Sole Sister

Granny Smith was the most elegant woman in the world. Well, my world at least. Tall, slender, with a voice like a purr and always with an etched crystal glass in her hand is how I remember my dad's mom. A sleek silver bob, big gold clip-on earrings and a black cardigan was her uniform. I loved hearing that I looked like her; our five-year-old pictures were identical, and after she passed and I grew into a young adult, I turned into a redhead doppelgänger to her graduation photo. And I would inherit her love of Bloody Marys... 

And shoes.

Twice a year she would take me and my sister shopping, and when she recognized a budding love of shoes in me at the age of nine or ten, she told me:

"A shoe-loving woman should have lots of shoes."

And here I am.

I have girl friends whose collections dwarf mine... the era of JustFab and other subscription services that promise to bury you in cheap platforms that will fall apart if worn more than twice a year has transformed how shoe wardrobes work. It's like they know you're going to have too many shoes to wear very often, so they make them more shoddily to match the reduced wear. But my friends having thirty pairs of disposable shoes does not justify my collection of... I wonder how many I have....

Okay, I thought I was being really far-fetched and hyperbolic when I used the number "thirty"... yet I have 25 pairs of shoes. One for every year of my life. That's counting everything I wear on my feet, from flip flops to heels to boots to the muddy Converse I use to kill spiders.

Holy shitkickers!

I thought I was just being cute when I said I was giving up shoe-buying for Lent, but it is becoming clear that I have a problem. I was relieved the other day when my mom said her church was collecting dress shoes for their mission in Haiti: it's easier to part with things when you imagine them on the feet of somebody who will appreciate them instead of rotting on a Goodwill shelf despite their mint condition. Shoes I would have otherwise hoarded suddenly became easy to put in a cardboard box. I even parted with my prom shoes from high school. Yes, I still had them at age 25.b

There are worse vices, really. To buy quality shoes from reputable and socially-conscious brands (for the most part); wear them well; and then give them to somebody else still in excellent condition, somebody who otherwise might have nothing or some pathetic, beat up hand-me-downs that really belonged in the trash instead of a donation bin... Yeah, I could buy fewer or crappier shoes and give that money to charity instead, but who actually allocates all extra money to charity? I budget ten percent of my pre-tax income to charity, with some random other donations here and there and will always pick the brand that gives proceeds to something over the brand that doesn't. If I didn't buy shoes, I'd probably buy clothes and do the same thing I would with shoes.

But I see myself doing better. I am buying fewer but nicer, things that will last a long time, or that are recyclable, or that I know I'll wear all the time. Yeah, I have a pair of wedge sneakers with flowers on them... not everything can be a brown loafer!

Shoes make me happy. Clothes are fun too, but it's easier to fit a foot. I love trying to find the most comfortable of an uncomfortable-looking shoe. I'm obsessed with recyclable plastic shoes: I now have a collection of five pairs! How cheaply can I get a pair of this designer? OH MY GOD A PURPLE AND GREEN BOOT. My friends tell me when they see a shoe that makes them think of me. I am totally okay that whimsical shoes and beer make people think of me.

To me, it means people are associating me with things that make people happy.

This is how I choose to see it. Now when does Easter get here?!

Maybe in the meantime I can bring it down to 20....

Shopping for the Insane

There is a lot of negative stigma around online dating, and while I'd love to come to its defense, it is well earned. There are nutcases in equal distribution across the internet AND meatspace, but any free singles-hunting scenario they can access from their dingy basements makes it that much easier for the more "out" lunatics. But the real problem, I think, is what the format of essentially flipping through a catalogue for people-shopping does to the human brain.

Catalogues are flat, all you know of a person's appearance right away is likely a picture they picked for a very specific reason and tweaked to misleading perfection.  For that reason, using anything less than a painstakingly edited headshot puts you in the same pool as the guy who took a selfie in a windowless shack with no lamps. I intentionally used a very realistic picture I took on the spot on a Monday morning. This is real life, boys! But perhaps I haven't faked hard enough because sensitive boys seem to be assuming I tweaked the hell out of that picture and am actually quite ugly. That's why they tell me "I'm out of ur league" when I don't immediately surrender all personal contact info, right?

