Transience

I'll say goodbye tomorrow, to the faces I long to see;

Move through a sea of faces that mean nothing to me. 

Searching for a warmth I can hold dear,

But it fades to a cold façade the closer I draw near. 

Why can't I float along and grow as a dandelion where I land?

I long to fall back in place, once again a flower in your hand. 

This journey moves us all forward whisking through this transient life.

All seem to seek refuge beyond the worries and strife. 

We bid goodbye too soon to the ones we wish we knew

And to the ones that we knew well, the sweet dandelion that we blew. 

I will take tomorrow and all the mysteries it brings,

As long as I can keep my yesterdays, their remnants blowing in the breeze.

Goldilocks

This may start off a little familiar. I have written about a similar topic not too long ago, but in light of the post-holiday, return-line season, I found myself, yet again, being challenged to find the right fit. Sometimes when I go shopping I wonder who came up with sizes and why these are the ones that stuck. At what point did society decide that all women must  fall perfectly within these 24 (or so) numbers and decide to start mass producing everything under the impression that there are only 24 different sizes in all of the female population? Well, I'm here to tell you that there are at least 25, because I happen to not fit perfectly in anything. Not even shoe sizes come easy; each pair is always a little to wide, or small, or shaped funny. As I sat in the shoe department recently surrounded by a bunch of boxes and shoes that didn't feel right, I was reminded of an old fairy tale. Then I did what any seemingly happy-go-lucky shoe-loving woman would do, I started thinking about this situation existentially: do I really have a proper fit anywhere? Life should be custom made for each individual, yet here I am living in housing that was created to fit the "average" military family, getting paid based on "average" income, taking classes based on "average" student populous, and trying to find a job in the "average" economic market. I'm not typically the rebellious type, but I can see that this is another situation in which I am not a good fit. I've tried to squeeze into a city that was too small and fluff up my ego to fit a bloated steroetype, but it doesn't work. I am who I am and it has taken me a long time to grow comfortable with the ever-evolving person that I am. It might be a battle to find my place, but I am secure enough to know that this isn't it.

With this epiphany comes another potential problem that Wayne's been calling "the grass is greener" syndrome. I do not want to keep chasing this mirage of paradise simply to find that no matter where I go, I'm the problem that I run into. My solution for this is not to follow Goldi's footsteps and eat blindly from whatever bowl I find more appealing at the moment. Every place I've been so far might not have been the right fit for me, but it was worth it to try on. So, whenever the time comes to make a decision to leave, I want to cautiously consider all aspects. I think I've reached a point where I want the comfort of a perfect fit without feeling like I'm settling into a place that belongs to someone else. Also unlike the coifed towhead that we are familiar with, I am unable to just hop about trying to find the place that is most suited for me. I am not alone in the search and we have obligations that we must consider. It's also important to be realistic in the search for the right place. I've lived in places that were always too hot and always too cold, but I think the worst is living in a place that is wrong in all the other aspects. Not to say weather doesn't play a role in comfort, but just because something has a perfect facade doesn't mean it's the right place for you, right? It's a matter of understanding what compromises you are willing to make. I'd rather deal with shoveling three feet of snow everyday for nine months out of the year or sweat while I blow dry my hair every morning than to wake up in the most beautiful place in the world knowing that I'm not home.

The story of Goldilocks is about a curious girl that finds herself in the wrong place and instead of trying to understand how she got there or (more importantly) how she can create a place of her own, she creates a disaster in a place that doesn't belong to her and runs away screaming evading a certain "breaking and entering" charge.  I may be blonde and I'm sure this process will include putting up with a lot more than a bowl or two of subpar porridge, but I promise I won't fall into the same mess as Goldilocks.

Palm Reader

 Over the past couple of months, I think that I've endured just about every emotion known to man. During this time one memory has struck a chord so deep within me that every time it crosses my mind, my eyes swell with tears. It isn't of one particular moment in my life necessarily, but one of many times I remember: My mom was talking to a neighbor outside and tenderly stroking my younger sister's hair. This was one of countless memories of the summer evenings we spent outside, but the intensity of the memory is what captures me; the way my sister listened intently to the conversation, the smell of fresh cut grass, the voices of the neighborhood, and most of all, my mother's hands. Twenty years later, we've far outgrown those carefree summer nights, but I remember her hands and the love they provided. So long ago was that time, that I've since seen my younger sister caress her own daughter in that same comforting way.

My dad and I recently discussed the idea of writing a biography on our hands: the places they've been, the jobs they've done. I haven't been able to stop thinking about this concept. As l look at my own hands, I think about the positions they've held, the words they've written, and all the times they've broken my fall. As new chapters in my life unfold, I wonder where these hands will take me.  I often feel the things I've done are insignificant, but everything I've done has led me to where I'm going. My hands have donned perfect manicures and coffee burns. They've been cut countless times by shears and while preparing dinner. My hands have held the promise of my wedding vows, the fragile hands of a dying loved one, and my niece minutes after she was born. My hands have carried moving boxes and many many tears. My hands have shaved my head, opened bank vaults, and signed my first speeding ticket. My hands have also been stained with blame and guilt over the years, but it's all these things and so much more that have shaped my life. One day soon, they will hopefully hold the key to our first house and my college degree. They may even find a cure or save a life… One day my hands will hopefully be the loving touch that brings comfort to our child in the same ways my mother brought comfort to me. I'll never know what the network of lines on my hands stand for…whether I'll have financial fortune or simply notoriously wrinkled hands. I don't believe that my fate can't be read in my palm, however I do know that it's mysteries are within my grasp.

