asking for it

Photo: Life

Things I am good at asking for: 
- The phone numbers of attractive men (especially now that I'm in a relationship and it's not for me)
- That you pleasefortheloveofgod change the song
- That I be alerted when more tiny crab cakes are ready. Better yet, I'll just stand near the door of the kitchen so you can breeze by me on your way out.

Things I am not good at asking for: 
- A explanation of why I'm suddenly being charged $50 more for the same salon service
- Anything below sticker price
- A raise

While I have no problem suggesting that your taste is music is sub-par or taking the risk that you might think I'm a glutton when it comes to the canapes, there's something about discussing money that makes me feel icky. Perhaps part of it is that I still use the word "icky" to describe my feelings. But i think it's more than that and I know I'm not alone. I've had this conversation with many a friend who feels the same. Only none of them were guys. 

As much as I hate to make a sweeping generalization, I'm fairly convinced that men don't feel this way. In fact, statistics show that men don't have a problem asking for more money and notoriously ask for even more than they're worth. MORE. Ladies, that's some bullshit. Our male counterparts aren't wringing their hands, thinking "maybe I don't deserve more. I'm lucky to have a job at all in this economy. I sure hope asking for a raise doesn't make her think less of me." Yet that was almost exactly my internal monologue as I sat contorted into a pretzel the one time I brought up money with my boss, stumbling over my words and generally making it as awkward as possible. Needless to say, I still have the same salary I had over a year ago.  

In spite of being consistently told that I do great work, I don't want anyone to think that I think I'm worth more than I am. Even that sentence sounds ridiculous. So what's my deal? I wish I knew, because I know how much I probably should be making and I'd rather not handle my career like I handled the salon situation. Which is to say I had to find a new stylist after two years because I couldn't bear to discuss her gratuitous price increase. I guess it's time to man up. 

Maybe it'll be one of my New Year's resolutions.  

vulnerability is scary

Illustration by Lim Heng Swee

M often travels for work. Usually just for a week or two. It's not my favorite thing, but we manage. So when an opportunity arose for him to work on a project in London for two months, I was less than ecstatic. That's putting it lightly. My initial response was selfish. (Oh, don't pretend like yours aren't sometimes, too.) I mean, how could he want to leave ME for two months? Never mind that it was to go back to his favorite city, work on a potentially cool project and the whole thing might be really great for his career.

He said he wouldn't go if I wasn't cool with it. I called his bluff and said, "Fine, I'm not cool with it." To which he responded in a small voice, "But i think it would be really good if I went." I wish I could say I immediately realized I'd only been thinking of myself and it was all cartoon hearts and birds chirping as I helped him pack his bag. What I did instead is stomp upstairs. And to think he'd want a break from this. Shocking, I know.

Eventually I came around. Our vacation to the UK had been canceled when we got stuck in New York during Hurricane Irene. I knew how much he'd been looking forward to going home and seeing his parents. This was another chance for him to go. What kind of monster would stand in the way of that? Don't answer that. The important thing is that I got to the other side. 

I even helped him pack. 

Then i spent two months (okay, minus the ten days i spent visiting him) living alone in complete and utter delight. I didn't see that coming. But I should have. If I couldn't spend two months without my manfriend, what kind of independent lady was I? Not a very good one. So I got on with my life. I did all the stuff M and I do together, but alone or with other people. I also did more of the stuff that only I like to do. Like eat boxes and boxes of macaroni + cheese and have friends sleep on an air mattress at the foot of my bed. 

After being with someone for years, they sort of feel like an extension of yourself. Not necessarily in the "you complete me" way (gag), but in a way that makes you feel like living is a little bit brighter when they're around. That's how i feel about M. I think what i feared is that I need him. I didn't want him to leave and reveal that I was no longer fine on my own. It's easy to say you'd never lose yourself in a relationship, but can you ever be objective enough to be certain it hasn't already happened? I'm not sure. I'm just relieved that it turned out not to be the case. 

i already know i won't like it

Do you want to be friends with any of these yahoos? I don't.

