You're Going to Regret That...

“You’re going to regret those tattoos when you’re 40”.

“Excuse me?” The locker room isn’t where I would normally engage in a conversation with strangers, especially as I am about to peel off my underwear and her statement not only caught me off guard, but braless.  

“You young people think that tattoos are so cool.  But let’s be real, between those and that thing in your nose it’s going to be impossible for you to have any kind of meaningful career. No one could possible take you seriously.” Her tone is venomous. She’s a Velociraptor in shower shoes and a turbie twist whose prey is tattooed people.

I’ve gotten plenty of negative input about my tattoos in the past.  They aren’t for everyone, and I don’t expect the general population to think they are as beautiful as I do.  The stories they tell are mine and I treasure them.  I can no longer imagine looking in the mirror and not seeing the flower garden on my arm that commemorates the strong women in my family. I don’t know what my wrists would look like without their symbols of love, loyalty, friendship, and giving would look like.

I love seeing my home state etched on my thigh; it keeps me close to home even though I live so far away.

I wrap my towel around myself.

“I see that you’ve already made a decision about who I am: a twenty-something loser.  Maybe I have a retail job that holds no promise for the future, or maybe I’m still a student who hasn’t considered her life past graduation.  Because you have made these judgments, you feel like it’s your place to tell me that the day I turn 40, I’m likely to glance at my body in the mirror and wonder what the fuck I was thinking.  A complete stranger, you have the right or maybe even a misguided responsibility to tell me what you think of my body. You’ve already decided that I can’t be taken seriously because of the tattoos I have, and the sliver of silver in my nose? You might as well call me ignorant while you’re at it.”

“Well, I… just think that people your age don’t think things through very well.  You might have children someday, and what would they think?”

“My age is thirty-six and I thought this through very well.  I thought about the limitations my decisions might place on me. Then I realized the most important thing: I will be successful based on my merits and the art I wear will not hold me back from that.” The Velociraptors eyes turn to the grimy locker room floor. “And as far as children, I see hundreds of them a day.  I’m a teacher, and I tell my students that it’s important not to judge anyone based on their appearance no matter what you might think of it. What are you teaching yours?”  

Quitting is Courageous

“How much courage does it take to fire up your tractor and plow under a crop you spent six or seven years growing? How much courage to go on and do that after you've spent all that time finding out how to prepare the soil and when to plant and how much to water and when to reap? How much to just say, "I have to quit these peas. Peas are no good for me, I better try corn or beans.” - Stephen King

It's rare to think of giving up on something as courageous. Little kids who give up on a sport they don't like are quitters, runners who don't finish the race are quitters. Too often we call people who change course in the middle of something quitters. What if those people we see as quitters for leaving something behind when we see it as “unfinished” really are brave? Or do they have a foresight that others are missing? Where some see the middle of something, these people see the end; they may see that they are already there or that the end isn't what they want so they make a course correction.

A course correction. That's not quitting. It's standing at the top of the hill on a beautiful winter afternoon and planning a course down the mountain. From the top, it's easy to see where to ski, where the snow looks good. Then, as the hill guides the skis and they run over a patch of ice a course correction is in order. It's clear, now that the path has begun, that it's not the best choice. The path that seemed so perfect just seconds ago is now corduroy snow, and just to the left is soft powder. So the ski's turn and by the time the destination, the bottom of the hill, is reached the skier is no where near where they thought the would be.

Too often in life, we hold on when we shouldn't instead of changing course. Friendships that no longer fit into our lives, or have become toxic are hard to let go of. Relationships that began with love, or grew into love and then shriveled are even harder to give up. We hold on to them, believing that with enough hard work we can salvage them. The people around us agree. One good day is enough to last a week, then two, then a month. Next thing we know, it's impossible to remember the last time it wasn't work to be around the person we claim to love. It's easier to hold on than it is to walk away.

Jobs are the same way for most. I've watched people settle into jobs they hate because they pay the bills, the hours are good, they don't think they will find anything else. They're miserable, but they stick with it. I've never been that person, I hate a job and I walk away without another thought about it. Until now.

