathe. Room to twirl. Room to see what's really going on. And room to ignore who and what you wish to ignore.

But take heed when center stage sees your bliss out there on the fringe. Oh mama, that unleashes the fury. How dare you enjoy life on your own terms!

There are certain people who only enjoy life when they dominate the rest of us. Those people want you to want what THEY want, and they really want you to want what they have (or perceive themselves to have), because that is what makes them feel superior. They want to see the green monster of envy in your eyes because that is what validates them. And when you don't want what they think is important, it's an affront to their personal values.

It's tiring dealing with people like this.

Sweet Dreams and Other Things in Pieces on the Ground

Every time I watch Extreme Home Makeover, the same question enters my mind: Is it difficult for these families to reconcile gaining such massive profit from the tragedies they’ve experienced? Typically the recipients of these amazing homes have either suffered the untimely loss of a parent, have a disabled child (or 3 or 4), lost their home in a natural disaster, or were living in near-squalor after having been cheated by scam artist contractors. Sometimes they fit into more than one of those categories. The most tragic stories win a new house and all the furnishings, often with the balance of the mortgage paid off, and even scholarships for the kiddos.

When the show first started the makeovers were modest, they were actually makeovers of existing homes.
Roofs were fixed, appliances were replaced, and the redecorating was realistic. But as ratings grew, so did the budgets. Now, the existing homes are demolished and entire new homes are built in one week with 100% of the furnishings replaced brand new. Children’s rooms look like dance clubs or rocket ships, parents’ rooms are “spa getaways.”

I don’t begrudge these families for accepting the gifts offered them. If anyone deserves some free shelter and college scholarships, it’s them. And they are always extremely gracious and overwhelmed by the generosity bestowed on them. But I always wonder if, when they close their new front door and the camera crews leave, does any of the sadness leave with them? I know I’d rather have my husband with me in our undervalued townhouse than be a widow in a mansion. I just wonder what it does to a person’s mind knowing that this gourmet kitchen and indoor basketball court only came to fruition after heartbreak, medical devastation, or loss of life.

Back when I still believed the urban legend about the meaning behind James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” I felt the same way about this song. Rumor has circulated for decades that the “Susanne” in the lyrics was Taylor’s girlfriend who died in a plane crash after his bandmates flew her in to meet him as a surprise. This story is not true but for years I would tear up every time I heard the song thinking about that tragedy. I always wondered if Taylor would have traded the fame and fortune that “Fire and Rain” brought him if it meant having his girl back.

Now I’m not talking about making lemonade out of lemons. I totally agree that we all have to take what life dishes out at us and try to make the best of it and try to find a way to grow from our experiences. This can be done on many levels, privately or publicly, and can take years to accomplish depending on the size of the lemon. What I’m pondering is the mental journey one takes when a personal tragedy directly brings great fortune. You can’t go straight from despair to living the high life without some introspection. After Eric Clapton’s toddler son died in a high-rise fall, he wrote the song “Tears in Heaven.” I can’t help but wonder if he ever felt guilty for the royalty checks the song has brought him? Are the six Grammy awards he won for it reminders of his son’s death or symbols of triumph?

At least with a trophy you can hide it in a closet. What do you do when you’re living in the trophy?

When Blogs Collide

Twenty-three years ago I was a devotee of Sassy magazine, and one of my favorite staff writers there was Christina Kelly. She was a young hipster who understood me. She wrote like I wanted to write, with honesty an a lack of pandering to her target demographic.

Just last week I came to find that Ms. Kelly writes a blog, Fallen Princess, and is also a contributor to xojane, the blog by Sassy's original editor-in-chief, Jane Pratt. Finding CK's blog was like finding an old issue of Sassy in an attic trunk, unread but entirely familiar.

Since anyone who loves Christina Kelly has a working brain, I not only read her blog but I read every single reader comment. One spoke directly to me in a way that only a fellow Sassyite could.

Now, a while ago I wrote a post on this here blog that a couple readers took offense to. Instead of writing coherent comments to me, they decided it would be cooler to bombard me with juvenile insults. I never addressed them directly nor the event on the blog, though a few of my readers nicely defended me. What annoyed me was not just their inability to articulate what their issue was with my writing, but that they totally missed my point. And for a little while I thought that maybe what I'd written just wasn't clear enough...as if it was an error on my part that THEY had a negative reaction to my words.

