Time After Time

Margaret Atwood, my favorite author, says in Cat's Eye, "Time is not a line but a dimension. You don't look back along time but down through it, like water.  Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing.  Nothing ever goes away."

This makes sense to me.  Good sense. It also helps me justify time travel in my head.  And I love the idea of time travel.  (Side note:  God, I miss LOST.)

But even so, isn't it strange how, after a relationship ends, it's so hard to remember the details later on.  The edges are blurry, like you forgot to put your contacts in that day.  It's almost like a dream, or a story you heard from someone else a long time ago.  Like it never really happened to you at all.

But every once in a while, all of a sudden, something reminds you of him.  A song, a smell, a voice, and there it is.  There he is, in your face, clear as day, all sharp edges and detailed lines.   So I guess Margaret is right.  Nothing ever goes away.

Even when you wish it would.

Cult of Personality

I took a personality test the other day.  The questions were of the usual personality test variety - lots of "I always" and "I never" and "I am" and "I feel".  There were, like, 500 questions or something, and many of them were repetitive.

4.   I am a happy person and always in a good mood.  TRUE

27.  I am a moody person and often irritable.  TRUE

209.  I am patient with others.  TRUE

355.  I feel frustrated at others lack of understanding of a situation.  TRUE

400.  I do not like confrontation.  TRUE

415.  I can be quick to get angry and will easily express it. TRUE

What does this tell you about my personality?  Now you know who I am?  Now you understand me? 

I am exactly who I say I am, and tomorrow I am someone else entirely.

Woman - untraceable by tests, uncageable by categories.

Shhh, This Is My Favorite Part!

If you know me well, you probably know I have some weird quirks.  Several of these quirks involve music.

First, I have a favorite part of pretty much every song, and I will point it out to you - even if we are deep in the middle of conversation.  I will expect you to remember my favorite parts of my favorite songs and anticipate when a pause in our conversation should come.

Next, I like lyrics, and I like to analyze them to no end.  I will expect you to actively participate in this process.  I will ask you, "What do you think he meant by XXXX?"  You should think about it for a moment and then contribute something interesting.  "I don't know" or "I wasn't really listening" are not acceptable replies.

Finally, I am a fan of theme music.  I insist that the correct song be playing for both major & minor  events in my life.  In addition, if it's not acceptable to be playing music in a certain situation, I can still hear it in my mind.  Or, if I'm listening to a particularly good song that would be *perfect* for theme music, I will conjure that scene up in my head.

Some current faves:
Walking down my front steps to start my run?  This small town heroine's perfect moment for the beginning of "Don't Stop Believin'".
Finishing up the same run?  "Don't You Forget About Me", fist raise included.
Getting pumped up for a big work thing? "Can't Hold Us"
Excitement over girls night? "Leave Your Boyfriends Behind"
Channeling the angst from my '20s? Always, always "32 Flavors". 
Being in general awe of all of the amazing women in my life?  "Girl on Fire"

What music is providing the soundtrack to your life right now?  Let me hear too.

Badges of Honor

The other day I was at the hair salon, and I was eavesdropping - as you do - on the women at the station next to me. 

"I cannot believe that's Beyoncé.  She's way too skinny.  That's airbrushed to hell."
"Do you think she really had her baby?"
"NO."
"I don't either."
"There's no way that girl would have only gained that tiny bit of weight.  If Beyoncé was pregnant, she would've been HUGE.  She would have had fat freakin' arms.  Her face would be all bloated and huge.  Girlfriend puts on WEIGHT.  You just know she'd be that pregnant woman with the nasty gas, zits and a mustache."

It was at this point that I began to interrupt to say, "And clearly, you have children too.  Cause that's the only way you're allowed to even comment about pregnancy...and get away with it."

I was thisclose.  But I chose to keep my mouth shut.  Hey man, I really like this place, and I am not trying to start fights with random strangers.  Especially as I was 99% sure that this woman did not have children have her own. 

Okay, Gentle Reader, here's the thing.  If you haven't been there, you don't know.  And if you don't know, you need to shut the hell up.  Pregnancy is a messy business.  Yes, some of us get huge.  Our bodies do crazy things, make crazy sounds, turn crazy colors.  And the horrors that come along with giving birth?  Yikes.  And the post-baby experience - even years later - is still no picnic. 

