Things Men Don't Have to Deal With

 "I just don't understand!" 

Sometimes being a girl isn't all about pretty trinkets, ruffly dresses, and pastel coconut macaroons. It gets ugly. There are things we envy about you guys - things that you probably aren't even aware of. (NO, it isn't what you're thinking, so get your mind outta the gutter.) Mostly what we envy is what you DON'T have to deal with. This could get a little gross, so keep that in mind. 

1. Putting on Spanx and/or Tights, especially after a shower. 

I dried off.  REALLY WELL. I swear I did. Yet, I find myself contorting into all kinds of weird positions and breathing heavily and sweating. I tug, pull, twist, take it off, and do it all over again. I know I burn more calories in the 4 x 3 shower stall at the gym than I do during 30 minutes on the elliptical. Finally, success! All chub is put in its place, and I have a lean line in the mirror. And then I feel it. The waistband rollllllls back down over my belly, and I now have a nice muffin-top sitting on the waistline of my pencil skirt. Sexy. Start again.

2. Tampons on the Lam

OK - there are two categories of this. The first is when you are carrying them around before you need them for your womanly time. Every woman I know has had the embarrassing tampon moment. Usually it happens in front of men, of course! My last event was when I tripped up the stairs at my daughter's school, sending my purse flying. The contents were distributed at the feet of the confused male school janitor. One item was my birth-control pills, and the other was a tampon, which had magically migrated out of its oh-so-clever bright pink camouflage package. Why do tampons do this? Why do they turn on us? They are supposed to be a helpful invention. Yet, they strive to break free and show themselves to the world. Maybe they're just tired of being taken for granted.

Which brings me to the other scenario: The Missing Tampon. Dunh-Dunh-Dunh! (Scary suspenseful sound clip insert). TMT will happen to you eventually, trust me. You put it in, you know you did. But it isn't there anymore. Perhaps you had a few too many adult beverages the night before, and don't remember taking it out. But where did it go? Maybe it is stuck to the bottom of your shoe, or on the sidewalk somewhere, or even worse-maybe it has SOMEHOW migrated to your abdominal cavity. You are terrified to put another in, for fear of the dreaded Toxic Shock Syndrome. People die of that! You make a frantic call to your doctor. She tells you one of two things: it's still in there and she's gonna have to fetch it out, or you're stupid and you are wasting her time.(Not really, but that's how you feel.) Damn you, tampons.

Poor Eva

3. Boobs

We know you men love boobs. Boobs are great. They're a nice shape, they feed babies, they save the world. But did you know that they can really piss you off? Yes! Boobs CAN do that. For one thing, if you are well-endowed, they become a shelf that catches food. Not a week goes by that I don't spill some kind of food item on my girls. Usually someone else points it out. They also hurt sometimes, especially when you run without proper support, or you have too much salt and caffeine. They leak when you are breast-feeding, and finding a properly fitting bra is like finding the Holy Grail - elusive and expensive. The straps dig into your shoulders, and the underwire pokes out to stab you repeatedly. Don't even get me started on strapless bras and the quadra-boob. Also, finding a shirt that doesn't gap, but that fits you everywhere else is fun, only the opposite. I know that some men have moobs - perhaps these are the men who can sympathize. Otherwise, you just don't get it. 

4. Back Fat

Enough said. Combine an ill-fitting bra and tights that continually roll down, and even the slimmest girl has this problem. 

5. THE YEARLY EXAM

I won't go into details here. I know guys have to do the bend-over-and-cough routine. But let me just say, the paper gown and sheet dance is no fun. There are scary instruments, cold hands, and antiseptic fragrance. And oven mitts. 

 I like being female, don't get me wrong. There are the ponytails and shoes, the trips to Sephora, and the excitement over wedding and baby showers. I like wearing dresses and skirts. But acting like a lady is hard work, and sometimes I just wanna burp in public, wear swishy pants, and not cross my legs.  