A reader/commenter named Marianne on Christina Kelly's blog made me see the situation differently. She told Ms. Kelly,

"Your writing has always been honest. Sometimes a bit brutally honest, and sometimes people can't handle that, and so they choose to just think of that writer as the problem, instead of examining why they are having such a hard time with the writing."

I realized it wasn't my words that they were reacting to, it was my TRUTH.
MY truth.
Something I said made them examine themselves in a way that wasn't comfortable. But it wasn't wrong of me to write it. Those words were as honest as they come and I stand by them, even more so now.

I never cease to be amazed at how much Sassy has influenced my life. Its former writers are little spirits of inspiration who show themselves in the most unexpected of times. Twenty years later even a fellow Sassy reader can help re-ignite the passion for writing that Christina Kelly and the others spurred on in me back then. I speak the truth.

Not So Divine Design

A few years ago I was in my mid-30s and deep in the pit of the career blahs. I needed something new and was having difficulty figuring out what to do next. After scanning several local college handbooks and watching a lot of television, I enrolled in an interior design program, much to my mother’s delight. She’s fascinated by my uncanny ability to remember colors, so somehow this translates into me being the next Laura Ashley.

Clearly, my mother had forgotten my first foray into interior design.

The year was 1984. I was in 7th grade when my humanities teacher assigned us the task of designing our dream home. We were to make ourselves architects, landscapers, and decorators. Anything that was luxurious, futuristic, innovative, or just plain cool was to go into our dream house. The sky was the limit, and creativity was encouraged.

It pains me to see now what I valued then. It hurts so very badly to see what I thought was pretty…or stylish…or even not utterly ridiculous. Let’s take a little tour. We’ll begin with the floor plan:



Yes folks, it’s a trapezoid. That was me trying to be…funky? Being different for the sake of being different was my motivation. Nobody else will think to do a trapezoid, I’m sure I reasoned. This shape lends itself to awkward corners and narrowing closets, and not much else. I guess I didn’t realize they don’t make furniture with 75-degree angles.

Notice the oddly-shaped dining room on the right, with the bathroom directly off of it. Everyone’s dream is to hear a flush during the salad course, right? Notice, also, that the kitchen is on the opposite end of the house from the dining room. One has to walk through the family room, past the pool, and up three steps to get from kitchen to dining. I guess the word “convenient” escaped me. And yes, that’s the pool in the center of the home. But what’s truly awesome is that you enter the pool from the second floor. The walls of the pool are Plexiglas, so you can see into the pool from the main floor. Brilliant! (Pretty sure the Atlantis Hotel in Nassau stole the idea for their aquarium from this project.)

On level two we find the triangular master bedroom, complete with triangular closet and triangular bathroom, where the door cleverly opens directly into the seat of the toilet. Minimalism at its best! No wasted space in that pesky bathroom.




See the bedroom in the upper left corner? “It looks like a Tetris piece,” said my husband. There is literally nowhere in that room to actually place a bed.

Now let’s move on to the luxury furnishings I chose for my casa ideal.

This picture was labeled Guest Bedroom. Ok, who wants to stay in the brothel room?



Check it out, I was gay-friendly before I even knew what that meant!




I can only surmise that I chose this living room ensemble because my neighbors down the street had this exact set and I liked hanging out at their house. I cannot fathom any other excuse for choosing this rustic tartan cabin-in-the-woods theme.

Although, I do recall having an affinity for swinging saloon doors and perhaps I thought this furniture would work with those. Wow, did I just admit that out loud?


The dream bathroom…just…No.

It appears all of my décor was taken straight from the JCPenney catalog, so this phat pad wasn’t entirely a pipe dream. I can remember my mom telling me that if I put effort into finding good deals, the dream could someday become a reality.

I think we can all be thankful that some dreams never come to fruition.

As for my recent venture into design school, I quit after one semester. I'm much better at writing about style than I am at trying to create it.

Fashion News Network

Somewhere around the time of middle school I was paging through the weekly TV listing in the newspaper looking for something to watch on a Saturday morning. I was too old for cartoons, and this was decades before the advent of HGTV and Food Network.