Listen up - We were GROWING A PERSON inside us. Perhaps we could be cut a little bit of slack as we're rocking meaty arms, swollen faces, and acne better suited to a 13 year old boy.  Just a little bit?

And later, after that little person has officially joined our world, I say we wear our new bodies like uniforms - and with pride.  My little(ish) tummy pooch?  An achievement medal.  My less-than-perky breasts?  Life-saving gear.  Thick arms?  Necessary for combat.  Stretch marks?  Service ribbons.   

Our imperfect bodies are worthy of this recognition.  They went above and beyond the call of duty, my friends.  They are heroes.    

So what if we need a little camouflage every once in a while?

Dirty

I like to mess up beauty.  I like to get clean things dirty.  I like to create chaos where there would otherwise be sameness.  I like to muddy the perfect. 

I want to casually knock over rows and rows of carefully placed dominos.  I want to kiss a perfectly made-up cheek with sexy hot pink lipstik.  I want to f*ck wildly on a well-made bed.  I want to smudge newsprinty fingers on important work documents.  I want to spill coffee on white linen pants.  I want to use the black crayon to color not only outside of the lines, but on the floor and the walls too.  I want to fondle all of the sculputures and caress all of the paintings in the Louvre.  I want to chip my purple dishes with purpose as I wash them.  I want to splash in a mud puddle while wearing my wedding dress.  I want to scream while flying a silent redeye.

I want imperfection.  I want faults and flaws.  I want snags and defects.  I want disorder and commotion 

In imperfection, we find true beauty.  And in chaos, we find comfort.

Hottie Hot Hot!

"I think I reached my hotness plateau awhile back, and I'm now on a slow & steady decline from here on out," I said to Tim a few weeks back.

He disagreed because he is a good man.  (He is also not stupid.)

I feel like it's true though.  And it pisses me off.  Aging is brutal - especially when you have lived the (ahem) party girl lifestyle that I have led.  And don't even get me started on having a damn baby.  Your body isn't for you (or your partner) anymore, that's for sure.  And as the years go by, it seems to take a lot more time, money and energy to make myself look halfway decent when 5 or 6 years ago, I rolled out of bed looking pretty damn cute. 

This decline of hotness also seems to be in direct correlation with the decline of men hitting on me.  I mean, yeah, I'm married and I have a kid an all that, but STILL.  It's nice to be hit on once in awhile, right?  It's always nice to know that someone besides your husband finds you attractive.  And maybe, as a liberated woman, I shouldn't say this out loud, but it feels a little like validation.  Or at least it makes me feel like the 2 hours and 45 minutes I spent getting ready were worth it. 

Which leads me to last night....

I went to a party last night.  A work party.  I did not plan on staying out for long.  I didn't think much of it really.  I still spent some time trying to improve my hotness, but nothing crazy.  Well, I did get a spray tan, but so what?  I'm in Austin!

I don't know if it's because SXSW is like Spring Break for grown-ups.  (And geeks.)  I don't know if it's because I was away from my every day life, or if it's because my tramp stamp lower-back tattoo was peeking out of my jeans.  Or maybe it was simply the 4 glasses of wine I had on a empty stomach.  Whatever the reason, it was a good night for hotness.  I was asked for my number three times.  Two different guys asked me to have drinks with them after the party was over.  And another guy - out of the blue - said to me, "You are really sexy."  I wasn't even flirting with him.  No, seriously.

And, later that night, alone in my hotel room after leaving the party alone (hello, I'm married!), I realized something.  Hotness is a state of mind. 

And I am back on the upward climb.

Let Them Eat Cake!

Why, yes, I think I *will* have it all, thank you very much.

The other day, I received an email from a Dude I went to college with in Michigan.  It was the basic, hey, how are ya, where did you end up kind of email.  I told him that I have an 18-month old son.  (I left out the part about bringing him to bars.)  In Dude's follow-up email, he said, and I quote, "Wow, I didn't expect you to become a mother. I always thought you would be some high-powered executive with an amazing job."

Dude.

Shockingly, women can now have *both* children *and* amazing careers.  I know.  I am in disbelief as well.

C'mon, ladies.  Let's go buy our own damn cake.