I resigned from my job last week. Not because I don't love teaching; I do. Not because I didn't think I could help my students; I was helping. I did it because the people “above” me, the ones “in charge” decided that I was making too much noise. They didn't like the way I stood up for the rights of my students. They really didn't like it when I told them I wouldn't keep doing it their way. So they had some meetings and made a threat; I made the choice to “resign gracefully” as they say. I didn't quit. I changed course.

This path, its a detour really. The destination remains the same, and this road will still take me where I want to be. I just have to slow down and take the city streets; the highway is under construction. I'll have a minute to do some sightseeing.

Someone said I should start writing again...

“You should write a poem about that,” I say to my mentor within five minutes of walking into his office.
 “No Liz. YOU should write a poem about that.”
 “I haven't written a word since I finished that chapter. Not even a few lines of poetry. I don't even Blog anymore.”
 “I know.” He looks disappointed. I hate it when he looks disappointed.

 It had been two years since I sat in my mentor's office; it could have been yesterday as comfortable as it felt. I went there to pick up a copy of the book he holds me responsible for. My Dad's stories are in the book, well a part of the story is anyway. Writing that, making it feel the way I actually felt, was a draining, painful experience. I may have spent more time crying about it than I did writing it. I might have sat at my computer, trying to write it realizing there were blank weeks in my memory; maybe even blank months. Not only did I have to fully explore my feelings about what had happened, I also had to admit to myself who I was during that time and how it must have been to be around me. It scared me. I wasn't sure there was much I liked about that person. And when My Mentor finally told me the revisions were done, I didn't have to stare at those words anymore, I was relieved. I didn't write anymore.

 So as we sat in his office, and talked about my goals for the future he takes the time to inform me that this, the writing thing, is what I should be using to change the world. He says that the education stuff is great, and the teaching, and the becoming a professor would be nice but its this writing thing I do that is really has the potential to change the world.

 I never thought of it that way, and the weight of the thought... well it's heavy.

 This writing thing is the thing I do because I want to, its the thing I do because I can. I don't do it to change anything, or fix anything. At best I do it to understand things a little more than I do when I only let the words roll around in my head. I tell him this, that I don't think my silly little blogs and poetry are really changing anything.

 He tells me maybe they will.
 He tells me to start writing again.
 The surprising part is that I'm actually listening.

Oh, Okay Gram.

I always knew I had a unique Grandma.
I wanted to be like her growing up; I still do.

She was strong and smart; had the confidence to wear a pink tutu and leotard on a stage in front of a hundred people when she was sixty-five years old.

Her love for my Grandpa never wavered, he was her other half. We used to sit and tell stories about him after he died, hers always ending with “I just miss him so much”.

She had the most ridiculous laugh I've ever seen. It wasn't a laugh humans could hear, maybe her beloved dogs could, but we all just watched it happen; Gram turning into a ball of chuckles tears escaping from under her teal trifocals.

She didn't bake cookies, instead she made bread and ox tail stew.

She tap danced, had a masters degree, was a magical piano player, went hunting with my Grandpa, sat a lawn chair in the river because she was always hot and loved to fish.

Her feet were long, thin and always hurt; her garden was proof that both her thumbs were green.

I'd give anything to own another one of the sweaters she used to knit for us as children, especially the brown one I used to loathe.

She didn't say “I love you”, instead she said “Oh, Okay” in a drawn out way that sounded more like “OOOOhKhaaaay”. Except in the last year or so. As disease started to steal her away more and more rapidly, she started to tell me she loved me. Slowly, each word meaning so much to her.
“ I Love You Too”.
It almost sounded like a song in her lovely deep voice.

Yes.

I opened my eyes at seven am; I always do when there's no alarm to wake me up earlier. The sun hadn't completed it's pull up over the horizon just yet, but the early morning light was beginning to filter around the black curtain behind our bed. As if my internal alarm clock also managed to wake him, the nurse opened his eyes and smiled at me.
“Morning Babe.”

This is his favorite time of day. We rest in each others arms, talk about the dreams we had and what's on our plates for the rest of the day. I tell him the odd dream I had the night before; he tells me about his dream for our future. There isn't enough light to see his face as his breath rubs my cheek, but I know his green eyes are probably tearing; mine are and I'm not the sensitive one.