I like to think I know myself pretty well. I might not be entirely thrilled with the whole demented puzzle, but I've accepted it. If there's anything else lurking around in there, I say, better not to know. because let's be honest, what do you think I would discover buried in places I didn't know existed? It wouldn't be a latent talent for harp playing or anything else I'd be proud of. More than likely it would just be another distressing foible. What's the good in that?

That's one school of thought anyway. The other is that it's important to continue exposing yourself to new and unfamiliar situations so you can grow and better understand yourself. Or at the very least, find out how you really feel about social taboos, like fisting. But, see, I'm pretty sure I already know how I feel about fisting. If it were to turn out that I'm wrong in that assumption, would I be glad to know? Probably not. So why would I ever want to go to a place where such a thing isn't taboo at all? "To push your personal boundaries," said one Burning Man veteran who was trying to convince me that a place where you can learn to punch a stranger in the ovaries is a mecca of progress and acceptance. No thanks. 

However, the conversation did make me wonder if I'm missing something. It's not that I'm not open to new experiences. I just happen to be open to those that I can imagine myself--the self I already know--enjoying. But what if this narrow view is keeping me from experiencing things that could potentially make me a different and/or better person? I don't mean saying yes to things that go against my moral code, but saying yes to opportunities to do things that might feel a little uncomfortable.

I'm thinking about it. But if I miss the opportunity to feel the overwhelming rush of jumping out of a plane because the idea of it makes me nauseous, I don't actually care so much. On the other hand, there are things like parenting. That's something with a lot of unknowns, a lot of unpleasant sounding elements and serious potential for failure. But the reward of having a little creature to love and teach and never allow to go to Burning Man seems worth the risk. So, maybe it's not that I'm against doing new, scary things that could go terribly wrong or reveal disheartening features of my character, I just want it to be meaningful.

one for the ladies

Photo: Mario Testino

I haven't had my period since February and I'm definitely not pregnant. What do you say about that, HOUSE? Kidding. I realize that House is a fictionalized character on a television show. But seriously, what is wrong with me? No one is sure. Though I did appreciate the early theory that it was because I was too skinny, which lasted only until I was actually weighed. I've been tested for anemia, thyroid conditions, early menopause and of course, pregnancy. I even had a pelvic exam because I wanted to be sure there wasn't some cantaloupe-sized tumor assailing my lady bits (as I said, I watch a lot of House). Yet as it seems, I'm in perfect health. I took myself to McDonald's to celebrate. Then I started having acupuncture and wondering what my life would be like if it turned out that I could never have children. 

Despite an aversion to needles, I've found acupuncture oddly relaxing. I always leave my sessions feeling more centered and slightly energized. Maybe it's the lying-in-a-dark-room-in-the-middle-of-the-day or a placebo effect, but sometimes that can be as good as the real thing. Nonetheless, I'm still as dot-free as a ballerina. Part of me is kind of enjoying being let off the hook from one of the less enchanting womanly burdens. The other is silently panicking that something is really wrong. 

I don't have an overwhelming desire to reproduce any time soon, but I wonder how I would feel if it were suddenly off the table. Would I be heartbroken? Would I want to adopt? I honestly don't know. I've always assumed babies were in my future. Not a Duggar family number of them or anything, but at least one or two chubby bunnies to cuddle and adore until they hit adolescence and despise me. If that never happened for me, would I always feel like I was missing something? 

At 28, I think I could accept it. But what about at 30? Or 35? I've read about women who have struggled with infertility experiencing an almost physical ache at the sight of other pregnant women. I can't imagine that would ever be me, but maybe part of it is because I assume this will sort itself out. Most things do, right? I guess i'm holding out hope that this is just a temporary hormonal hiccup and I'll never have to answer those questions. 

Encouraging words welcome.

aging with grace

Twenty-eight is by no means old. But this is the first year I've felt like, "Whoa, I better get my shit together. People might start expecting things out of me soon. Like babies." A co-worker asked me how I felt about turning 28 last week and my response was a essentially just eye-rolling and gagging noises. To which she said, "Oh really? I figured you were one of those people who really couldn't care less." Which either means I need to step up my beauty routine or I've successfully tricked the people around me into thinking I'm one of those blessed individuals who can't be bothered by something so trivial as my age. I wish.