Why I Run

                 


When I was six, I was fast. This is one of the best memories of my childhood. I remember running a race in kindergarten, falling and twisting my ankle, getting up and continuing to run like it was nothing, and still coming in first. There was a lot of congratulatory back-slapping and high five-ing from my gym teacher and my classmates. Pretty much after that, all athleticism disappeared from my life.

Fast-forward to age thirteen and every fat kid's nightmare: the ever-loving Presidential Fitness Test. This was a whole bundle of fail for me, every single time. From hanging like a blob of overcooked pasta from the chin-up bar for the requisite three seconds, to eke-ing out a few sit-ups and trying not to fart in the face of my partner, I dreaded this. But nothing could compare to the dreaded 1-mile run that capped off this gauntlet of pain.  Inevitably, the Mile would take place on the hottest day of the year.  About a quarter mile in, my side would start aching and I would hyperventilate. I would pray for it to be over as I rounded the final stretch.  Finally, I would cross the finish line with all of the other chubby kids, and we would groan in a Greek chorus of shame as we tried to keep ourselves from covering our Velcro shoes with vomit. These are my memories of running.

So, why do I do it now?

It really makes no sense; I'm not a natural runner, I am not a natural athlete.  But here I am, training for a half-marathon.  I've ran countless miles between those embarrassing school days, and I can tell you this: I LOVE running.  Everything about it is infinitely appealing to me now - from choosing my next pair of shoes to researching the best training programs for my next race, I look forward to my tri-weekly run just like I used to look forward to a Big Mac.

The shift happened a few years ago. I was going through a divorce, and was incredibly unhappy with how I felt and how I had allowed myself to become so unhealthy. I cleaned up my diet and began exercising. Within a year, I had dropped over 35 pounds. I still wasn't running, but I was feeling pretty good. And then my world collapsed in on itself.

My ex-husband, who had struggled with depression for many years, took his own life, leaving our daughter fatherless at age 3.  We had remained friends, despite our divorce, and I still cared for him as the father of my child.  Suddenly, I had no partner and I was the only person that my daughter had. I vacillated from feelings of extreme helplessness and fear to an intense anger that made me physically shake.  I had a choice - I could be strong and care for my child and find a way to carry on, or I could crumble.  I'm not a crumbler.  I started lifting weights, and I started to run.

The first quarter mile hurt, like it always had. But this time, the hurt was a sentient "thing" that I could battle. I made the pain a monster that I had to destroy. That made it easier.  That monster got driven farther, and farther back as I advanced.  I saw it again at the 1-mile mark, then the 2-mile, and then again at 5 miles. Most runners call this the Wall.  The Wall is real, and you have to run through it, or you quit.  At a time in my life when I felt helpless, running made me feel like a warrior.  I battled shin splints, plantar fasciitis, and aching joints. My counselor said I was handling my grief better than any patient she had ever had. Running was my drug, and the cocktail of endorphins it served me helped me more than any anti-depressant.

When I was training for my first half-marathon, I torqued my knee so badly while running on a local woodland trail, that I was out of commission for over a month. I had to ice, wear a wrap, and miss my race. It was devastating. I had been running for over two years at this point, and was up to a 7 mile long run.  I went to the elliptical, and stayed there. But it wasn't the same - not even close.

A few months ago, I started running again. I was slow, and memories of that chubby adolescent girl haunted me as I huffed and puffed my way through the Couch to 5K program. (This is an excellent program for beginning runners, by the way.)  It was humiliating that I had to start all over.  But, I'm glad that I did. I'm training for the same half-marathon I didn't complete two years ago.  My life is happy and full now, and I no longer need the Pain Monster to push me. I am excited as I feel my body beginning to change and grow strong again.   Even though running makes my calves so big that my boots don't fit, and makes me turn twenty shades of red(not a pretty runner, folks), it makes me feel alive. There's nothing like it.

13.1, here I come.

 Image courtesy of yaletownkeg.com

Feminism or Fishnets? Must We Choose?

                                                           

What does a feminist look like? When someone says the word, what is the image that your mind conjures?  A Birkenstock wearing, bra-less, boho chick with a book by Gloria Steinem under her arm? There's nothing wrong with that - of course not. There's also nothing wrong with the feminist who wears lipstick and patent leather stilettos.  They exist!  I may be one of them.