About Face

For some reason it is difficult for me to admit when I possess one of those typical girly characteristics. I'm not sure why, but it feels like I've succumb to weakness and must admit defeat. I may pull off a tough exterior, but alas, I confess: I love make-up. I do, I hate to pass up the counters at Macy's, I'm a Sephora junkie, and I'm sure that there have been times when the number of eye shadows I possess have outnumbered the dollars in my bank account. It's not that I am one of those that can't check the mail without piling on the rouge, but I do feel a little more confident when I take a little cosmetic time. I find it interesting that the act of applying make-up is often referred to as "putting on your face." Maybe it's because I tend to lean to the less is more side, but I just can't relate to that expression. I have had the unfortunate experience of having a makeover that, after 5 seconds in the Houston humidity, felt like my face was melting off, but I can't imagine wearing so much make-up on a daily basis that it actually defines my face. I know plenty of women that do though and when I have seen them sans their synthetic exterior, I actually notice their attributes that their make up seems to camouflage.

Cosmetics have had a pretty amazing history as far as what has been considered a beauty treatment and how it was accepted in society. Some of our habits these days may be tedious and even painful at times, but at least we've moved past bloodletting and applying lead to our skin to create so-called feminine beauty.
There have been practices traced back in history that make a face-lift sound like fun. I wonder how it all got started, where people (mainly women) started to feel that natural beauty needed to be enhanced. Why do I feel less secure when I face the world with my blonde eyelashes and pinkish hue?  Did it start with the unrelenting goal of beating Aphrodite out of the running? How horrible is it that the very idea of a "beauty contest" even exists? I guess it all goes back to some ideal people have about beauty being a social status, how else can you explain the ever-changing image of what defines beauty?

Not to disregard the creative side of cosmetics that I personally enjoy, but we literally spend millions (if not billions) of dollars trying to find ways to feel more secure with ourselves, be accepted, reverse aging, to just tolerate ourselves a little more! Why is aging such a bad thing anyway? I mean, there is truly only one way to stop it, and at that point, even the longest-lasting lipstick won't help you. My goal here isn't to inspire boycotting the cosmetic industry, but mainly to to reconsider allowing MAC, Urban Decay, Maybelline, Estee Lauder, Clinique, or Oil of Olay, to tell us that we are beautiful. Perhaps instead, we can gaze into those little compacts in our purses and find beauty in what we've faced instead of what is on our face.

Lost Love(y)

I resent you for taking my music, knowing that certain songs just belong to you.
I resent you for taking my sunsets because with you, I've shared some of the best.
I resent you for taking all my hikes; after all, you kept the cliff bars in your bag.
I resent you for taking my spontaneity; I wouldn't know it if you hadn't popped into my life.
I resent you for taking my dark sense of humor, because only you made me laugh when I wanted to cry.
I resent you for taking my cream of wheat, and all the wonderfully simple things brought to me by you.
I resent you for taking Halloween because with you I faced the scariest one of all.
I resent you for taking with you your wardrobe because I still hate the clothes in my closet. 
I resent you for taking away the beach because I was happiest when you were there.
I resent you for taking my writing because half of the fun was reading your response.
I resent you for taking away my love of cooking because without you nothing tastes as sweet.
I resent you for taking away the pleasure of margaritas because now I feel lonely in restaurant bathrooms.
I resent you for taking Wyoming, Colorado, and Northern California because I can't appreciate them without you.
I resent you for abandoning me on Facebook, because now I hate it even more.
I resent you for taking with you your cup because I can't finish the sake by myself.
I resent you for taking away the good trails, now where am I suppose to fall off my bike?
I resent you for taking with you karaoke because now I know there's no better way to ring in the new year.
I resent you for taking all the Indy theaters because I haven't been to the movies since.
I resent you for leaving me to make the stuffing alone because Thanksgiving  just isn't the same.
I resent you for taking away camping because I can't put up a broken tent by myself.
I resent you for leaving your bottle of Tapatio because now it's lost it's spice.
I resent you for downloading your pictures on my computer because now I have more reminders.
I resent you for taking with you your dog because I love her too.
I resent you for taking away the fortune cookies because now I don't know what the future holds.
I resent you for the good times because the bad ones didn't seem so bad.
I resent you the most for being there because now it hurts even more when your not.

 

What are you waiting for?