Something caught my eye on channel 13, which was CNN. All it said was “Style.” There was no description, but as any 11-year-old girl would think, I hoped this show had something to do with fashion. I eagerly switched to CNN, and thus began a weekend tradition that lasted nearly 20 years. Every Saturday morning at 10:30 I tuned in to CNN, from junior high to college to early adulthood.

The show was Style With Elsa Klensch, a 30-minute roundup of weekly news from the worlds of fashion, interior design, and art.
Ms. Klensch is an Australian journalist who was the authority on all things contemporary and beautiful. She taught me names like John Galliano, Thierry Mugler, and Annu Sui. Because of this show, I knew the difference between Elie Saab and Elie Tahari. I understood the characteristics that identified a chaise lounge as post-modern or midcentury modern. I grew to appreciate not only the creative process of haute couture, but also what makes something a piece of art, whether it’s a ball gown or an end table. Style With Elsa Klensch had a strong influence in shaping both my knowledge of, and appreciation for, design. And, as I tried to explain to my husband, watching it just made me feel...fancy.

And while I have been known to veg on the couch during a marathon of MTV’s “Cribs”, with its rock ‘n’ roll style of profiling celebrity taste in architecture and fashion, I still long for Elsa Klensch’s presentation. She had an air of dignity and expertise of subject matter that taught me to see the profiled designers as artists and masters of a craft. The show’s regal opening theme song let us know that what we were about to view was something high class, and it always was.

Even this morning, a Saturday in 2011, I looked at the clock at 10:10 a.m. and had a fleeting thought of wishing I could have another half-hour dose of the runway shows from Milan.

What Light Through Yonder Coffee House Window Breaks?

Two weeks ago my husband and I returned from spending seven days in Seattle.

I’d never been there before, nowhere even close, so I was giddy to finally get there. My knowledge about Seattle prior to that week consisted of whatever I learned from episodes of “Frasier”, the fact that the grunge movement in music originated there, and the rumor that there’s a Starbucks on every single street corner. But after this time in the Emerald City, I’m happy to say there’s so much more to it.

I have to say, the coffee there really is great, and there is no shortage of corner coffee houses. But for me it was as much about the atmosphere of the establishments as it was the taste of the beverages. These places are cozy, metropolitan-yet-kitschy with eclectic furniture and local art. Most pleasing, though, was the genuine friendliness of the baristas I encountered.

I fully expected to be given a rolled-eye look when I ordered my caffeine fix in the wrong manner. Many jokes have been made regarding whether it’s a “grande mocha latte double whip” or a “double whip mocha latte grande.” The truth is that they all knew what I meant and didn’t make a big deal about my style. The coffee snobbery that’s so often portrayed on TV is total fiction. I think only coffee preppers in OTHER cities behave that way on the false assumption that this is how Seattle baristas behave.

After taking a 3-mile walk around Green Lake Park in a slight drizzle, my friend and I popped in to the Title Nine store on Woodlawn for a quick look-see while we left our two dogs with the menfolk outside. The store clerks immediately insisted we bring the dogs inside the store so they could meet them. [Insert surprised look here.] A retail clothing store preferred we bring our dogs inside. And then they gave them water. How awesome is that? Seattle is super dog friendly, and I’m convinced it puts everyone in a better mood. Everywhere we went there were dogs walking their owners, and they all seem happier because of it.

I found the majority of people in Seattle to be quite pleasant, as well as helpful, polite, gracious…and I promise it’s not only because I was on a constant buzz of local microbrew influence. People there just seemed to be content. (Maybe they’re under a constant buzz of local microbrew influence.)
Our hosts for the week, who both grew up south of the Mason-Dixon, consider Seattle to be “home”, and I can see how the place can quickly grow on you. The backdrop of immense mountains, the never-ending expanse of evergreens (I’m telling you, these trees are spectacular), the clean air, the availability of every outdoor recreational sport imaginable, and the general attitude of welcomeness all contributed to my relaxation and fascination. On my first day back to work my boss told me I looked so relaxed that I looked 10 years younger. Seriously!


