Privilege Privilege

There are two words that are really big on the internet today, and frankly I'm getting tired of both of them: "shame" as a verb and "privilege". I'm going to bitch about privilege. Hopefully by the time I'm done I'll have the spelling memorized. I'm really good at spelling, I don't know why this word has taken me so long.

On Facebook I have a lot of friends who are compulsive article-sharers, which is unfortunate for me since I am a compulsive reader who is always on Facebook with some procrastinating excuse. Anyway, a popular topic for many are discussions (or, to be frank, complaints) about a type of "privilege". White privilege, heterosexual privilege, male privilege.... I once read an article about "feminine privilege" in the lesbian community. And while I don't want to belittle the challenges faced by people on the losing side of these "privileges," I feel so many that are most popular for discussion... it is a luxury that we GET to complain about them.

These arguments about who is more "privileged" have become so nitpicking and whiny that I get embarrassed for the people getting upset over them. I've seen a forum of white guys gripe about the privileges of women getting to have the choice of any men they want. These guys have so few problems that they have the time and indignation to invest in complaining about not getting laid at their desired frequency... while also deluding themselves that they are competing for the same women as Brad Pitt and THAT is to blame for their abysmal sex lives. It's like we have become so pampered in our daily lives that we need to create problems since we aren't actively struggling to feed ourselves or fight off, like, badgers or wolves or something.

THAT is "privilege privilege". People who GET to complain that one person gets some imaginary perk that is in no way an inalienable right

While it does absolutely nothing to counterweight the "cons" I've experienced, I think there are privileges for me being a female. Like on an airplane, if there is anybody with a penis and over the age of thirty within six rows of me, that man (or men) will lunge to stuff my Jennifer Lopez carryon in the overhead bin. In fact, the one time this DIDN'T happen to me when there was a man in convenient proximity, even I felt kind of uncomfortable. A previous delayed flight meant getting on the plane at the last call and taking the only empty seat left; he was already happily buckled in and maybe twenty pages in to his newly purchased mystery novel written by some guy with two monosyllabic names. And the circumstances were such that I actually had difficulty with my bag (compartment already mostly full, body weak from not having eaten anything all day and running through airports).  I could have asked for help, but then I would have felt like an entitled bitch. But as he noticed my presence I saw a sort of shame settle into his face, and he tried to act as politely surprised as he could when I asked if I could squeeze into the middle seat.

But when it came time to get off the plane, that dude delivered. My bag was at my feet with the handle extended before I could undo my seatbelt. He even turned my bag in the best direction for optimum, drag-free gliding. I had to emphasize this so much to my boyfriend when I told him about how nobody offered to help me with my bag; I swear he was prepared to hunt the guy down and kick his ass for not helping me when I boarded.

It's a silly example that I took way too long to give, but there it is. I got so used to having a favor done for me, to having one life-conveniencing superpower, that I felt completely scandalized when it went away.

Fighting social injustice is important, and it's probably better to over-analyze everything and irritate everybody than to not think about things. But sometimes maybe we can keep a little perspective and maybe turn our attention to REAL social injustices in other places when we start running out of them in our own personal lives. That guy might not have put my bag in the overhead bin for me, but I live in circumstances where I can make my own money, by my own ticket, and get on a plane all by myself on a whim and nobody has stopped me or called me fat about it. Maybe I can do something for people who don't have those privileges?

I can't believe I forgot to mention "thin privilege"! What kind of white girl am I?

Incurably Optimistic

I wrote some heavy things the other night, thinking I might detour from trying to actually write a blog that was generally upbeat to bludgeon you in the eyes with some cold, hard reality. But I'm glad I waited, I'm glad I didn't let it broadcast for even half a Mississippi.

We all have darkness, we all have sadness. We all have those kinds of emotional breaks where we're crouched on the floor in our underwear begging the universe to justify why we should be here. At least, I know a lot of us do. But while I don't want to ignore or cheapen those times, I don't want to glorify them. I don't want to fixate on them.