The truth is, part of being a woman is the conundrum of balancing our femininity with our desire to be treated equally in society.  Sexism still exists - it may not be as pronounced as it was in the 1950s, but it is more subversive.  Women are still objectified in advertisements, pornography, and Hollywood. It's difficult to be taken seriously nowadays if you like dresses and ruffles.  Men still think it's OK to whistle and catcall to women that they do not know.  What's even worse, is that women sometimes encourage the behavior and are flattered by it.  My friends and I were at a bar recently, and a young man walked past us, and felt it was his privilege to touch us on our buttocks as he went by.   He was stunned when I called him out in public.  Perhaps he had gotten away with it many times before.

That's not to say I dislike men; I love men.  I am married to a phenomenal man who treats me with respect, and understands that I am independent and opinionated.  He doesn't feel threatened by that.  I worked with a man once who told me that "an independent woman is unattractive."  Really?  I certainly can appreciate the gentlemanly desire to care for and lovingly protect a woman, and I am not necessarily turned off by that.   I AM turned off by men who assume that I NEED that protection.   A man that can give me the space that I need to pursue my ambitions and support them is very masculine, because he is secure.  My husband realizes that my desire to be successful is not emasculating to him.  I also am secure enough to let him open doors for me.

It really bothers me that young women are beginning to turn to a culture of superficiality.  I have heard about pre-teen girls posting videos on YouTube asking viewers whether they are "pretty" or not.  Having a daughter myself, I worry about this.  Not only because of the potential for predatory behavior (YouTube needs filters and controls, who's with me here?), but what this says about our culture. In her book, "Quiet",  Susan Cain explains how society has moved away from a culture of character, into a culture of personality and superficiality. Our opinions of ourselves are dictated by how others perceive us. How damaging this is! It is ironic that we, as women, have made so many strides toward equality in the workplace over the past 30 years, yet we care more about if others like us.  I've been guilty of that, in my younger years. Thankfully, that matters much less as I age.

But, back to my main point. Since when did I have to quit being "girly" to be a feminist? I am an unabashed admirer of fashion and beauty, in its many forms. I work in the beauty industry. I love helping women, and men, feel great about themselves.  I also enjoy being an Oriental (Belly) dancer. One of the most rewarding things in my life has been teaching women how to control their muscles, fat, and limbs to become one with the music.  I also love a great burlesque show.  See, to me there's a difference in a woman who knows that she is being comical, confident, and sexy in an intentional way rather than a woman who has been beaten into thinking that her body is the only thing she has of value to offer.  I know when I get on stage, and I am putting on my glitter, I am not thinking about stealing anyone's husband, or the attention I am getting from men. I am thinking about how I go into a "zen bubble" when I dance, and how free I feel.  I do it for me, and for the ladies - for that teenage girl who is self-conscious about the little bit of belly she has, and who feels she's clumsy and awkward.  For the mom who has stretch-marks and roomy hips, and for the grandmother with her wrinkles.  It's OK to feel pretty.

I DO have a real problem with objectification. I have a problem with women being brain-washed into thinking they have to be a 00.  Women turning into Fiats, bottles of beer, I could go on and on...Jean Kilbourne's excellent "Killing Us Softly" series is a fine example of how the media influences us.  I was an unwitting victim of this when I found myself in the check-out line with a box of Magnums (ice-cream bars, not condoms). Those racy ads featuring Rachel Bilson had sunk in more than I realized. Although the ice cream is good, the pseudo-sexual image of a beautiful young woman salivating over a phallic shaped ice cream novelty is just another example of targeted advertising.  Sure, it's successful, but at what cost?  I am not a prude, by any stretch of the imagination.  But, the mystery of sex is gone.  Where do we go from here?  Sex sells; always has, always will.  But, I would rather innuendo than soft-core porn in my ads.  "Save some for later, Augustus!"

