Author: the outside lane

Happy. That about covers it.
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the outside lane

I am wearing 1987 with my white, cotton skirt, hot pink shirt, and multi-colored scarf/belt.  I blame Carly Rae Jepsen, Ellie Goulding, and Neon Trees–not for the fashion flashback, but for the feeling that I am twirling through my sixteenth summer to their peppy, poppy, perfect-for-poolside music, which makes me miss the 16-year-old butt that fit into my white denim skirt, Ked’s, and the aqua and white color-blocked, Coca-Cola polo with the popped collar that I wore on my first date to a guy named N–.  N took me to Six Flags, and I realized my faux pas quickly, as short skirts don’t do well on rides that require you to straddle them, and white skirts especially do not do well on water rides.

Wow.  I hadn’t thought about this in years.  N is the only person I ever lied to about my age, and the reason I started telling boys up front that I had no intention of long-term relationships.

He was a really nice guy.  A super nice guy.  We met at work, and I lied and told him I was 18 because he was 20 and one of the best looking guys I’d ever seen–and because no one knew me there, and I could invent myself however I liked. 

N was tall and fit, with dark, wavy hair and green eyes.  I was wee, at that point, wearing an extra-small uniform.  I already looked young, but I’m sure the braces took me back another full year.  It required a lot of convincing to get him to believe I was 18, but once I had managed it, we went out for several weeks. 

When he headed back to university, I tried to break up with him using that as an excuse, and he wasn’t having it.  N was old enough to be really interested in a commitment, whereas, I was 16 and just wanted to date as many interesting boys as possible.  He assured me that we could have a long-distance thing until I graduated and I could join him at his college, and wanted me to promise myself to him in exclusivity.  After a couple of hours of this, and me trying to weasel my way out of this relationship I’d found myself in, I finally had to tell him the truth about my age.  Rightly, he was horrified.

Granted, we’d not gotten even close to anything that could have put him behind bars, but I remember him stammering, “Y-you’re jailbait!” That was the first time I’d heard the terminology.  I supposed I was.

He was dear, and sweet, and still wanted to figure out how we could stay together until I was old enough to marry him.  I couldn’t convince him otherwise, and had to get my father involved, and that was that.  But I learned a few good lessons:

1.  Don’t lie about yourself, but especially don’t lie about yourself when it comes to someone else’s heart.

2.  Be clear about your expectations up front–especially when it comes to someone else’s heart.  After N, I told just about every boy I dated–prior to the first date–that I was going to see other boys, was not going to fall in love, and was not going to have sex.  That doesn’t mean they believed me, but I was clear that my intentions were to date as many interesting boys as possible.

3.  Boys aren’t toys.  I really hurt N, and I hated that I had hurt him.  That’s how #2 came into play.  That doesn’t mean that I never hurt another boy, I did.  But I didn’t hurt them on purpose, or because I was playing with them, or lying to them for my own fun.

4.  If you can’t get a guy to leave you alone, let your father answer the phone. 

As I recall, N and I spoke a few times after my father told him to back off, but as friends.  And he did end up meeting a girl at school and falling in love with her.

Beauty, Counting Blessings, Friends of Mine, Uncategorized

Confident, or Arrogant?

the outside lane

I keep trying and trying to write this post.  It shouldn’t be that hard!  See, a coworker/friend of mine complimented my confidence the other day, and while I was flattered and appreciative, it made me start to think about what confidence is and isn’t.  Or maybe what confidence should be?  Or why it is so difficult to appear confident?

Society makes it difficult because we live in a world where we raise people up, just to tear them down.  Take a woman like Giselle.  Stunning.  Great legs.  Gorgeous hair.  Perfect skin.  We can look and appreciate how stunning she is.  We can tell her she is stunning all day long, and so long as she says thank you, we’re good.  But the moment she says, “I know,” we are in trouble.  The moment she says, “I have great legs, gorgeous hair, and perfect skin,” we will be out for blood.  How dare she acknowledge her own gorgeousity?!  How dare she enjoy her good looks?!

Why is it like that?

Because confidence in others shows us our insecurities.  Nothing shines a spotlight on how I feel about my belly fat like someone saying, “My abs are looking good!”  And if I feel bad about myself, it hurts to hear someone else feeling good about themselves.  I have choices there.  I can choose to celebrate my friend’s abs, acknowledging that my belly looks like it does because of my lack of interest in doing crunches and my affection for donuts.  Then, I can take myself out of the equation and appreciate my friend’s hard work, or I can choose to wallow in my jiggle and be offended that my friend has made me aware of my jiggle by pointing out her rock solidness, and lash out at her, calling her an arrogant so-and-so for daring to bring up the fact of her fitness.

