Bare Truths
May 1st, 2011 § 1 Comment
Last week I took one of those stripper dance classes. The brochure promised I’d “firm every inch of my body while mastering moves guaranteed to drive my partner wild.” Who could resist?
I love to dance and take classes regularly, so I entered the dimly lit studio without anxiety. I was looking forward to the rush of energy and optimism that, for me, invariably accompanies any kind of dance. And if this class’s particular sexy slant put a little extra swing in my hips, all the better. But most of all, I was counting on a laugh. What could be funnier than a middle-aged mom like me bumping and grinding her pear-shaped patootie? The humor alone was well worth the drop-in fee.
A collection of fit young women crowded the small room, in outfits ranging from standard yoga pants to semi-obscene club wear. I felt this was reasonable given their youth and the theme du jour. But here’s the weird part: the room was nearly silent, and without exception, my classmates wore expressions of businesslike composure, peering earnestly into the mirror as they rolled their shoulders and stretched their calves. No casual warm-up chatter, no girlish tittering at the poles and strip-club lighting.
Beside me, a glamazon in hot pants and a teeny tiny sports bra flung her formidable thighs wide in a spread-eagle stretch, nearly grazing my butt in the process. I figured such intimacy called for an introduction, so I tried to catch her eye, first in the mirror and then in real life, but she’d have none of it. Was I missing something?
The teacher took the floor and without preamble enjoined us to “thrust, thrust, thrust aaaaand gyrate!” From a strictly geometrical perspective, she used both words incorrectly, reversing their meanings. But I decided to let that go. What troubled me more was her apparent obliviousness to both the erotic and comedic subtexts of the scene. From her mode of speech, she might have been instructing us in typing.
All around me women worked their pelvises with grim determination, lips pursed, neck cords straining. When we descended to the floor, knees spread, hips raised and rolling, I thought surely someone would bust a laugh. But the teacher merely observed, with neither wit nor irony, “this pose is very inviting to men.”
That’s when I lost it, sputtering and choking on my own, apparently anomalous, amusement. I tried to play it off as a coughing fit combined with some kind of muscle spasm, and I’m pretty sure I succeeded. Everyone was so intent on their own gyrations, they probably didn’t even notice the slightly older woman convulsing on the floor.
As the class progressed, the teacher waxed a shade more expressive – but with an earnestness that only made things worse. “Take it seriously, ladies!” she implored as we minced across the floor, hips a-swivel, heels raised on imaginary stilettos. Take it seriously? Seriously.
Here we were, women together, each of us voluntarily glorifying a cultural stereotype laden with erotic power on the one hand, degrading baggage on the other. I know it was just an exercise class, but it was also an environment undeniably charged with sex and sexism, feminism and anxiety, pleasure and insecurity – and above all humor. But we were ignoring all that, and most of all, ignoring each other.
I yearned for just a little sisterhood. A moment of eye contact, a smile or a laugh, any gesture that might say “isn’t this nuts? And aren’t we fabulous?”
When the class was over, I knew I wouldn’t be back. (Although the workout itself was great, and I have a whole new respect the athleticism of strippers.) I guess that compared to my stony-faced classmates, I felt old – in the best possible way. Old enough to know my own sexuality, and to recognize that for me, feeling sexy has everything to do with being fit and strong, but nothing at all to do with straining to impersonate a vampy showgirl cliché. Feeling sexy also means feeling like a woman – and connecting with other women is a big part of what makes that magic work. And most of all, feeling sexy means letting loose enough to laugh, every chance I get.
I worried a bit about the dour young women I met that day. Dressing skimpy and dancing sexy can be a lot of fun. But if something so undeniably silly doesn’t make you crack a smile, it makes me wonder why you’d bother.
I went home to my boyfriend’s house that night and told him all about it. I couldn’t quite bring myself to show off any moves, but you know what? We laughed all the way to the bedroom.
Shady Lady
April 13th, 2011 § 1 Comment
I wore sunglasses fished from a public toilet. In fact, I fished them out myself, with my bare hands, dried them on the hem of my shirt and stuck them back on my head. You might be thinking $1200 Gucci shades, but you’d be wrong. Like almost all of my accessories, these were from Target, probably purchased on sale.