Instead, I can't help but lament (just a little) the loss of times when I could blame my ignorance on naivety. When bouncers raised their eyebrows over the legitimacy of my I.D. When my theory that "anything you eat between midnight and when you wake up the next day doesn't count" held water. And what I find saddest of all is that I'm officially too old to accomplish anything that would put me in the category of "people doing amazing things at shockingly young ages." the wunderkind ship hath sailed (or it's at least pulling away from the dock). I might as well throw in the fucking towel.

No. Because even if I'm not one of the gracefully decaying people, I can pretend. And for exactly that purpose I've put together a handy list of reasons why it's awesome to get older. I plan on referring to it in moments of wistful longing for an idealized youth I probably never had. Feel free to do the same. 

1. It's really fun to use eye cream

2. You feel comfortable in your own skin

3. Accidental pregnancies can be happy occasions 

4. You can buy houses and cars

5. You become funnier 

6. You already have enough friends

7. It's less important that your weekends sound exciting

8. You gain valuable insights that make you a better person

That's all I could come up with. Getting older blows. If you don't agree, feel free to tell me why it doesn't below.

hidden pleasures

The Tourist Club

When I was a kid, I had a giant stuffed snail whose shell contained a secret opening where I hid some of my most prized possessions. I still remember the five-year old high I felt when I realized I could fit my New Kids on the Block buttons, best stickers and scented eraser inside that snail and no one would be the wiser. To this day, few things evoke the kind of hand-clapping excitement I experience when I find a hidden pocket in my purse or someone takes me somewhere without a marked entrance. Even better if the entrance is unassuming enough to make me wonder if I've been brought there to be Dexter-ed.

Kill room or not, if it’s off the beaten path or reveals something unexpected, I want to know about it. In fact, I'll probably love it more than it deserves. Like boys with speech impediments, which is a story for another day. That sentiment got me thinking about what it is that makes something truly wonderful. And I think it's that there’s always an element of surprise.

One evening while living in New York, a man smiled at me just as we crossed paths. I continued in the opposite direction, but a few minutes later he ran up behind me (in a very non-threatening/non-crazy way, thank god) and said, “Excuse me, miss?” “Hi, yes?” “You’re really pretty. You probably have a boyfriend, but i just wanted to tell you that if he ever screws it up, you should call me.” Then he handed me his number on a scrap of paper, told me to have a great night and walked away. How’s that for a pleasant surprise? Especially when you think you’re about to have your purse snatched. I never called him. He could have been a murderer! But i’ll always remember his face and how his unexpected gesture made me feel.

When it comes to people, I think it's the unanticipated qualities that deeply bond us to them, too. Don’t get me wrong, sharing a passion for cycling or having the same taste in music is nice. It’s really nice. But finding out, for example, that someone has an astonishing talent for drawing transsexual zoo animals (you know, in addition to also being a really nice person) is something that has the power to make the heart go pitter-patter long after the thunderbolt of lust or an almost identical iTunes library ceases to move us. It’s the things that sneak up on us that make people, places, or even the tiny pocket so thoughtfully sewn into your sports bra to carry your house key, so wonderfully, surprisingly extraordinary. Or maybe it’s just me.

i'm sorry (i'm not sorry)

Not sorry.

I'm constantly saying I'm sorry. I hardly ever mean it. That's because I apologize for everything. Though shockingly, almost never for the things that come out of my mouth. Don't be mistaken, I'm not a pushover, I just have a nasty habit of begging the pardon of strangers whose paths I have the nerve to cross. Oh, did you just crush my foot with your stiletto? I'm sorry! Were you not expecting someone to be waiting for the elevator when you disembarked? I'm sorry! Was my ribcage irritatingly sticking out as you elbowed your way through the crowd? Well actually, under those circumstances, I might say excuse me. Because obviously, I was slowing you down.