Arrogance only comes in to play when we start believing that what makes us sensational, also makes us superior.  I am confident that I have good skin.  My good skin doesn’t make me superior in any way.  It’s just a fact, like the grass being green.  You can be Mother Theresa and someone will find a reason to call you arrogant.  You can’t pay attention to that.  Haters gonna hate is another grass-is-green fact.

But all that is beside the point.  The thing I really want to say is that I have great friends.  I have friends in my life who are secure and confident in themselves, so it doesn’t bother them that I am secure and confident in myself.  My friends celebrate my victories far more than they enjoy my failures–and honeys, let me tell you, you will know who your true friends are when you achieve something.  It’s easy to be the hero and swoop in to help someone when they are down.  You get to feel good about yourself for doing something.  But when someone is standing in the limelight, and all you can do is stand in their shadow and applaud their success?  It takes a strong, confident person to be that friend.

My friends don’t feel like they’ve lost anything when I gain something.  My friends cheer me on when I’m feeling good about myself, and remind me of my wins when I am down.  My friends want me at my best because it makes them better by proximity–and I feel that way, too.  I want my friends to be at their best, and I am delighted for every gain they make.  My friends make confidence easy.

That’s where a lot of confidence comes from, and I just wanted to take a moment to thank my friends for being those people.  I’m not afraid of what’s said behind my back because I know what is said to my front.  I love and appreciate you.

 

Beauty, Explaining the Strange Behavior, Howling Sea Lane, Women

Peacocks and Pea Brains

the outside lane

Ladies, when men like Joe Peacock self-identify as jackholes through their derisive ranting about women who aren’t exactly like what they think women should be like, or who don’t act exactly as they think women should act, don’t be offended.  Be thankful.  He has weeded himself out of polite society and the dating pool, as have his hangers-on. 

What I find really amusing about the Booth Babe rant is that he is angry at good looking women for putting on costumes to get attention at comic conventions.  You’re only allowed to wear a costume if you are a Level 24 magic dwarf with the Flaming Sword of Moronico and 1500+ hours of WOW under your belt in the past 2 month period.  You may not wear a costume and attend a con if you just happen to like the costume, dressing up, and hanging out with other likeminded cosplayers.  No cred?  No costume for you!  Bless his heart. 

It’s the equivalent of saying that if you haven’t played college football and can quote stats from SuperBowl III, you shouldn’t wear a team jersey.  It is ridiculous.  It is sad.  Peacock is clearly afraid that his once underappreciated territory is going to be overrun with with Princesses, Jocks, and Socs.  In other words, Peacock is clearly afraid of being stuffed in a locker.

The thing that is supposed to be so fantastic about being an adult is no longer having to conform to the identities forced upon us by adolescence, when our brain chemistry is so awash with growth hormones that few of us can multi-task beyond being either a Goat Roper or a Goth.  God forbid you be fifteen, love the Cure and Randy Travis.  In Peacock’s world, God forbid you be a grown-up who isn’t fully devoted to the nuance of the Star Fleet uniform.  You can’t be a Geek and a Princess at the same time.

Although, there is great potential for Geek/Furry crossover if you’re into Ewoks.

Anyway:  Don’t be mad at Mr. Peacock.  His name is indicative of his issues.  Especially if it’s his joystick he uses for thinking.

Family, Friends of Mine, Health, relationships

Pinpricks of Joy

the outside lane

A few of my friends have suffered miscarriages and still births recently, and several of my friends have lost babies in the past.  Losing a child is a heartbreaking, world changing thing no matter at what stage or age the child.  When you are looking forward to life with this little person, moving ahead once that dream is shattered is a challenge for both mothers and fathers.

I thought we were losing Thor right after we found out we were expecting him.  That’s part of how he got his nickname.  Not only had he prevailed against birth control, he had prevailed against a flood of cough syrup and a Zpack–you know, because I thought I had the flu, not a case of the babies.  He was a mighty Viking in the making, and I pictured him in there, wearing his horned helment and hanging on to my insides with his pic axe.  The Mighty Thor was born, both figuratively and literally, healthy and wonderful.  However, for those days I thought he might be losing his grip on the axe, I was frantic.

Like many women, I think I became a mother the moment the stripe turned pink on the pregnancy test.  Immediately, I was someone’s mother.  It was my job to protect and nurture this life.  I changed my diet.  I changed my patterns.  I gave up coffee!  I gave up coffee (which is probably why I was always so irritated with Ryan slurping his in the next cubicle–I had jealousy!)