It happened when I was meeting my mother at the airport, and I’d just left my husband. I don’t mean I left him in the parking lot – I mean left him, in italics. My mother, God bless her, was flying in to survey the damage.
The truth is I’d been holding up pretty well, considering, but I suspected that in the age-old tradition of daughters in crisis, I’d fly to smithereens as soon as I laid eyes on my mom. And with my two kids gawking from the sidelines, smithereens weren’t really an option. I was determined to keep it together.
For the first time in days, I showered and put on makeup. Head high and shoulders back, I navigated Denver International with a kid gripped firmly in each hand. I would greet my mother as I planned to greet my new life; dignified and unafraid.
Then, of course, Naomi had to pee. And so I found myself crammed in a stall, supervising her novice tinkling while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on her sister’s feet, visible under the partition. There was some crouching involved, and that must be when the sunglasses took the dive.
At a different moment in life, I might have hesitated. I might have cringed and winced, and probably left that mess of toddler pee and plastic as someone else’s problem to clean up. But I’d just left my husband, left him in italics, with two kids under five and only a part-time writing career to fill my purse. And in the shadow of that crisis, this one barely registered as an inconvenience. I didn’t think twice. Just plunged in, grabbed the shades and kept moving.
That day at the airport, I didn’t meet my mother with dignity as I’d planned. I met her with toilet water in my hair. And I didn’t meet her unafraid; I was petrified of every single thing about the life that lay before me. But none of that really mattered. What mattered was that I was in motion; navigating on instinct through a mess that only weeks before had held me paralyzed.
I forgot all about the sunglasses until the next day when I realized they were awfully streaky. And as I washed them, it occurred to me that through those grungy lenses, I was seeing life more clearly than I ever had before.
A Little Too Comfortable
April 10th, 2011 § Leave a Comment
This is a story about a dress I didn’t wear, and we can all thank God for that.
A few months into motherhood, I was a size and shape that could politely be termed larger than usual. It bothered me less than you’d think. Call it hormonal fog, but I thought I looked pretty fine. Or as fine as one can look in a nursing shirt spangled with spit-up.
I’d always loved clothes and been quite a shopper. And I wouldn’t say that as a mom I stopped caring about fashion. I just cared about comfort way more. Immediately post-partum, the condition of my nether regions ruled out all but the stretchiest of stretch pants. Nursing called for bras better left undescribed. Sleepless nights yielded sleepy days, and I discovered the merits of pajamas-cum-clothing.
As it turns out, the habit of dressing purely for comfort is, well, comfortable. Like a big, fat la-z-boy, my schlumpy wardrobe enveloped and immobilized me.
All that changed one spring afternoon. With the weather warming up, I realized I’d soon have to trade my sweats for airier fare. I tried on some pre-pregnancy shorts and sundresses, but found them… unpleasantly constricting. Unfazed, I decided it was time to shop.
I’d always loved dresses. Pregnancy had been a joyous holiday of great, voluminous tents, carried with ponderous panache. As I gathered a stack of catalogs, I envisioned myself once again resplendent in casual printed frocks; the perfect blend of arty style and, of course, comfort.
I flipped a few pages and zeroed in almost immediately on the garment of my dreams. Colorful and boho-chic, it conjured a life of picnics on the lawn and Sunday cafes. Add a straw tote, and I’d be unstoppable.
And then I saw it. The headline that made time stand still: Ethnic Print Muu Muu. Muu muu. Official garb of Floridian retirees. The whole word’s shorthand for letting yourself go. And I’d admired it! Coveted it! Recognized it instantly as the dress for me.
I flung down the catalog as if burned, and joined Weight Watchers the very next day.
Playing it Cool
April 10th, 2011 § 2 Comments
When my marriage was in its final throes, my then-husband accused me of having a “thing” for divorce. “You think those divorced ladies are pretty cool, don’t you?” he sneered.
I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. I’d just barely begun to peek at divorce through my fingers, like a horror movie or a roadside wreck. And as for “those divorced ladies,” I was less concerned with their coolness than with the practical question of how they paid the mortgage.
