From A Concerned Friend

Something a little more uplifting than the last post. Please enjoy.

Dear Fellow Humans Who do Not Remove Their Pants Immediately Upon Arriving At Home,

I have some questions I'd like to ask you. I don't mean to pry into your personal life, goodness knows I'm not trying to pick a fight or make anyone uncomfortable. But after many months of living in a new place, full of humidity and a thick, oppressive heat I've become increasingly concerned. Are you okay? Do you posess all the nerve endings necessary to properly care for your legs? Are you, as a patient in an episode of House, unable to sense pain or perhaps, heat, in your body so you are unable to react to it? I'm concerned about your physical well-being. I have a few theories that I'm interested in running by you to spare you the possible embarrassment of whatever condition you may have that binds you so closely to the tool of the devil himself: pants.

Are you missing the skin from your legs? Are your pants substituting for skin in a way that were you to remove them your legs would collapse into a heap of muscle and sinew and bones once you removed them? I know the shape of my legs changes once pants are removed, which is one of the main reasons for removing them, but perhaps you lack the skin to contain your legs beneath you without the aid of pants.

Are you punishing yourself for something? Did you do something so terrible that even in the privacy of your own home, somewhere that it is completely socially acceptable to wear whatever you choose or choose not, you would choose to wrap and confine your entire lower half? What was this unspeakable crime that you committed? And surely whatever it was, we can come up with a sufficient and far more humane punishment than the terrors of being confined to a private pant prison. Surely. 

Are you a completely unfeeling human?

Wait.

Are you a robot, whose circuits need to be concealed and hidden beneath two tubes of confining fabric?

Are your pants special somehow? Do you shop in a special section of the store in order to purchase pants that feel as though they are not touching your body at all? Do you perhaps treat them with something which caused them to feel light and airy instead of  something akin to a snugged-up sausage casing?

I'd certainly like to believe that I am the exception. That perhaps the norm is to remain fully pants'd until bed time and then transfer into the evils that are full, button-down pajamas. I have considered this fiction and would like to present how this cannot be the case with the following scientific research*:

Pants are belt ruin-ers. You know that cool leather belt you just scored at a thrift store? God, it's so cool. Can't wait to wear it with those awesome pants every day for the next week and get compliments on it everyt day. Time to wash the pants? Cool, just take the belt out before... What the what?! Why is my sweet new belt completely bent and morphed into a crumpled snake? Of course. Your pants were jealous of the attention your belt was getting and so it set out to destroy this thing of beauty you once loved.

Pants are bad for impressionable legs and torsos. You can see the effects frequently. Some say it's just bad circulation, that some legs are just set up that way, but I know it's because the pants do it to them. The grab hold of them and push and push until they leave red marks that look just like pants all over legs. Pocket impressions on thighs, inseam impressions on young, unassuming ankles and the worst: button and waistband impressions on bellies.

"Comfortable pants" do not exist. Comfortable pants are called leggings or sweat pants and are only appropriate when the temperature dips below 55 degrees farenhight. Comfortable pants are not called pants.

Pants-less household tasks improve your sense of humor. Doing dishes. Folding laundry. Sweeping. All funnier without bottoms. Or showing your bottom. As a bonus, being pants-less will make you more cautious with things like cooking and washing pots and pans in very hot water.

Character Building. Being chilly builds character, which can happen once you adapt to your (hopefully) air-conditioned home. Being hot increases anger, discomfort and can cause dehydration and death**. 

Increased Accessibility. This point requires no additional explanation.

Decreased Circulation. Confining legs causes poor circulation, which can lead to blood clots, which can lead to strokes, which can lead to death. So pants are pretty much worse than smoking.

Separation Anxiety. Have you looked at your pants-less legs recently? Have you seen how close they are? God, they just love each other. Always next to each other, all the time. Sharing everything from secrets to the weight you put on them the the agony of your footwear choices (seriously guys, stop wearing converse to wait tables, it's just mean to your body). Why would you keep them apart from each other for so long?

I know you may wonder, "Hey, if you hate pants so much, why wear them at all? As a lady you have many socially acceptable options at your disposal." This is very true, my smarty-smart pants reader. I do. To be honest, morning me is a bit of a different human than afternoon me. Morning me says, "Oh fuck yeah dark wash denim that hugs all up on me paired with some sweet boots and over-sized tee shirt". Morning me also seems to frequently think she's in a 90's grunge band and 100 pounds. Afternoon me thinks the Armageddon is upon us and we will all be suffocated by sticky pollution air and my skin will be forever wet, salty, puffy and red. 

So I guess afternoon me is a woke pig on slaughter day?

