Raise Your Glasses, Girls

It wasn’t until after I graduated college that I really understood the importance of female friends.  I mean, I *had* them, but they were few & far between, and I definitely took them for granted.  I always preferred the company of men (ahem), and I simply didn’t appreciate the importance, nay, the necessity of best girlfriends.

Fortunately, my old friends didn’t give up on me during those dark years, and, in my late 20's, I was lucky enough to find myself part of a true gang of girlfriends.  After all those years, I finally got it.  And then, I moved to Seattle, away from the comfort of the chicks that knew me…and loved me nonetheless. 

Lucky for me, I already had one built-in Seattle girlfriend, so I was doing much better than most that are new to the land of the Deep-Freeze.  And now, 6 years later, I am fortunate enough to belong to another gang.  And a badass gang at that. 

But today, one of us is going away.  She is pursuing her dreams, her goals, what feels right for her.  And we’re so happy for her.  But we are sad for us.  We know that our lives will go on. Wine Club Book Club will still meet.  We will still celebrate together, hurt together, laugh together, gossip together, round-table together.  But now, there will be a little Laetitia-sized hole in our hearts. 

Still, here’s the thing about this gang.  Once you’re in, you’re in.  You can’t get away from us that

easily.  We're badasses, remember? 

And so, with this glass of Happy Wine, I toast you, Laetitia.  You little French-speaking, ass-kicking, sextopus-making, American bikini-wearing, wine-drinking, marathon-running, truth-speaking, Chinese perm-getting, booty-smacking, ghetto grocery store-shopping, Cherry Pie-dancing, party-instigating amazing girlfriend, you. 

Here's to you, my dear one.  We love you.

Validation Street

I said to someone the other day that I "don't normally need validation" in my life. When I said it, I actually believed it. For some reason, though, this statement has been nagging at me. And so, as I often do when I'm obsessing learning about something, I looked up the definition.

val·i·date   [val-i-deyt]

–verb (used with object), -dat·ed, -dat·ing.

1. to make valid; substantiate; confirm.

2. to recognize, establish, or illustrate the worthiness of [xxx]

 

Now I realize what a ridiculous statement that actually was - not for everybody, but for me.  Of course I need others to substantiate my work or my thoughts or my feelings.  Of course I need confirmation that I am a marketing dynamo, that I look cute in my new top, that my blog is funny.  Of course I need you to recognize that I am good mother, a witty writer, a worthy contributor. 

Of course, I do. 

 

Someday, I will be that sort of woman who is so strong and so confident and so self-assured that she doesn't need any validation from anyone, any place, any time.  Someday I will always be the sort of woman that I can sometimes be, that woman that validates her own beliefs, that recognizes her own truths to be self-evident.  Someday I will be this woman 100% of the time.  

 

But, for today, just tell me you like me.

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.