There's literally no end to the leeway I give to people who couldn't care less. Unless I'm drunk. In which case, I'll probably throw my drink in your face. I'm not sure what this is about. It's like a knee-jerk reaction I can't seem to stop from leaving my mouth. I'm not really sorry. What would i be sorry for? Existing? No. Is it that I want to be thought of as a nice person, and I have an underlying belief I'm not even aware of that nice people say they're sorry? Doubtful, but it must have a root cause. I'd just like to get to the bottom of it because today I apologized to a man on a unicycle who was in grave danger of losing control of his ridiculous mode of transportation and taking me down with him. I think we all know who was actually at fault here, yet I was the one who apologized. 

It's obvious that I need to get my wanton benevolence under control. I have a reputation to uphold. Not to mention, I'm afraid if i keep up this "I'm sorry" when i'm not sorry routine, I could become someone who actually feels sorry for wrongs that never existed. And that would be pathetic. So that's it, I'm done saying I'm sorry (unless I really, really mean it). I'm just not sure what I'll say instead. Maybe hello.

ride on

There are some people who ride around on their bikes like total dicks. I never thought I was one of them. Most of all because I'm clumsy. I've fallen off my bike fixing my hat. I have absolutely no motivation to be a risk-taker. Yet, today i was the dick. Or the "bitch," as the kindly pedestrian shouted at me after I collided with him in an intersection, which I was crossing and he was standing in.

I felt terribly. I couldn't get around him amidst the construction, and as I'm realizing that he's making no effort to move I'm braking with all my might. By the time I reached him, I had stopped. But he reached out and grabbed my handlebars anyway and started yelling. I said, "Whoa, i'm sorry. I was trying to get around you. Why are you in the street?!" To which he boldly responds that I'm "the one on the fucking bike, bitch!" Fair point, but did he have to be so horrible about it?

I don't, by any means, think that because I'm on two wheels, everyone should yield to me. But I do kind of expect you to move out of the way when you're needlessly in the street and it's obvious that I can't get around you, nor stop in time. What I don't expect is that you'll grab my handlebars and then verbally assault me. The worst part is that he seemed totally normal--just your regular guy on his way to work. What kind of person is that angry before he even gets to the office? I guess the type that nearly got run over by a bike.

But is it just my imagination, or are people becoming increasingly less tolerant of others? It seems like we've all started assuming the worst of one another. Maybe he thought it somehow pleased me to fuck with him a little. It didn't. At all. In fact, as I walked my bike the rest of the way to the office, whimpering to myself, I wasn't sure what I felt worse about, that I'd almost hurt that guy or he thought I was just some entitled bitch. Either way, here's to being kinder--and more cautious.

pretty is as pretty does

The disco ball at the Grundle Club (title for Whitney)

Despite how it may appear, the photo above was taken during a very awesome night. All the action was happening off screen, but for some reason I was cognizant of this shot capturing something. I just didn't realize at the time, it was my feelings. 

My best friend's bachelorette party was that night and it was every bit the regression to university levels of excess and hilarity one would hope for (except no one woke up with a friend-of-a-friend's underwear in their houseplant--not naming any names). But i felt off.

What started my downward spiral was something embarrassingly shallow. I used to have very long, very natural looking hair. It was traditionally pretty. I guess I was traditionally pretty. But as i've gotten older, that hasn't seemed as important as embracing the self I feel most comfortable as. That self is someone who should have a platinum bob. It suits me. But I'll admit, maybe I was prettier with long hair. It's not something I think about a ton. Just from time to time when I allow leftover adolescent insecurities to take over. Or when someone calls me Lady Gaga. Which I have to say, happens a lot more than I'd like. 

Don't get me wrong, Lady Gaga is cool. But if there's one thing she's not, it's pretty. So imagine if the one person you're constantly compared to isn't at all attractive. It's hard to totally write off. On this particular night out in Baltimore, I might as well have been Gaga for all the attention I got. I started to think that maybe I'd been kidding myself. Maybe I wasn't so confident. Maybe this isn't who I am. Worst of all, I was disappointed in myself for being bothered by what some preppies thought of me. 

