Who are you to...?

Have you ever reached that point?  You’re sitting somewhere when you come to the conclusion that you’re simply tired-whether it’s from doing something, hearing something, putting up with something, whatever.  You might call it a breaking point, or maybe just a defining point.  Either way, you don’t have the mental capacity to stand on the sidelines and allow whatever it is to keep happening.  That’s where I am standing right now.

For too long I’ve listened to people telling me what I should or should not do, say or feel, ‘feel’ being the worst of these (in my eyes, of course).  I know these unsolicited pieces of advice come from well-intentioned souls, or so I choose to believe, but they are exactly that-unsolicited pieces of advice.  I also know that I am most likely guilty of committing these very acts to the people I care about.  I’m simply bothered by the intentions behind these types of statements, as it poses the question “who are you to tell me what to feel?” 

Of course I’m all for the parental coercing of dos and don’ts for young children, heck even teenagers who failed to pick up on the proper etiquettes of life. It does bother me, though, when this coercing turns into moral instruction for adults who have already established a way of thinking and living for themselves.  I’m aware that in many parts of the world socially accepted interactions are limited or even restricted, along with their personal freedoms.  In America, however, we have the right to do, say or feel however we so choose, so long as it’s “legal” (I won’t embark on that topic just yet).  So why then do so many people feel the need to explain why their way of thinking is the right way?  Especially when they’ve begun their instructions with “do as I say, not as I do”?

I know you must be thinking that I’ve just had some huge argument over my doing something wrong in someone else’s eyes.  I hate to disappoint, but this ‘rant’ stemmed from a short, friendly conversation that left me thinking, eventually brewing, and then fuming.  Actually, it started from a joke that I was sharing.  You see, my mom wants grandchildren STAT and thought it would be hysterical if she sent me some cute baby clothes as a friendly little reminder that she was waiting ever so patiently for me to deliver, pun intended.  Naturally I did not see the humor in this as I frantically tried to hide this incriminating evidence from my boyfriend (all females in a dating relationship are sighing unanimously right about now-thank you for feeling my pain).  I digress.  While sharing this story, my friend felt the need to once again reassure me that I should not be worrying about having children.  After all, “I was only thirty, and there are plenty of older women getting pregnant”.  I smiled and said “thanks”.  As I faked my gratitude, my mind (emotions, hormones, whatever) started down its normal path of destruction, and like it does for every woman, caused me to question every relatable circumstance that made me feel this way.   Logical?  No.  Necessary?  Seems so at the moment.  Instead of smiling graciously, I just wanted to ask, “Who are you to tell me not to worry?”  How do you know that, while giving your unsolicited advice about not worrying, the person you’re instructing has every reason to worry? 

Naturally, this one scenario causes me to analyze every pre-existing scenario where I’ve been told that I shouldn’t feel a certain way.  Who made any of us experts on labeling feelings (reasonable in nature) as legitimate?  Why do we believe that our experience, whether physical or emotional, is deemed appropriate and therefore someone else’s should follow suite?  Repeat after me: “If I feel this way, who are you to say I should feel otherwise?”  And, if you’re analytical enough to point the finger back at yourself- to acknowledge any ‘unsolicited advice’ you offered another- then kindly repeat after me once again: “To each their own.”  I do believe these two phrases should cover just about any case of personal differences.

As for me, I’ve come to the conclusion of my venting process.  For now, I’ll just focus on a delightful way of repaying my mom for that wonderful care package…

Is hindsight really 20/20?

 How many times have you heard the old cliché? You know, the one people use when talking about days of yore, when their experience in decision-making wasn’t at its peak. We’ve all had those moments that can be best described as a lack of judgment.  These insightful stories usually begin with “I was young” or “If only I knew what I know now”, or my personal favorite, “coulda, shoulda, woulda”.   We can all appreciate the occasionally unavoidable bad calls, but does this old saying actually hold weight?  Or is it some form of justification for our personal history of mistakes?