We have to take them at their word. Men are pros at this... most chicks' profiles I've looked at have been pretty forward with how unappealing they are, we seem to like to get the worst out there and move up from there. Guys, however... I know women mostly exaggerate about their bodies... my gender has taken the word "curvy" and turned it into a flowery coverall for obesity. From guys, I've seen some very creative use of the "athletic" body type (bicep curls using Pringles cans is apparently a popular sport); even though I don't care about height, I read an article that measured men lie to add two inches of height ON AVERAGE, so I subtract two and still sometimes they come up short; anybody who calls himself a student is really working at Subway while "taking a break" from never going back to school, and "entrepreneurs" are plain ol' unemployed; "single" can mean single, married, divorced literally yesterday, polygamist with ten wives, undead and therefore technically the previous marriage expired at death, homosexual looking to experiment or twenty unmarried squirrels in a trench coat. Us chicks, we want you to know right away that we have three kids or are technically still male... just please don't notice how chubby we are!

You are so bombarded you start filtering for the dumbest crap. This is probably more of a problem for chicks, but first you delete all the "hi" and "hey sexy" out of your inbox. Then you block certain key factors like if he's making duckface in any of his pictures. Then you start judging them by how their first names sound like something you would name a dog. Then you start judging them based on the number of characters in each message and how frequently they "lol". Before you know it, you will only accept 6'7" accountants with photos taken outdoors by red barns and who write exclusively in couplets.

You forget those are (allegedly) people. Part of the reason the internet is great is we feel all comfy and secure, lying in bed behind profiles and photos that are as misleading as we want them to be, who paint us however we choose to paint ourselves. But when we are staring at facade after facade of person after person, we start to go numb in the brain. We start comparing the numbers, the self-descriptions, the shallow bullshit that they are wanting us to compare. But tucked away between the basement weirdos and man-children, "WOO!" girls and secret parents of twelve are normal, smart people who happen to work at sexy, stable jobs and don't want to take chances with the face tattoo offering them a shot of whiskey at their favorite wings place. People who are interesting and worthwhile who simply haven't settled for anything less than what they want.

Being single is too often treated like a disease. It is normal to be lonely, to be attracted to people, to want to have sexy fun, but why the rush? Somebody advised me to ask every guy why he isn't married yet, because holy shit you aren't married?! You didn't immediately settle for the first member of the opposite sex that would have you?! What's wrong with you?! And I think... why am I not married? Because none of my exes were right. I'm not a bed-wetter, sociopath, or hiding any major deformities. But there are a lot of other people who are, and I'm not interested in them.

Online dating sucks because, as with anywhere in the world, good people can be hard to find. And we have no idea how to go about it.

That being said, I'm deleting the fuck out of my profile.

Eternal Mystery

I always took for granted that I would learn from experience, but still do not know:

What does it mean to smack up one's bitch?

A "Kind of" State

It's the one year anniversary of having a tumor removed from my left boob, so I had my second semi-annual feel-up the other day to make sure nothing was amiss with my rebellious jubblies. In an emotional state of nervousness and with the Cult screaming "War Pony Destroyer" in my ear I missed an exit I very much knew I needed, so I relied on Waze to take me on a new route. There must have been a lot of road construction because it proceeded to take me on an epic and winding journey through all parts of town I never would have considered to necessarily be en route. If it isn't uncomfortable enough for you to be going to a "let's look for tumors" appointment by yourself, have a consequential brainfart like that to be sure you arrive in a packed waiting room in a state of emotional collapse.

Coming down from the jitters of driving with a deadline and everybody coasting by at ten miles under a low speed limit, I did what everybody does for the first five minutes of a waiting room visit and stared at everyone in turn. Excluding the workers, whose youngest was probably 40, I was easily the youngest person in the crowded waiting room of at least 40 patients and husbands by 25 years. And maybe two other women were there alone.