To conclude. If you are the sort of person who gets home after a long day of work and lounges around in your home still in your jeans, or slacks or whatever you call your personal pant penitentiary, please consider letting yourself free. Just try it. Get home, close door, remove pants. 

No. I don't know why you didn't try it earlier.

You're welcome.

*Based entirely upon individual empirical evidence without control groups, formal structure or any set experimentation.

**Please google "Hyperbole Definition"

I Just Needed A Few Things

The following is a true story. Something that I just recently put to paper, though have recounted several times since it occurred. I'll likely continue working on it. It struck me. It has stuck to my guts. I think it's important to keep sharing it, even though I don't take a lot of joy in the role I played nor the events that unfolded.

It's also part of my "making other" portion of my contract. I'm sharing a work in progress:

I was at the grocery store, I just needed a few things. The one down the street from my house. The one that I always complain about the produce selection.

I stood in the check out line with my few items and waited patiently behind a mother/daughter/granddaughter checking out. I'm good at waiting patiently. I glazed over a bit, as I often do when waiting, pretending to read the cover of tabloids and gum labels. The youngest generation of the trio in front of me was 1 1/2, 2? 3? Maybe 5? I'm bad with ages, particularly of children. She was sitting in the shopping cart seat, specifically designed with children such as herself in mind, chewing on her tiny, soft and undoubtedly mushy, finger nails mindlessly, with a glazed-over look I could relate to, as the cashier rang up her family's groceries. 

No one was smiling, though grandma seemed pleasant enough, relatively speaking.

Mom said to the little girl, "Stop biting your nails."

The child looked at her with her hands stuffed into her face. Not indignant, just blank. Chewing away.

"Stop biting your nails." Second verse. Same as the first. 

Child, with appropriate-for-her-age child-eyes stares at mom, unmoved.

"Stop biting your nails." With a little more sternness. Not yelling.

Child still stares at mom. Still chews.

Then swiftly, as though something may happen to her precious offspring had she not done something immediately, Mom raises her had and smacks the girl's, nails, hand, mouth, face and all and said loudly and with the authority of using all three names, "Stop biting your nails you little bitch!"

.

And Grandma didn't say anything. And the Cashier didn't say anything. And I didn't say anything.

What I've Been About. Mostly Pictures.

                                    

                                      Smashed Barbie Doll in the middle of the street.

        

                                                                    The Rail Park

                          

                         

                                

                          

                           I'm so healthy and sustainable, eating a big bowl of fruit for breakfast!

                                       

                             Dinner. (Not Pictured, the pint of Ben and Jerry's that was lunch)

       

                                                       The Rail Park. Part 2.

       

                                                            Best part about work.

                        

                                                   Best part about work Part 2.

                       

                                                          Sunrise from my house.

                       

                                                                      Bounty.

                                     

                                                                      Projects.

Fool Me Once - Shame For Everyone!

Recommended Listening for this post: http://youtu.be/Q9WZtxRWieM

When I was about 24-years-old I was working in a fancy-ish restaurant. The kind of restaurant that has a pretentious black book filled with house-made cocktails from fresh-squeezed juices with names that you cannot pronounce.

It was very slow one night and I was cut early, around 8 or so and I sat at the bar where my friend was still working. She made me several delicious drinks. The dangerous kind that you don't really calculate properly. She didn't want me to go home because she was going out after work and said I should join her.

Once she closed up we got up and I unlocked my bike, walking it along side us to a neighboring bar. I'd need my bike to get home later, as I lived a fair distance from downtown at the time.

I tripped over my bike at one point. The pedal caught my shin, or something. Something that's not completely out of the question, drunk or sober to happen when you're walking your bike on a sidewalk that you're also sharing with a friend. I tripped over it and landed on the sidewalk. It was fine and silly. My friend helped me up and we chuckled the rest of our way to the bar at my clumsiness.

I didn't go out often. So when I walked into the bar and saw a group of people I knew, I was thrilled, and so were they. We had a mutual moment of, "HIIIII!!!!!" Until I watched their faces fall as they looked at me. They were instantly somber. Even a little scared. It was hard not to be offended. Or extremely self-conscious. I wasn't sure what had provoked the change in them.

One of the women from the group grabbed my wrist and took me to the bathroom where I faced a chin and upper lip with minimal dried blood. My jaw dropped and that was the kicker. About half of both of my front teeth were missing. 

The rest of the night is a boring tale of a young inebriated woman attempting to find affirmation that she's doing anything right in her life, so I'll spare you.

My dentist was able to get me in on very short notice. He was non-judgmental, kind and light-hearted (as always- if you ever need a dentist, this one's amazing). He had my teeth fixed temporarily and affordabley, as I don't have health insurance, never mind dental. He warned me that I would very likely eventually have to have crowns on these two teeth, but this would do the job for now.