Sometimes life is just easier to understand when you use metaphors, at least for me it is. If I can find something to relate my current crisis to, then I can usually find a way to approach it or at least find more insight than trying to face it head on as it is. One place I find myself relating to often is a waiting room. The type of waiting room varies by what I feel like I'm waiting for. I'm the kind of person that enjoys living life far more than waiting for life to find me, but there are times when I know I am needed to observe and not act. The problem is, no one likes waiting rooms. Waiting rooms are places specifically designed to be temporary and you always want your stay to be as brief as possible, but sometimes you are there for a longer period of time than you expected. What do you do then? Waiting rooms aren't designed for extended stays! The chairs are uncomfortable, the magazines are few and often out dated, the walls are are bare aside from a few generic pieces of poorly matched artwork. I've been in a few waiting room where the only interesting item in the room was the state licensing on the wall. I've never gone anywhere in which I was looking forward to spending time in the waiting room. Your outlook and patience, however, can vary depending on what you are waiting for. If you are waiting in a doctor's office, your mind can be in several different places. If this is a check up, you might bring a book, settle in a chair, and wait for the whole thing to be done. You know what to expect, you know the nurse that will be calling your name, and as long as there aren't any tornado sightings while you are changing into your gown, you can assume that the mundane experience will be brief and life will proceed as normal. Other times, you may be waiting for relief. You may be feeling ill and dealing with symptoms you couldn't heal on your own with over-the-counter or holistic medicine. You are anxious and uncomfortable and you probably feel like everyone in the waiting room is repulsed by you, hoping they don't catch what ever you have. You are waiting for whomever to call your name and lead you to a cure. Occasionally though, you may be waiting for something else, maybe results from a recent test or to undergo surgery. You might be in a waiting room you've visited several times, but now it seems different. Time seems to have stopped and even though you are anxious to go, you understand that life may be completely different once you are called through the doors.
Doctors' offices aren't the only places with waiting areas. Maybe you are meeting friends at a restaurant and you are waiting to be seated. They might give you a menu and offer you a seat at the bar, but all you really want to do is start your dining experience. Sometimes I go to a restaurant and know exactly what I want. I have a specific craving for a tried and true recipe and I know it'll hit the spot, but most times I am up for a surprise. I like to try new adventurous places, read the menu thoroughly, ask the waiters advice, and try something I've never had before. At those times, I am so excited and can hardly wait... will it be an inventive new sushi roll or maybe even the habanero curry I've been wanting to check out?
Sometimes your house can feel like a waiting room too and that can be the worst! You might be waiting for the phone to ring or waiting for a friend to return after a long absence, you might be waiting to feel better, or waiting for the popcorn to finish popping. Maybe your waiting to yell "surprise!" or waiting to confront a problem that is long overdo. When you are waiting at home, all the walls feel like they are closing in around you and there is nothing within your possession that can occupy your mind. You can't get the house clean enough, or do enough jumping jacks to exhaust your thoughts, and the silence is often too deafening to endure.
Right now, I feel like I'm in all kinds of waiting rooms. There are plenty of things I'm anxious for, but I know that, at the moment, it is my time to be patient. I think I am here right now to gather the grace to accept whatever might come, whether it be the phone to ring, medical results I've waited years to hear, or a big spicy bowl of habanero curry.

One Size Fits All

According to several web sources I have found, the average American woman is 5'3.7", 152 lbs., and has a BMI of 26.3. While I do feel somewhat accomplished that I fall short of all these statistics, I am very aware of the challenges of finding clothes, shoes, and styles that are flattering to my frame. Like most women, I am burdened with the chore of sorting through aisles of clothing and daunting trips to the dressing room only to leave downtrodden and vowing to never eat anything other than celery again. Every week, without fail, I will succumb at least once to trying on so many articles of clothing and changing that eventually the amount of clothing piled on my bed far outnumbers what is left in my closet. I will then resort to pouting in my robe until I settle on the lesser of my attire enemies, but the cats will have at least triumphed to a well-deserved nap upon the mound of cotton, silk, and polyester. I have learned that I am not the only woman that spends a good amount of time, washing, ironing, and hanging loads of clothes only to find she has nothing to wear. I am also not the only woman who waltzes over to the bathroom mirror in what she feels may be the winner only to have the mirror beguile her, "Hello, hi. I'm Fatty McWrinkle and apparently I can't dress myself." Why are we so critical of ourselves? Is it vanity? Is it low self esteem? We are all so different and even though the average American model is something like 5'11" and 117 lbs., I don't really want to be like that, they face their own challenges (however, I certainly wouldn't mind trading for a day or two.). Have you ever bought a "one-size-fits-all" article of clothing? They are almost always too wide, too long, too something, because one size could never really fit ALL or even most for that matter. I do feel that clothes can certainly enhance your confidence, but nothing can truly make you feel good if you don't feel comfortable in your own skin. No amount of makeup or crunches will compensate for what you truly see when you look at yourself. So maybe the issue for me isn't a new haircut or finding the best type of top to flatter my figure, but maybe some soul searching is in order. Although there will always be times when I'll want to burn down my closet and all it's contents, I know that neither this or a lavish shopping spree will result in a gratifying image in the mirror if I ignore what needs the most improvement, and no I don't mean my thighs (although that couldn't hurt :) ).