Since returning to Florida, my friends have all questioned me about the weather in Seattle. We all believe that it does nothing but rain there. Sorry, folks, but we saw the sun this week, multiple times. We even wore sunglasses. And we saw a glorious full moon between the evergreens one night. But I’ll tell ya, the Seattle rain is far more tolerable than the Florida rain. It may last longer, but it’s less obtrusive. Our hosts told us not to bother bringing umbrellas because “everyone will know you’re a tourist.” They were right, I didn’t see any umbrellas in use, only hats and hoods, and even that was only sometimes.

Truthfully, the overcast skies contributed to the beauty of the landscape. It’s easier to stare up into the massive evergreens when you’re not being blinded by sunlight. The clouds teasingly shadow the snow-topped Olympic and Cascade mountains far off in the distance.

Our ferry ride across Puget Sound seemed more romantic blanketed in grayness.



Finally, I cannot discuss Seattle without mentioning food. A place called Duke’s Chowder House on Alki Beach served a scrumptious chowder sampler that was an absolute dream.
Dungeness crab bourbon, clam, lobster pernod, cajun chicken, and Northwest seafood combo chowders were each simmered to perfection. There I also had wild Alaskan cod that was the freshest, heartiest hunk of fish I’ve ever tasted, with nary a drop of greasiness.

Our last night found us at The Matador in the Ballard neighborhood where I chose roasted tomato, chicken, polenta, and avocado soup (can you hear the choir of angels singing at its mention?). This was accompanied by butternut squash and goat cheese quesadillas. Divine. Nothing pretentious, but skillfully executed (which could describe much of Seattle, actually).

There’s no question whether I loved Seattle. It was well worth every dollar and hour it took to get there. I felt a million miles from home and yet felt entirely comfortable there. I already miss the chilly mornings I spent sipping my coffee on the deck, gazing at the evergreens and cedars, looking for the hummingbird that surprised me the first day. I can’t wait to go back to what was described to me as “the only place you want to be in summer.”

Seattle, wait for me.

"Honey, I forgot to duck."

On March 30, 1981, my friend Tamara and I were selling ice cream to neighborhood kids from a table that we set up in my front yard. Business was good, and we were turning a profit within the first hour.

When I went inside to get more chipwiches from the freezer, excited to relay the news of our sales to my mom, she quickly shush’d me. Taken aback, I just stood there wondering what the problem was.

She said, “The President was shot.”
“He was shot at?” I asked.
“No, he was shot,” she corrected.

Arguing semantics with a 4th grader is probably frustrating, but I had no idea what the difference between “shot” and “shot at” was. Then I saw the footage being replayed on the TV. Ohhh, the bullet actually hit him, I realized.

Past that moment, I don’t remember much. I’m not sure if or how the issue was addressed at school the following school day. I’d bet we talked about it, but I can’t recall any specific conversation.

At just nine years old my interest in politics and world events had a short attention span. I remember the Iran hostage crisis and how most of the hostages were released as Reagan delivered his inaugural address. I remember debating in class whether or not Reagan would lead us into a nuclear war. Gen X hadn’t known Ronald Reagan the actor, we only knew him as the politician. His election was BIG even to elementary school students, and the attempt on his life forced us to realize that people in power are vulnerable, and that bad people with twisted minds would do crazy things. This event most certainly shaped Gen X’s political awareness.

Less than two months later Pope John Paul II was also shot, so we were thrown into a world of questions about why such things kept happening. While I was too young to remember it, I knew that an attempt had previously been made on President Ford’s life, and of course I’d heard of President Kennedy’s assassination. So I came to see the Presidency as a very dangerous position. I almost assumed that being President guaranteed you’d be shot.

Throughout the last 30 years we’ve periodically seen updates on TV of the status of Reagan’s press secretary, James Brady, who was also critically wounded that day.
Gun control as Gen X knows it originated with this man, as the “Brady Bill” became law in 1994. Images of him always brought me back to that day in my front yard at nine years old, and I’d think about all I’d done and everywhere I’d been since that day; I wonder if my old friend Tamara connects that day’s two events.


This AP photo by Ron Edmonds fascinates me. Taken milliseconds after the bullet struck President Reagan in mid-wave, a secret service agent has already begun to push him toward the open door of the limousine. The look of realization of what is happening just begins to show on the President’s face.