Sometimes stuff gets stuck in the seam of these teeth. It looks like my teeth are stained. If you look closely, you can see a jagged edge where a smooth one should be. I become so ashamed of my teeth. So ashamed that I try not to smile, or when I do I look down and away so people can't see my mark of shame. The stupid choice I made to have a drink six years ago that resulted in permanent (and VERY minor) disfigurement. The choice to not go home right after work. The resulting fight that happened with my then-boyfriend. The foolish choice I made to live so far out from the downtown area I adored. 

I know that dwelling on all of these past things is a really excellent use of my time and energy, obviously, that's why I did it.

No. I do it because I'm ashamed.

Don't worry, I, like many in our culture revel in shame in not just one way, but many, many ways!

Those pants don't fit anymore? Shame!

Did something that a close friend disagrees with? Shame!

Not strong enough to do x? Shame!

Cry in front of someone? SHAME!

Didn't get into graduate school the first time? Or the second? Eat your shame, you fool.

Make something that someone didn't like? Shame. Shame. Shame. Gut punch to the soul shame.

I did eventually get into grad school. Among many important things I have learned there so far, this one has been big: My shame does not stop, or even diminish with success. I do not think I am an anomaly. I think many people feel this way. Those pants may never fit again. You may never be strong enough to do whatever x is. Your life does not stop there. There are so many better things to do without shame.

The biggest danger I see in shame is that it is often paralyzing. We become ashamed of past decisions and so terrified of their results that we never take a risk again. Granted, I will not likely take the risk of chugging cocktails anytime soon, however had I not busted out my grin that night, I may not have calculated future evenings with a more decerning eye. But take applying to graduate school. I didn't want to do it a second time. Or a third. I felt embarrassed. Like some fool crippled by the definition of insanity. You know, the whole repeating the same action and expecting different results analogy. I'm so glad I shucked off my shame to get here.

But it does not paralyze me. I continue. I move, forever forward. I've earned an appetite for fucking shit up a little. I'm cultivating fearlessness and celebrating falls. At least the ones that don't end with my face drunkenly in the pavement.

I still feel it. Daily. Some days, hourly. Sometimes it rules my life for weeks on end. I'm not aiming to fix anything. I'm just like everyone else. Navigating one day at a time. I try to bring my best empathy, compassion, embrace and lowest levels of guardedness that I can. 

It's why this post didn't start with a disclaimer that this was going to be about something not light and fluffy. Or apologize for being long. 

We've got better things to do than wallow in our shame. It affects us. Acknowledge. Move. 

Keep moving. You are not your shame. We are not mistakes. 

We're mutha' fuckin' stardust.

https://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_listening_to_shame?language=en

Embracing Outsiderdome

I've been doing yoga regularly for a very long time.

All sorts. I'm pretty non-discriminatory at this point in my life.

When I got back to Philadelphia after Christmas Break at the end of December I was having a very difficult time re-adjusting after having spent ten days with many of my favorite humans and my family. Never mind that there was nothing to do until the fourth week of January. So I signed up for a yoga studio special. The first money I had spent on myself in Philadelphia that did not relate to sustenance or something that was school required. 

The studio is a three minute walk from my apartment. It's a version of hotish yoga, which wasn't my first choice, but it was so close and it was Winter, after all. My first few classes there were great. I love being a student in a yoga studio. I loved being somewhere anonymously again. Sneak in, sweat, sneak out. I quietly mumble hellos and goodbyes and give a small nod and briefest of eye contact as I'm scooting out the door. Part of something bigger than yourself, while still able to hide behind the masses. No one knows my name. I don't know anyone. I just leave my troubles in a puddle on the floor in the studio.

                        

I went for all forty days of my intro package. More than a few times I went twice in a day. 

I love yoga, but I'm so much more apt to practice with a class. Structure.

Toward the end of my package deal, an announcement was made after class that they were still looking for people to help with their Energy Exchange program, which means if you work three sessions a week, helping the instructor check students in, tidying up after class and making a commitment to the community, you were given free access to all classes at the studio. It was perfect, and the only way I'd probably be able to continue practicing. And it meant giving up something I had become so comfortable in: anonymity. 

I volunteered and started almost immediately. The processing of students and regular tidying around the studio is easy enough. If, like me, you've worked a zillion costumer service and retail jobs, all the steps are pretty much the same, just with different intentions and a different computer system. I arrive at class a half hour prior to practice and stay about a half hour later. I check people in and answer any questions they might have. I encourage and congratulate them if it's their first time. 

It started to sink in slowly, then once school started back up and I was regularly running around hardwood floors with a band of crazy weirdos, it really started to hit me. I don't belong there. I think I noticed it for the first time when one of my fellow "Energy Exchange-ers" said, 

"Let's get a picture of all of us in a row doing headstand!" 