But looking back today, I realize my ex might have been onto something. I think divorce does leave a common mark on many women who’ve been through it. And yes, I believe the experience often makes us “cooler” than we might have been before; stronger, smarter and above all, happier.
The giant step of leaving my marriage required lots of mini-steps, all of them pretty cool in hindsight. I rattled myself free of superficial social expectations; I learned to put my own sense of the real and the right ahead of other peoples’ rules about relationships and family; I figured out that it’s ok to make mistakes. Most importantly, as I veered off the path paved for me by generations of culture and convention, I discovered my own capacity to build a new path, all by myself.
I know I’m heaping an awful lot of glory on one generally unfortunate event, so let me be clear: I’m not advocating divorce for its own sake, and I’m certainly not disrespecting marriage. I’m just pointing out that divorce – like any dramatic, life-changing experience – has a magnificent power to awaken us to our own possibilities. It topples our assumptions and serves up a crisp, clean canvas on which to redraw our lives. Pretty cool.
Of course you don’t necessarily need a divorce to break free of convention and realize your own potential. Lots of people manage to learn these life lessons with far less hoopla, and some real smarties even learn them as a team, in the context of a committed lifelong partnership. My hat is off to all of them. But for me – and I’m convinced I’m not alone – the Big D churned up vital resources of inner strength I never even realized I needed, let alone possessed.
As my marriage crumbled, I couldn’t eat or sleep and wept daily. Yet I also felt fantastic, charged with an electric clarity of purpose I’d never known before. I was becoming one of “those divorced ladies” before my own eyes. And although I hardly recognized that lady, I liked what I saw.
To my amazement, I found myself cherishing what might have been the bleakest weeks of my life. Raw and buzzing with potential energy, I wanted to hang onto that fevered, fervent state of mind forever.
Of course (and thank God) I couldn’t. Over time, the chaos of change gives way to the rhythm of new normalcy. And as it turns out, the path I’ve built myself has the same bumps and boring stretches as anyone else’s. But the transformation was real, and permanent. Even today, something hums inside of me that wasn’t there before; a low, electric echo of a moment years ago, when I discovered just how cool I am.
Stand by Your…?
December 27th, 2010 § Leave a Comment
I saw a crazy thing on TV the other day. A decade or more into marriage, the husband decided to switch genders and fulfill his lifelong yearning to live as a woman. The wife stood by her partner through the whole transition (yes, surgery), and at the time the segment was taped they were living as female couple, raising their children together.
I’d be the first one to applaud their happiness… if only they were happy. But watching the show, anyone could see that they’re not. The original wife doesn’t consider herself a lesbian and has no interest in giving it a whirl (fair enough – it’s not what she signed up for). The former husband still desires her partner (in vain), but longs to check out the other team as well. Yet they stay together, both lonely and both resentful, unbreakably bound by an explicit mutual desire “not to be divorced.”
Yes, I know that there is such a thing as a sexless marriage that still brings fulfillment and joy. But that’s not what this looked like. It looked like two people willfully clinging to a sinking ship, because neither was willing to be responsible for ending the marriage. And while this couple’s circumstances are extraordinary, their “married at all costs” dynamic is not.
I guess some might admire their loyalty, but for me it seemed so sad. If ever there were a case where divorce makes sense, this has to be it. And while I’m not so naïve as to deny the social stigma faced by those who choose to divorce (especially when kids are involved), you’d think these two people would be well past the need to conform, what with the sex change and all.
Obviously 30 minutes of prime time viewing doesn’t qualify me to judge this couple’s choices – or even to pretend to understand them. But their story got me thinking about lifelong personal growth and mutual acceptance in marriage, and that elusive balance between honoring the union and honoring yourself. I guess it’s a line that each of us has to draw – and sometimes cross – for herself.
The Ex Games
December 27th, 2010 § Leave a Comment
I’ve got a problem with the phrase “my ex.” It might just be that it makes me feel like a character in a bad country song, but I think there’s more to it.
It’s the “my” part that bugs me. I prefer to reserve that descriptor for the positive things I cherish: my family, my friends, my work, my fabulous haircut. And while the man I once married is not so bad as exes go, cherish him I do not. So without conscious effort, I’ve become an expert at avoiding the possessive.