It's an interesting environment at a breast cancer center waiting room. It was mostly populated by older women, so it smelled nice and was very quiet. Most of them were accompanied by their husbands, who ranged from bored to panicked-looking to oh my god why won't the old man with a naked lady straddling a motorcycle on his tshirt stop staring at me I'm here to have my boobs felt up for medical reasons is that not bad or humanizing enough for you?! A lot of people were looking back at me, and I wondered if they were doing what I was doing, which was wondering why each person was there. As a 25 year old who looks 19 in a bright yellow coat, I dare say I stood out in the crowd of beige-wearing Baby Boomers.

While I knew and know that my reasons for being there were comparatively benign to many others in that room, it felt very humbling to be there alone when so few people were. One woman had two girlfriends there for her, and they were giggling and making scenes. Most women had husbands with them, though most looked bored and were clearly missing out on some at-home retired man stuff. Last time I went, an old friend I don't see often enough called off all her prior engagements to come with me. This time, the friend I invited had an understandable conflict with her daughter's schedule. So there I was, feeling kind of bad for myself for being there... ahead of my time, and alone.

But I also wasn't there to hear any devastating news. I wore a blue and white paper cape and did some Pilates poses while an older man felt my boobs in a stale, medical way. I sent a selfie to my sister while I hung out on the exam table waiting on the ultrasound machine because I was looking so fly in my paper cape. Even though I was there alone, I was texting and emailing tons of friends, and a few were responding. I was still being engaged more than some of the women who had brought their men.

Life is kind of like this. We are kind of alone, but we are also kind of not.

When I left, a younger couple, perhaps in their early 30s, were in the waiting room. We looked at each other, disproportionately young people entering and leaving a cancer center. She was wearing pink hunting camo, his was traditional. She sat in a chair and he stood behind her, stooped forward to wrap his arms around her shoulders and rest his face in her hair. And while she had that weird cocky half-smile that sometimes comes with wanting to hide your fear, I had to think it felt nice to not be there alone.

I drove home, had dinner and some beers with my mom, and enjoyed some tv and chocolate. And I was fine.

Cry me a River, Phoenix

For some weird effing reason, my high school driving instructor took me aside after my last lesson (and my friends promptly ditched me, so I guess I'm just grateful he didn't try to molest me) and said he wanted to tell me how much he "admired" me. I have no idea what moral or heroic act I pulled in that LeSabre, but he seemed to think he had overheard overwhelming evidence of some kind of moral fiber I didn't realize would be evident from taking turns driving a car with two other teenagers. He told me I was like "a Phoenix rising out of the ashes" and asked me for a hug.

It was weird as hell and I have no idea where it came from. Maybe he just hugged me to feel my bra strap and I was too confused to be feeling for that kind of thing. Normally I try to be more aware when males are touching me.

No matter what might have actually been going on, the guy kind of had a point with the Phoenix thing, but maybe not in so dramatic a sense. Just a melodramatic one.

When something upsets me, I have a very predictable sequence of responses. First, there is an intense emotional knee-jerk reaction where I basically explode into a ball of fire. I go from my normal state of assuming the best of everyone to assuming the worst, most diabolical interpretation of what happened. Then in the middle is a longer fizzling stage where I can still flare up, but mostly fluctuate between acceptance and hurt, over analyzing and dissecting every facet of my feelings from every angle as I quietly smolder. Last, and just as suddenly as I burst into flames, I pop back out of it, usually much my usual self and looking at the horrified bystanders like, "What are you looking at? I got over that ages ago. Buy me candy."

It's probably a very bad system and probably something I should be working on, but I wouldn't even know how to begin to change that about myself. When I flare up, I can sometimes see it from a sort of out-of-body perspective and think, "Self, you really need to calm down. You're just going to get new information eventually and feel like an idiot for this." But then it's not like that stops me from having my emotional fit. Maybe it's my version of dancing it out Footloose style that happens largely in my head and lying in bed crying.