Just think of all the sunburns we’ve had.  We start to feel a little pasty, slather on the tanning oil and hope that we don’t burn too badly.  Then comes the dreaded shower-we can barely stand the water touching our skin, and we think “ugh, if only I didn’t stay out that extra hour (or two, depending on who you are)”. 

I can remember getting a call late one night from my friend “Samantha.”   Trying to listen through the tears and mumbling I gathered that she’d just been pulled over and given a DUI.  Now coming from the town we grew up in, this was a regular occurrence among young adults.  In fact, her college dorm roommate had just gone through this ordeal.  But that’s the very reason my response was more of confusion than of shared anger best friends are supposed to simulate.  She was supposed to know better, and she did know better.  To this day, though, Samantha will wrap her story up with “If I could go back, I would have just stayed home”.  I bite my tongue and hold my lectures captive, however.  I know that her ‘bad judgment call’ was credited to gambling, not ignorance.  She knew first hand what the outcome of drinking and driving could be, however she chose to take a chance-to gamble.  In my opinion she, like so many of us, blames the hindsight effect in an effort to alleviate any convictions we feel over our decisions.  It’s a ‘feel good’ factor. 

While revisiting my own arsenal of fork-in-the-road moments, I’ve wondered if my discernment really could have been avoided?  Take for instance my relationship with “Ted”.  I met Ted at Chicago’s O’Hare airport on a random Tuesday afternoon in June.  I was stressed out, tired and waiting for my name to be called on the stand-by list.  While standing impatiently, I couldn’t help but notice this guy who I could only assume was gay (in my defense, he was dressed impeccably well and wearing a fanny pack-an honest mistake).  He came up and started talking to me.  Aside from his unimaginably huge ego, he smelled of stale alcohol.  He was nice though, so I tolerated the conversation.  As it turned out he too was flying stand-by, so we both worked our way to the counter to see what our chances were.  For some reason the gate agent tried desperately to sit Ted and I together, despite my efforts to sit anywhere else.  To my pleasant surprise however, she didn’t have two seats next to each other. I was in the clear, until that is, we boarded the aircraft.  Three random passengers stood up at different times to offer their seat so this Ted and I could sit together.  We passed on the first two offers, but then gave in and chalked it up to fate.  The reason I bring up this encounter?  We dated well over a year when on that very day I could have listened to my gut telling me to steer clear. I knew from the start that we were not right for each other, but instead told myself that it had to be fate.  Years after we split I’d find myself thinking, “if only I knew better”, but in truth I did know better.  I simply chose not to listen.  What’s sadder than that, I could share with you more stories of a similar background.

I think of all the times I spent money that should have been saved.  Instead, I chose to gamble with high hopes on avoiding unfortunate circumstances.  I’ve had jobs that I turned down because another higher paying (yet unstable) employer presented itself, only to have them go out of business 4 weeks after starting.  I’ve dyed my hair every color under the rainbow because I wanted to live a little, even when I knew the risks.  I’ve skipped workouts, paid for movies I never wanted to see and avoided phone calls that I should have taken.  My point is this-every single time I’ve chosen the wrong path, I’ve summed it up as a ‘had I known better’ moment when in reality, I think I did know better.  Until now, I believed that I too have fallen victim to the “hindsight 20/20” phenomenon, but did I?  Or was it simply a case of perfect vision with misguided intentions- the one that causes us to turn a blind eye?        

Fuchsia, not pink.

Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that the stereotypical desires of a girl were too, well stereotypical for me. If you listen to any conversation long enough you’ll be left with the impression that girls are crazy, emotionally unstable creatures who are too busy gossiping and applying make-up to actually be taken seriously.  That wasn’t going to be me.  With a few simple rules, I’d avoid this plagued path to womanhood and live a life full of self-respect and meaningful relationships.  I’d figured that anything pink should be sworn off (mind you, fuchsia was an acceptable color). Clothes with ruffles were highly forbidden, actually anything with ruffles were to be avoided completely.   Additionally, I’d have myself tarred and feathered if I so much as shed a tear during a chick flick. In fact, chick flicks were straight up prohibited.  Now don’t get me wrong, I was no tomboy.  In fact, I enjoyed painting my nails and admiring my shoe collection as much as any girl, but I’d somehow brainwashed myself into believing this endeavor in becoming the ungirliest woman to sashay this city would make me more of a commodity.  Better yet, the advantage of being a well-dressed girl who could relate best with guys was insurmountable.  Either way, my identity became the girl who was ‘one of the guys’.  I lived for proving that I was different…if another girl thought it, I wouldn’t.   And you know what? I was good at it.