One of my greatest fortunes as a kid was something I will never quite understand about myself. Maybe I had rotted my brain with so much candy and cartoons that my body and psyche were running on pure sugar and mayhem. But when I was an adolescent, at an age where everybody is uncomfortable at best, I went through things no kid of any age should have to deal with. And I went through most of them alone. I kept things to myself. Sometimes it was because I knew I would feel guilt if I involved people; usually it was because I assumed nobody would care or validate my problems. But even though I probably looked angry because I was always grimacing in pain, even though I went through a light Goth phase and therefore looked like someone who reveled in hurt, I had an undying happiness in my heart that I never let die.

At a time when I was the most scared, the most sick, the most isolated, I think I was happier than I am now. I am not the warrior I was when I was twelve.

I remember shopping with my mom one day... the store was empty enough that it had to have been a weekday during school hours, so perhaps it was at a time when the local school board had decided to formally kick me out for too many absences. But it was a day where I felt comparatively okay, and to help prevent my becoming a weird bubble child my mom would take me out into the public whenever possible, including school days. Anyway, there was a tshirt with Spongebob Squarepants smiling open-mouthed, staring upwards with rosy cheeks and sparkly eyes, and it said in bulging yellow letters:

"Incurably Optimistic"

It was a silly shirt (but all of my acquaintances know how much I value a truly silly tshirt), honestly should have been too childish for a 12 year old since all my peers were rushing into a world of makeup and sexual activity. But it was a weirdly affirming moment when my mom stopped and pulled one off the rack.

"I would love for you to wear this when you go back to school. And I want your teachers to see it."

I'm sure I paired it with some KikWear jeans and perhaps a studded bracelet to give it the necessary amount of edge I needed in my clothes at the time, but I felt a special kind of defiance when I wore that shirt. The defiance of being happy when nobody expects you to be. It's not a mean thing, it's not even sassy. There's no extra satisfaction in it because largely, as with anything else, nobody gives a fuck. Nobody wants you when you're down and out, but nobody even hears you if you're feeling pretty okay.

But people still keep you around when you're doing pretty okay. I've noticed at times of particular lowness, it rubs off on everybody else in different ways until everybody kind of gives up on me. "Nah, last time we hung out I somehow started commenting on everybody's weight. That was weird."

Okay, more likely they just know I'm kind of lame. I'm sure some friends can tell I'm trying, that I'm fighting, that my heart is kind of in the right place when I offer them a beer in the saddest, least beery voice possible. But it's just not cool. Even though my life is objectively and infinitely better than it was when I was a kid, I can't pull myself together to appreciate it because of smaller variables in my life. Things are different. I'm not that kid any more.

I'm sure there's no way to pinpoint anything that cured the optimism. Too much time has passed, too many things have happened. If there ever was a turning point, it's been lost to the ages and embellished upon by other devastating events. Besides, it's not like it's something I want to invest time thinking about.

But it seems like maybe it would be worth it. To move myself forward, maybe it would have helped to know where I came from. And that's just it... I vaguely know from where I have come. I was there, and I think of it often. The details don't need to be that important. I know that I had something, that I still smiled enough that my mom noticed despite everything she was going through. And it made her happier.

That's who I got used to being, and who I started to take for granted. She might have irritated ill-wishers and sad people, but I'd rather annoy sad people than drag down happy ones.

I totally forgot where I was going with this. I'm watching Jim Gaffigan.

Proof Men Have an Unhealthy Relationship with Food

Because I was in the market for body spray and am hell-bent on spending my life wasting time on the internet, I had previously been researching what smells are most generally pleasing because I'm tired of smelling women my age who smell like a cotton candy factory exploded. And maybe some marmots perished in the explosion, explaining the lingering notes of musk lying under the olfactory spin-kick of sweetness. Anyway, while I want to smell nice, I don't want to be all up in your face with how I smell. Like maybe you just give me a high five and walk away thinking,  "No bad smells happened when that kindly ginger woman lifted her arm. I should send her candy."

Anyway, since I'm super into men I naturally investigated the smells dudes like.

It's not that the results surprised me, necessarily. I think it has more to do with how the information was presented to me: in the form of associating male sexual desire with smells I would associate more with type II diabetes. According to every article I looked at (and I checked a lot because I was so very puzzled), men are consistently more attracted to food smells (particularly pumpkin, vanilla, cinnamon, doughnuts and licorice) than flowery, musky, or any other types of smells. As in these smelled filled them with amorous notions.