“I know I should wait.” He says in a low voice as he reaches his long arms around me to get a small wooden box from the pocket of his jacket. Vedder jumps onto the bed, knowing something big is about to happen and wanting to be a witness. “But I can't wait anymore. I love being here with you, before the day starts. I want to start everyday like this for the rest of my life. I've never dreamt about a future with anyone before... you are my future Liz. Will you marry me?”

“Of course. Yes.” I barely whisper. He wipes the tears from my cheeks and places the ring on my finger.

“I'm sorry it wasn't a better proposal.”

“It was perfect. All of it. I love you.”

To All The Braless Women

To all the braless women:

There are protests that I can get on board with. Veal: horrible the way they lock those little cows up to keep the meat white. Pesticides that poison the groundwater; skateboards on sidewalks; gummy bears in flurries (those can wreck a perfectly good tooth); red dye 40; killing Dolphins in the name of Tuna. And sweatshops: horrible the way they lock those little kids up and pay them next to nothing.

But not bras.

There was a time when getting rid of your bra, burning it, was a way to show that you were a feminist; a woman who was no longer succumbing to the power handed to men. We still fight some of those fights. We have access to birth control, yet insurance companies still get away with paying for a mans Viagra but not The Pill. Women still have less power in corporations, and get paid less than equally qualified or even less qualified men. Young girls are routinely told that “girls just aren’t good at math”, that the boys will always be better athletes than them, and discover at a young age that it's easier to find over-sexualized pop stars to idolize than women of substance to set their sights upon.
I get this.
I’m in on this fight.
But showing your nipples in public is not going to make the world take you more seriously. Nor will knowing the exact shape of your breasts-whether it be the basketballs you’ve paid someone a lot of money to own, deflated and sad, or tennis ball in tube sock-help me to understand the plight of today’s woman. In fact, I find it utterly impossible to hear you roar, woman, when I’m distracted by the way your breasts seem to swing to and fro in perfect time to “Like a Virgin”.

Okay, so maybe you aren’t trying to make a political statement with your free breasting ways. Your argument would be that bras are uncomfortable; men don't have to wear them no matter how large their Moobs may be. I can accept that; they aren’t the number one most comfortable thing to wear. Everyone knows the most comfortable thing to wear is a snuggie.

Bras poke, suffocate, and dig into our shoulders. It's an extra step to dressing every morning. They are one more thing to wash on laundry day, one more expensive item to buy when that wire inevitably finds it's way out of the bra and into the soft flesh of our armpits. I invite all of you to refuse to wear a bra in the comfort of your own home. I hate them as much as the next woman. The first thing I do when I walk in the door after work is whip mine off Jennifer Beal style, as evidenced by the bra currently sitting on my dining room table.

When you leave the house, however, put one on. No matter how small they are; “I hardly have anything I don't need a bra” doesn't cut it after the age of sixteen. No matter how perfect they are; “Mine look great without a bra”, may be true, but the only person who should know that is your significant other and your doctor.

I rewind...

It’s barely over two minutes long, so I watch it over and over.
Those two minutes, captured ten years ago.
I I wish now that our voices had been recorded at the beginning of that dance.

“Dad, I can’t go backwards.” I said tipping my head down slightly to talk directly into his ear. “I’m going to step on my dress, fall down and crack my head open.”
“Okay, I’ll go backwards.”
“Don’t spin me too fast, I’ll get dizzy,” I say it and his shoulders move in a gentle chuckle as he begins to pull me across the dance floor.
“Just trust me Liz. I’ll never let you fall.”

And there we are, moving across the small dance floor as if we had practiced years for this moment; me in my big white dress, Dad in his tux. We are perfect.

It goes by too fast. I rewind. Watch it again.
It’s blurry through my tears.
It goes by too fast. I rewind. Watch it again.
Vedder wonders why I do this to myself every year.
It goes by too fast. I rewind. Watch it again.
I miss him.
It goes by too fast. I rewind. Watch it again.
I miss him.
It went by too fast.
There’s no rewind button I can press.

I watch it again.