Because really, I don't care about having the approval of people I don't know. But that night, I took the comments to heart. I felt deflated, like I was just some weird girl trying to fit in with these women who are so special and so gorgeous. I suddenly feared that they, too, would see that something had changed. That I was somehow no longer worthy of them.

Of course it passed, as meaningless self-doubt typically does. I just can't believe that I'm 27 and still having moments of such incredible insecurity. Will I ever grow out of it? One can only hope. In the meantime, thank goodness I have friends who are nothing but wonderful, even if I'm not so wonderful to myself sometimes. 

you're missing it

 

I wish people would stop documenting things. Okay, that's not entirely true. Let me be more specific. I wish people would stop documenting EVERYTHING. 

Is it necessary that you film every sub-par opening band on your iPhone? No, there is no chance that one day they'll be famous and you'll be able to pull up your little video and say "I totally knew they'd be big." Stop it. Is it essential that you "check in" to the restaurant where you're dining with someone you see every day? Again, no. And do you need to take 47 photos of your big night out to prove that you weren't just watching My So-Called Life reruns all weekend? Well, that's up to you, but I'd still venture to say that the answer is no. 

It seems to me that people are increasingly sacrificing the enjoyment of an experience for the sake of capturing it for other people to see. I say this in the wake of standing behind a wall of smartphones recording the entire set at a gig I was seeing. Or rather not seeing, thanks to the sea of arms of the crowd's amateur videographers. I just don't get it. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but isn't the point of going to a show the drinking and dancing with your friends? Both of those are pretty hard to do when you've got one arm up in an immobile salute to preserve the quality of your video (I use the term 'quality' loosely).

I know I should be less bothered by the actions of other people, but it's annoying. And more to the point, I don't think I'm just imagining that all the seconds taken up by technology are eroding our ability to simply bask in the pleasure of the moment. The check-in is becoming more pertinent than the meal. The text message, more interesting than the people you're with. The photograph, more urgent than the merriment. And in an effort to capture it all, I fear we're at risk of missing everything.

these boots were made for reading

Photo: Elle Italia

If i had to name one characteristic that I've always been certain my beloved would possess, it would be a voracious appetite for reading. He'd also be tall and hot, but i'm trying to exhibit substance. Stay with me. I've had a steady stream of images of myself and my faceless future huddled together under a blanket with our respective novels since I was too young to imagine more exciting things one could do under a blanket. If you'd asked me any time up until about 2.58 years ago, I probably would have said that not reading is kind of a deal breaker. Then I met M.

In the early days, I ignorantly gifted him a book before he left for a nightmarishly long flight. I knew he wasn't a reader per se, but when faced with 11 hours of monotonous cabin noise and mediocre films, I figured he'd be glad to have another diversion on hand. I underestimated his disinterest. He didn't even get to the charming note I'd crafted on page 12 to jokingly congratulate him on making it so deep into the plot. 

Not to brag, but I've read hundreds, maybe even thousands of books. There are few things I find more enjoyable than a good book. Or even a not so good book. Sometimes I read pamphlets at the dentist's office for periodontal procedures I don't need just because I like words. The fact that my new love interest couldn't even make it through one chapter of a Bill Bryson novel worried me. For about 30 seconds. Until I put it out of my soggy, smitten mind and focused on more important things. Like that I really, really liked this boy and ohmygod, isn't he SO cute?

Fast-forward two and a half years and the fact that he doesn't read (just to clarify, he CAN read, he just doesn't like to) hasn't really come up. The only time it becomes an issue at all is when I refuse to tear myself away from a book to do something else. Such as participate in the relationship. His not reading is shockingly irrelevant to our compatibility. So, deal breaker it was not. 

This seems to indicate that I'm not great at predicting what will make me happy. A not uncommon predicament, it turns out. We make assumptions and seek out the bearers of specific criteria on the basis of ideals. Ideals that frequently aren't even our own. Just things we've been socialized to believe will add up to the magic formula. Yet what ends up fulfilling our needs is often something else entirely. What an incredible relief.