"Sure!" I replied.

I don't really have headstand. I mean, I have MY headstand. Yoga's a practice after all. But it was about community. It was about sharing with people.

She later posted the picture to Facebook and it struck me hard and fast. Second in from the left, like a slightly dangerous adolescent turkey in a flock of graceful and still flamingos was a very physically honest me. One leg half raised and blurry, the other bent and resting in my hip socket. My generous hips and thighs taking the space and drawing attention to themselves by a ridiculously bold henna print neon teal and pink yoga pant.

        

Good God I don't belong there. It was so clear  in that moment. Among these graceful women whose arms were lean and ate quinoa and kale and sipped wine on patios. Who were either already taking teacher training or being courted by the studio owners to do so regularly. Me and my home-made hair cut and thrift-shopped yoga clothes and a mat my sister had gifted to me ten years ago. Me in my 450 square foot apartment in the same neighborhood as the studio. Me an my sweat the second I walked into the lobby. Me and my beer. Me and my chipped teeth. Me and my movement-based theatre program. Me and my shame shame SHAME.

I continued to feel this way. I was relating to my partner how uncomfortable I was with how much I felt like I didn't belong. How I felt like I could never be a part of this community. How I wondered if it was a Philadelphia thing or a me thing. Without missing a beat he said, "I don't understand why you're not embracing being an outsider. That's what I've always seen you do."

Oops. 

So here I am. No longer sneaking out of the studio. No longer making eye contact for as little time as possible with the fancy lululemon-wearing, artist warehouse-living, hairs done every 6-8 weeks clientele. Now it's a big giant smile, my best shot at remembering their names (forever a curse. Face blindness is real.) and still working on unfurling that headstand (and handstand).

                    

       

That makes it sound really easy. It's not. I'm nervous to smile at these people. I'm nervous every they'll see how I'm sweating before I even walk into the studio because I rode my bike there. I'm nervous they'll see me sweating because I'm nervous. I'm nervous I don't belong and no amount of being a novelty weird theatre grad student is going to help that. Really, I'm nervous every they don't want me there, because I want to be there. But it's not our samenesses that make us interesting as humans. The exciting part of most humans is what makes us weirdos.

I'm a weirdo in most social settings. It only really stands out to me when I've been around performers for a long time and then I'm thrown into a more "average" social setting, which is very much what the yoga studio is. I still feel shame- more on that next week, but I mostly feel lucky that I get to see these people as they are and I'm getting better at letting them see me for who I am. I'm not ashamed to be here studying devised theatre, even if no one knows what that means. I'm immensely proud. It took a shit ton of work to get here, and I will weirdo all over the place to celebrate.

Reasons My Co-Worker Is Apologizing

I think most people are familiar with Chronic Apology Syndrome.

Okay. It's not a real thing but it's totally a real thing. I'm sure most people know someone who apologizes constantly. Often not because they're doing lots of things wrong, just because it's how they communicate.

I'm guilty of this. I've been working on it over the last decade. I've started calling out my friends on their consistent apologies. Being sorry is necessary. No one's perfect, we all mess things up. I feel pretty strongly that if we apologize for things that aren't actual offenses, for example: Sharing an idea that isn't favorably received immediately. This not only teaches people around us that we have so many things to apologize for (like existing, having ideas, being a human) but it also compromised the integrity of our apology. So when you really fuck up and say you're sorry, what is it worth, if it's every other word out of your mouth anyway.

I recently started my new job selling rich people overpriced coffee and cold press juices and other hipster-related life style swag. I don't know the people I work with particularly well yet, but one young woman who started around the same time that I did says she's sorry so much I'm surprised she's at accepting of  any thing she does.

I feel inclined to point out at this moment that I do not think this is an inherently female conundrum. One of my favorite (male) collaborators had a nasty habit of apologizing so much that a superior once banned him from using the word. He now says "I apologize" so frequently it's almost eye-roll worthy.

So, without further ado, I present to you:

Reasons My Co-Worker is Apologizing

She asked me to hand her a milk to re-stock the cold case (this is part of my job)

She walked past me

She asked me a what time I worked tomorrow

We sent her home because it was dead, then it got busy after she left. She apologized profusely the next day.

She was refilling the water pitcher and I walked past her.

She set up the entire patio before I had a chance to help her.

She rolled all of the silverware.

She said something quietly.

She had to get past me behind the counter (where it's very narrow) so she stood there quietly until I looked at her because I thought she had a question.

She walked into work (on time).


I don't know her well enough to really bring this up to her yet. I have a feeling if I did she would apologize profusely.