Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

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 further championed the power within women while simultaneously challenging outdated beliefs on the capabilities of women.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."

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

MYODB

I realized something about myself today: I’m a lot more private than I used to be. That may sound strange coming from someone who writes about her life on a public forum. But on here I control what gets out, and my words are carefully chosen. I try to make the stories have meaning, not be just a random spewing of facts and thoughts.

But the truth I realized today is that I just don’t like to divulge things about myself to strangers without good reason. If you want to know something about me, tell me why you need to know. “Just curious” isn’t enough for me anymore. You have every right to ask me a question, but conversely I have every right to deny you an answer. Your desire to know does not constitute a demand on my part. Staring me down doesn’t help your cause, either. I don’t know if people have gotten nosier or just worse at reading nonverbal cues. I hadn’t realized until today just how strong my desire for privacy is, how prickly and uncomfortable I feel when pressed for intimate details about myself, like a cat backed into a corner.

A perfect example—though not the impetus for this post—is the ever-looming “so why haven’t you had a baby?” inquisition. The most likely answer I give is, “because I haven’t.” I can’t think of a more personal question, or one that has so many possibilities of having a tragic or painful reason behind the answer. It amazes me how many people fail to consider this before speaking.

Also, I don’t give my phone number to retail stores. Take my money for my purchase and let me leave. I don’t care why or how you track customers, you’re not getting my number. I don’t care that the cash register “won’t let you” continue the transaction without a phone number; I’m sure you can make one up and override it, it’s not a nuclear detonator. Nor is it my problem. I will gladly buy my jeans elsewhere; you’re not getting my number.

I have to take a deep breath when someone asks me what bands I like, because this is typically asked by someone who is passionate about the bands THEY like, and they want me to like their favorites. If I don’t, I’m usually then told why my taste is juvenile/commercial/uninspired, and that the music I like has no soul. No, I just don’t have YOUR soul. MY soul is happy with my music. Music is like politics in terms of loyalty. A single conversation isn’t going to change anybody’s opinion, and trying to do so only pisses somebody off.

“What is your dream ________?” also makes me very uneasy. Dreams by their very nature are extremely personal and often shrouded in impossibility. I’m fully aware that many of my dreams have aspects that render them invalid by pesky realities like gravity and my lack of a functional time-travel machine. But they are my dreams and I enjoy them, knowing full well that they may sound crazy to an outsider. So I choose to keep them to myself. I don’t want to be marked off the short list for a new job because the interviewer doesn’t understand my dreams, which most likely are irrelevant to the matter at hand anyway. You won’t “get a feel” for the person I am in 20 minutes by asking what my dreams are, nor will they indicate my likelihood of success in said job. Doing so only works to add an uncomfortable heaviness to the room.

Declining to answer personal questions often leads to the misperception that there is something sinister to hide, or of paranoia. Neither is true with me.

Former US Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis said, “Privacy is the right to be alone—the most comprehensive of rights, and the right most valued by civilized man.”

Word.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

The Buried Life

I’ve had a bad couple of days. I’ve been feeling overwhelmed with my life. I haven’t been able to sit still, yet most everything on my to-do list involves sitting still and concentrating, focusing. Work, school, planning for future work, stressing over other personal life issues.
School, school, and more school.


I felt physically ill, nauseous; I was crying, irritable, nervous. I felt on the verge of breakdown, and said so.

My husband looked at me knowingly, “You do this at the beginning of every semester, and you always end up fine,” he said.

"Yeah, I know, but this time it’s twice as bad because I’m taking twice as many classes.”

He shook his head.

Earlier in the day I had posted a status update on Facebook: “FLConfetti has that buried feeling.”

Only one friend responded. He said one word: “Dig.”

I kicked an imaginary wall in frustration.

This friend managed to survive medical school, and so much more. I’m sure he’s had his days of feeling buried. I can’t NOT listen to him.

Kick.

Pout.

Dig.



(thanks, Doc)

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Chiffon Wishes and Crinoline Dreams

The other day I was watching a horrible reality show called “Say Yes to the Dress,” which spotlights brides-to-be as they search for their dream wedding gown at a high-end bridal salon. I call it “horrible” because it perpetuates the ideas that, A) an article of clothing can be akin to your utmost fantasy, and B) if you find your dream gown and don’t purchase it, you will quite possibly ruin your own wedding and regret it for the rest of your life.

Brides are duped into believing that it is totally worth it to be in debt for the next decade so as to not pass up “your” dress (which, apparently, is hidden in a large storage room in New Jersey). These perfection-seeking, emotionally taxed women are duped into spending thousands of dollars on something they will wear ONCE, all by the idea that they are purchasing an actual dream.

On the episode I was watching, a very young woman had flown her entire family from Florida to NJ to go to this salon, and of course she found her dream gown there. The price tag: $23,000. That’s twenty-three THOUSAND dollars for a single-use dress.

This probably comes as no surprise, but my wedding gown was not my dream dress. I don’t even know what my dream dress would be. I don’t think I could put all the features of every beautiful dress I’ve ever seen onto one single garment without creating a hideous monster, much like one of those 27-scoop ice-cream sundaes. There are many details (and flavors) I find amazing in their own ways, but that doesn’t mean they should all be in one place at the same time. My wedding gown was beautiful and elegant and flattering, but I did not go on a nationwide search for it with multiple friends and relatives in tow for additional opinions and moral support.


I found my gown by myself, online, in a bridal salon on the opposite side of the country, and it arrived by UPS without my ever seeing it in person first. It was a high-end designer gown that was a season old and had been a store sample. It had been tried on and was missing a button, maybe a few scuffs on the hem. In the world of bridal salons, it was a bruised banana not fit for the sundae.

But I got it at a 95% discount. So while it wasn’t the Gown of the Century, it was a gorgeous wedding dress that I could afford, and it saved me what surely would have been days of emotional exhaustion and outbursts of frustration taken out on other people when things wouldn’t go my way when trying on gown after gown in search of my dream. A professional cleaning, a replacement button and some alterations, and I had a gown I would have never even been able to consider before. So who’s living the dream now?

Dream gowns rarely come at dream prices. And they rarely bring with them the promised dreams of everlasting bliss.