I worry about our young women, especially if they are confused about their sexuality and their place in this world.   We owe it to the giants of our history - the Elizabeth Stantons, the Eleanor Roosevelts, and the Marie Curies, to do better. We have to...otherwise we will regress into self-imposed misogyny.  Think of fat-shaming, slut-shaming and thin-shaming; these are things that we women do to one another.  And this time, we won't be able to blame it all on the patriarchs, because we will have become willing participants in our own downfall.   It doesn't matter if you wear overalls, a frilly dress, or a bikini.  Be yourself - be a woman.  Whether lesbian, straight, transgender or bi, let's try to not hate on our sex.  We've worked really hard to get here.  Don't take it for granted.

Photo: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

In Celebration of Midge

Growing up poor makes you creative. Forced to find our own fun diversions while other kids were playing with their Ataris, my sister and I invented lots of games and activities. One of my favorite memories is the covered wagon we rigged up with coat hangers, old sheets, and our poor dog, Rocky, as the horse. We were watching too much Little House on the Prairie, obviously.

One of the other projects I enjoyed as a child was making doll clothes for the rag-tag band of Barbies that I owned. We pilfered most of these from yard sales, and my favorite was my Midge doll. She was my muse. Not many people know about Midge; she was usually in Barbie's shadow. Barbie's great, but she's not such a great role-model. She's just too perfect. Young girls can't live up to her standards. Veterinarian one day, teacher the next, then super-model. How does she have time for it all? And that body...well it defies gravity.

Midge was REAL. (As real as a plastic person can be, that is.) She was a kind of everywoman, with a smattering of freckles, a snub-nose and a tangle of red hair that flipped out at the ends. She was perky and cute. What she lacked in sophistication, she made up for with personality. In all of the coloring books and ads, it's Midge with the sassy look on her face, and the gleam in her eye. I guess I relate to that. I'm seldom, if ever the most beautiful woman in the room. I've always relied on my wit and intelligence to carry me through life. That's what happens when you're awkward as a child - you learn how to adapt to whatever life throws at you. You know how to chop and change.

Many of my friends are Midges. Even if they blossomed later in life, they usually didn't start out privileged that way. One was self-conscious of her buck-teeth and grew up just as poor as I did. She now models. One was extremely tall at a young age, and is now a statuesque beauty who is proud of her height. One was a tomboy, and didn't wear makeup until she was in her twenties. One was chubby as a child, and is now a personal-trainer. One was petite and always mistaken for being much younger than her age. It serves her well now! I love it. None of us depended on our looks to get us by, and neither would Midge, I'd imagine.

There was quite a controversy about Midge in the early nineties. She turned up pregnant (even though she was married), and there was an outcry from the public. Mattel discontinued Midge from production, and we haven't seen her since. Vintage Midge dolls are now collector's items. They sometimes go for thousands of dollars. Even though my daughter doesn't play with dolls, I wish Mattel would bring her back. Barbie is pristine, beautiful, and perfect, but give me moxie any day!

There's nothing wrong with wanting to be pretty and glamorous; I enjoy dressing up and being a girl just like most women do. But there's something to be said for making personality a priority. Magazines and movies paint an unrealistic portrait of what a modern woman should be. Somehow, we are supposed climb the ladder of success, be sexy for our men, and raise happy, healthy children all while looking like a cocaine addict. Who can attain all of that and maintain their sanity?? I sometimes look like a psychotic cave-dweller going to the grocery store. Something's gotta give, people.

I guess the point of this blog is to love who you are. I adore the Lady Gaga song, "Born This Way." It really brings home what I'm trying to say. I never want my daughter to feel like she needs to change who she is. I love her attitude; her ears that stick out ever so slightly, her blackened fingernails from playing in the dirt. I love that she can hang out with the boys; that she can make anyone laugh with her absurd sense of humor. I'm not trying to turn her into an idealized image of what I want her to be. I see this a lot in my peer group. It makes me sad. It will always lead to rebellion or a crushed spirit. Neither is good for a child's self-esteem. We need to give our daughters the gift of self-expression.

Let's start a movement. Let's bring back Midge.