Maybe the way I can start to change it is by actually channeling it into a Footloose style dance number. I'm sure the Amazon distribution center won't mind if I barge in to do some cathartic punch-dancing now and then.

Just Don't Call Me Nuts

Dating is just... terrible. It's just terrible.

I'm not talking about exclusive dating situations or long-term relationships where you're basically married only without the tax benefits and are just as emotionally screwed when a fight has to be had over who gets the writing desk. Those still have safe, comfy routines. Routines that can be broken and shatter your entire reality, but you have them. Same with being single and not dating; you feel comfortable with coming home from work and eating a dinner of microwave popcorn and Fannie Mae chocolates in front of marathons of whatever horrible sitcom you watch.

But dating, at least for me, is just kind of awful. People are trying to put their best foot forward, which is pretty much always a foot that doesn't even exist. They saw a foot once and thought, "I bet ladies are into THAT," and fashioned themselves a peg leg to stick out the bottom of their trench coat. And then you find out that it's not even a human under the trench coat, but twenty squirrels sitting on each other's shoulders. Then me and this squirrelman play laser tag, only instead of wearing the awkward little harness with the target that allows you to be "shot", the squirrelman has fashioned one out of cardboard so I'm the one taking all the shots while mine do absolutely nothing to him.

And this is all just a metaphor, so it's not like I can just go around kicking dudes in the shin to check for a hollow, wooden sound. I can't simply chuck the laser gun at his head when I realize the hit pad is just drawn on with felt marker.

This is all a ridiculous way for me to illustrate the exhaustion of filtering through fake people with faker personas and how they fake emotional availability while I'm basically streaking through the dating world naked and with the worst hair day ever. I'm on one end of the spectrum where I didn't get the memo that we are all just going to bullshit each other until we get the sex, street cred, or snack cakes or whatever we came for. I actually want to meet other real people and have feelings for one, and do so as the real me. Even in normal life I'm forward to a fault, falling just short of texting "excuse me" to my texting partner if I fart in my own house miles away from them.

It's not to say there aren't real humans among the squirrelmen. There are just a surprising number of highly intelligent super squirrels that want to experience a weak semblance of human relationships.

And I'm nutty, so I am total squirrelbait.





(I'm very happy that I've now used the term squirrelman enough that autocorrect corrects squirrelmen to squirrelman.) 

Bullet Time

Over a year ago, a week happened where I knew I had a tumor (and a cut on my breast) but didn't know if I had cancer or not, and it was the longest week of my life to that point. Well, something changed that week, because ever since then I have been living in what feels like "bullet time" from the Matrix.

Every day feels long. Mondays are a tough transition out of a long weekend like getting back into the swing of school after summer break. Waking up in the middle of the night is a sentence to lie awake for days. I can barely listen to any music that doesn't have a frantic "bootsandpantsandbootsandpants" rhythm or bitching guitars because anything else will be boring. Misplace something? Enjoy the Tolkien-esque quest for the bra you don't remember throwing on the spare bed before somehow covering it with your "bar jacket". It's like riding on a bus that's traveling slower than you would walk.

Because I know any task I take on will seem like it's taking way longer, I have been dreading things like doing my taxes or the loss reports at work. I know that same satisfaction of a job well done is waiting there, but I see what looks like a big, dumb, boring hill I have to climb first. It's not that I feel like I can get more things done in an extra long day... it's like I know everything is going to take forever, so I've been avoiding it.

For the last couple of weeks I have been actually trying to be productive, so I'm more aware of this caveat to my "bullet time" power than ever. It doesn't help that the tasks I set ahead of myself are big and gradual anyway. Epic closet overhaul, the always-vague resolution to "be more active", finally reading that book that was recommended to me... nothing I can finish in an hour that feels like three. But I'm determined to do them and hope that since the frustration has been so great, the results will feel even grander. Nothing good ever came easy, and if these things are going to feel way worse to do than they ever should, maybe that means there's also a disproportionate amount of satisfaction waiting on the other side.

In the meantime it feels like doing the worm in slow-motion to climb the side of a big, dumb, boring hill.