  When I thought I was losing my baby, I went to the doctor to find out what I could do to save it.  Would I need to stand on my head?  Did I need a cork?  Could I drink something?  Take a pill?  Lie in bed for 8 more months?  Yoga?  Meditation?  Animal sacrifice?  Oh yeah, I’d have gone there.

The doctor was removed and pragmatic.  He was pulling off his rubber gloves and he said, “At this poing, there’s nothing we can do.  If you’re going to lose it, you’re going to lose it.”  Then, he sent my shellshocked self to the nurse for bloodwork, and that poor girl was new.  She told me all about how many pregnancies end in miscarriage, I guess hoping to make me feel not so alone in my probable fate?  She figured out that was not helping when I burst into tears.

I found a new doctor.  Thor hung in there.  We have a lovely boy.

Back last September, I got a new pink stripe on a pregnancy test.

People ask me if we plan to have other children pretty frequently.  I don’t think they are being rude.  It’s just conversation.  I have one child, so I must not be opposed to the idea of children, and if I am not, then might I not want more?  I would love to have more children.  It just hasn’t worked out that way.

So, back in September, we got excited.  We had our moment of shock, and I did my dance of trying to pretend it wasn’t that big a deal because when things are really important to me, I am a weirdo.  We had about 24 hours of being very excited, talking about names, and a new nickname–just enough time to fall in love with the idea and the potential for reality.  It was a Saturday.  I planned to call the doctor on Monday and make an appointment.  But, on Sunday all the plans changed.  It simply was not to be.

I was too sad to talk about it at the time.  I told a couple of select people, but I didn’t even tell my therapist about it.  I sat on her couch just a few days later and thought, “I should be talking about this, but it seems silly. It wasn’t dramatic.  It wasn’t even a big enough deal to go to the hospital.  It’s over and done, and nothing can change it.  Why talk about it?  Why trivialize what other women go through, when this was such a simple-to-lose loss?”

You all know that I’m not an “all things happen for a reason” person.  I’m a “sometimes shit happens” person.  I have faith in biology, and oddly enough, in natural selection.  It simply was not to be.  And, it was simply sad.  And, quite simply, I was broken-hearted.

So why talk about it now?  Because you all also know that I am a “talks about everything eventually” person.  It all comes out sooner or later, and because my friends who have so recently suffered have said, it helps to know someone gets it.  Because it’s the damnedest thing how attached you can get to something that isn’t the size of the head of a pin, and what a huge hole that pinprick leaves when it goes.

There is joy in remembering the excitement, though.  And joy in the knowledge that the capacity to love is endless.  And joy in other friends who are expecting.

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Death, the Death Penalty, and Penn State

the outside lane

“The thing that I’ll remember most about that flight is that it was fun, and in fact I’m sure it will be the most fun I’ll ever have in my life.”  Sally Ride on her first flight into space.

Sally Ride in space.

I don’t know why that quote delights me as much as it does.  Probably because Ride’s joy and pleasure in her work was contagious.  When did you see this woman without a smile?  I was twelve when Ride took her first flight into space, going to an all-girl school full of brilliant young ladies, whose futures were wide open with endless possibilities.  She was just added proof that yes, we could do and be whatever we wanted.  The wonderful thing about inspiration is that it is greater than death.  Sally Ride is gone, but Sally Ride’s legacy will live on.

Every segue I can think of to my next train of thought is awkward, so let’s just do this:  The Death Penalty.  I have never been a fan of it.  I think we have executed far too many innocent people for the death penalty to be considered a viable sentence to a crime.  However, in clear cut cases, such as the Colorado shooting, I think it is the only viable option.  I think you have to be criminally insane to commit a crime like that one, and for criminal insanity, there is no rehabilitation.  I don’t think it is a fair burden to the taxpayer to keep up the quality of life of someone who has attempted the massacre of a theater full of people who just wanted to see Batman save the day.  Hang him high.

Now, a few years back I’d have told you that I had moral problems with the death penalty because I would be afraid that sending someone to his/her death would be sending him/her to an eternal damnation.  I wasn’t a mother then.  A little girl, six years old, the same age as Thor, died in that theater.  Hanging is too good for him.

Hanging is also too good for Jerry Sandusky.  Hell might be too good for him.  The punishments levied against Penn State seem appropriate, though.  I’ve read some commentary wondering if officials think it worse to pay players (SMU, and their football death penalty), than to molest children (Penn State officials covering up for one of their own, and keeping the football program).  I don’t think you can compare the situations.  I do think, if you’re a college football fan, these penalties hit dead in the middle of the target.  I especially like this latest update from Reuters: Penn State [will] forfeit its share of revenues for bowl games organized by the league, and the estimated $13 million [will] instead be donated to charities devoted to the protection of children.