If you think I'm hyperbolizing the sexuality of this, maybe take a look at this article talking about smells increasing men's "penile blood flow". Yes, they scientifically measured the Boner Factor of different smells, the most popular of which were food smells and one flower. And the Boner Factor was most increased for pumpkin pie at an increase of 40%.

The men being studied literally had boners for pie.

This brings up a lot of questions:

Does the Milk Shake bring all the boys to the yard because they smell it? Is there increased sexual tension every time guys head into the pantry or are they so used to their own kitchens that it no longer registers? When Paris Hilton was sloppily eating that Hardees burger, were you sincerely more interested in the burger than the skinny blonde chick?  Does this mean Ghirardelli commercials are actually targeted to men with their dirty woman-on-chocolate action? Do you only desire me sexually because you're hoping there will be cake after? Why aren't you offering me some damn cake if it's so sexy?!

In the interest of fairness, let's see what gets the ladies hot and bothered.

.......

Oh, there's virtually no information.

I guess that explains how Axe body spray remains in popular circulation: dudes have yet to ask what we actually want them to smell like.

.......

It's not Axe body spray, by the way. Probably something primal, like moose blood. Or Old Spice.

Congraturation

When I buy stuff off Etsy.com, it sends me a confirmation email that tells me "Congratulations!" on my purchase instead of "Thank you!"

What, like they're doing me a favor by me buying things?










Disclaimer: I actually super love Etsy, this post is a joke. Sometimes I write silly things when I've had too much chicken.

Driving

A truck illegally passes multiple cars in snowy, treacherous conditions.

Him, sarcastically: "Oh, THAT'S cool."

Me: "Not to be sexist, but I bet that was a white guy."

Him, still sarcastically: "Yeah, you think?"

Me: "Any time somebody does something stupid but clearly intentional in traffic, it's always a dude."

Him: "Yup."

Me: "Dudes be all, 'Fear my mighty wiener!'"

There's a long, awkward pause as he plays around on his phone.

Me: "... And then I'm all like, 'Ew, no.'"

Him: "You turned that into a whole little story, didn't you?"

Me: "Well I'm basically talking to myself, so I might as well make it interesting for me."

Him: "Haha, yeah."

Examining Myself

Socrates' words, "The unexamined life is not worth living," doesn't necessarily refer to outsiders noticing we are here, but it sure helps life feel more worthwhile to get a little wave now and then.  But I have had a headache and my mood is finally on a medicinally induced upswing, so it's time for beer and self-reflection.

2013 felt like years.  When I consider events of about a year ago (underground ziplining in Louisville, an overnight trip to Chicago), they seem more like memories of three or four years ago.  To oversimplify 12 months of human existence into a list, I had two breakups, one tumor, two surgeries, the death of my last living grandparent, my brother got married for the third time and my sister got engaged for the first.  I managed to spend all my vacation and personal days within the first quarter of the year with medical appointments and surgeries. I spent a week knowing I had a tumor and not knowing if it was cancer. The day after my grandma died I had to live in somebody else's house alone for three weeks. I've been told I was the most selfless person someone had met; somebody else told me I was the most selfish.  I was called a best friend, a waste of time, and was "baby" to more people than I could have expected.

Life is weird.  The more I live and the more that happens to me, all the coincidences and unlikely events, the more I realize (but the harder it is to predict) that life is freakin' weird.  My life is constantly changing and even more so in my own perception.  My mind can be in so many places and ways so quickly, and all that I know exists changes with it. Some moments I am the strongest I have ever been, and others the most despicable I have ever been.

Last year saw a lot of tears.  I faced some of the most painful challenges I ever have and overcome things I never thought I could or would have to.  I fucked up in ways I thought I was too smart to.  I learned that sometimes going through your biggest challenges... hurt that makes your ego tear and your heart blister, like your existence is on fire... can look from the outside like some sad bitch sitting around in her underwear. The hardest things I overcame had no victory, no satisfaction.  Just the luxury to keep going and meet newer and more humiliating pains.

Hopefully there are also more victories to be had. No matter how quiet, I look forward to them. No matter how much they hurt or how long it takes to get to them.  Measurement by years is arbitrary, and I know I can't catalog myself by them at all.  Even charting events on any kind of timeline is tenuous; so much is constantly happening and overlapping and changing. Still, there is a little comfort that the year 2013 is now behind me.