I became the girl other girls went to for advice on what their man was thinking, and to my credit I think I was pretty spot on.  After pushing my natural-born femininity to the side, I actually started to think like a guy. I’d even gone as far as believing I was commitment-phobic (which coincidentally, had felt earned me bragging rights with my girlfriends).  I’d drive a black SUV and be fully capable of parallel parking it, without guidance.  I’d follow sports, watch SPIKE TV, and avoid weddings at all costs.  Soon enough I found that relating with my girlfriends was a task not so well accomplished by me.  Their reasoning baffled me, and it seemed small insignificant details were never-ending in their day-to-day stories.  It also made little sense to me that they’d want to chat on the phone about nothing in particular.  Why would I want to pay hard earned cash for minutes wasted talking about nothing?  Regardless, as the years passed the more accustomed to thinking like a guy I became.   Unfortunately, somewhere in my undertaking I’d failed to account for where this mentality would actually land me. 

After so long, it felt like a part of me was missing.  Logically, I should have been living an enjoyable life, not an emotionally exhausting one. After all, most guys appear happy with themselves, even carefree. So why then, did all these fussy, softhearted, wedding-loving, chick-flick watching girls seem more fulfilled than I was?  Where had I gone wrong?  It was this pivotal moment that started to turn my world for a spin. I started having flashbacks of me as a little girl when I loved pretty flowers and butterflies.  I’d fantasized for hours about what my first kiss would be like (I was sure in for a sloppy surprise), and that special day when I’d wear my beautiful lily-white dress and look like a princess.  I remember playing dress up with my mom’s clothes, pink ruffles and all.  I loved ponies, was scared of bugs, and daydreamed about my true prince charming.  Why had I neglected the desires of my heart for so long?  Was I that afraid of having my dreams squashed that I tried believing I’d never cared in the first place?  I wondered how many enjoyable moments I let pass me by while I convinced myself that liking anything soft and fluffy meant I was weak and misguided.  I surely wasn’t prepared for this epiphany, but I’d try to take it on anyway.  At least I knew one thing for sure-I wasn’t happy pretending to be someone that I wasn’t.  So what next, then?

I’d have to start with some simple basics; I didn’t want to become shell-shocked while entertaining all things girly.  I slowly integrated my long lost love of flowers and picnics. I traded my rather not-so-enjoyable bottle of beer for a strawberry margarita, pretty umbrella not to be forgotten.  I started embracing the fashionista in me, choosing dresses over jeans and peep-toe heels over flip-flops.  I’d even watch TLC every now and again. Shortly I was on the road to living a girl’s life, swooning over baby ducklings and all.

I was used to friends and family trying to bait me with girl talk, but to see the look on my sister’s face when I actually bit was priceless.  I indulged her with details of wedding color schemes and favorite flower picks.  Once she could lift her jaw off the floor, she called my mom in to experience this phenomenon of girl-time with me. It wasn’t long before we were flipping through magazines, discussing high hopes of our big day, first home and the joys of pregnancy.  It was all I could do to keep from smiling.  All this dreaming didn’t make me sad. It didn’t make me worry about being let down, left out or forgotten.  I didn’t even flinch at the idea of jinxing myself.  Allowing myself to confess the true desires of my heart only gave me hope!  No longer do I need to ban pastel pinks from my wardrobe, or flip the channel when a chick flick sprawls itself on our television screen.  I can grab a box of tissues, nibble on some chocolate and let my dreams take flight.