Of course my discomfort with “my ex” is silly, and probably a little juvenile. As the father of my children, he is unquestionably “mine” – bound to play a significant role in my life. And to pretend anything else would be a disservice to the kids. I understand all of this, and work hard to live by it.
Nevertheless, when it comes to casual conversation, I’ll keep the “my” for myself.
No Shame, No Gain
December 27th, 2010 § Leave a Comment
I recently heard a twice-divorced woman describe herself as a “two-time loser.” Ouch. It got me thinking about just how embarrassing it is to end a marriage.
When we talk about the emotional journey of divorce, great epic feelings like Pain, Fear and Loneliness tend to hog all the airtime. But I think embarrassment belongs right up there on the list. After all, the fear of looking like a loser is pretty potent stuff.
And there are plenty of reasons why going single might have just that effect; widespread tsk-tsking over high divorce rates, unflattering stereotypes of sad middle-agers alone with their vibrators, gruesome phrases like “broken home.” All of this noise may be nonsense – but it can be hard to tune out.
And let’s face it; setting aside unjust prejudices and nasty stereotypes, divorce is embarrassing. It’s an acknowledgement to all the world that you made a solemn vow, and failed to see it through. And while the “leaver” and the “left” may have very different takes on the situation, this basic fact of a misguided promise holds true no matter which side of the divorce decision you wound up on.
Yep, divorce means you blew it. And I think that’s wonderful. The faster you can acknowledge your own role in the mistake-making of your marriage, the sooner you can get on with forgiving yourself and, most importantly, learning how and why you went astray to begin with. Maybe that’s where our “two-time loser” still has some work to do, and I certainly wish her well.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not encouraging harsh self-blame or any such unkind act. But I do believe real happiness requires us to suck up our embarrassment, let go of being right all the time and make room for mistakes – even big, bad ones – as a route to greater wisdom.
In my experience, flourishing post-divorce demands a certain willingness to feel like an idiot once in a while. And that’s the best defense I’ve found against feeling like a loser.
Umm… Congratulations?
December 27th, 2010 § Leave a Comment
Umm… Congratulations?
People often wonder about the appropriate response when someone gets divorced. I’m in the camp of a resounding “mazel tov!” A congratulatory exclamation of warm wishes and good luck makes every kind of sense as a rough chapter closes and a new one begins.
I am not insensitive to the sadness and pain that inevitably accompany a split. But the end of a bad marriage is a step, however painful, in the right direction – and that’s to be applauded.
So please, please, save the “I’m sorry” for when you accidentally introduce your newly divorced friend as her ex’s wife.
In My Corner
December 27th, 2010 § Leave a Comment
I spent two years tucked in the corner of a therapist’s couch. My husband sat to my right, my shrink faced us in her chair. Week in, week out, that was my place and I occupied it faithfully, even when I went to therapy alone.
It was in one such solo session that I decided to leave my husband, and made plans to break the news to him there in the office at our next shared appointment.
I arrived bleary-eyed, buzzing with queasy anticipation. As I took up my miserable corner perch, my shrink (God bless her), casually remarked “perhaps you’d like to try a different chair today.”
What a concept. How easy it was to shift from one piece of furniture to another, and view the familiar office from an entirely new perspective. How simple to break a pattern and suddenly see the world afresh.
I learned a powerful lesson that day about being stuck, breaking loose and choosing to define your own point of view. From my new post in the armchair, ending my marriage felt less like the desperate escape it had seemed, and more like the well-considered, rational and self-affirming decision it was.
A person “backed into a corner” is someone with no choice. But on that day, I knew that choices were, in fact, just about all I had left. And with a nudge from a very wise therapist, I was finally in a position to make them.
One to ponder…
December 27th, 2010 § Leave a Comment
My friend Martha divorced around the same time I did. We didn’t know each other then, but wound up neighbors after we both moved from our Marital Estates into sensible little easy-care townhouses.
As we became friends, Martha inspired me: She ran her own business. She biked to the gym every morning. She grew her own cucumbers and turned them into pickles.
And I like to think I inspired Martha: I dated like crazy, entertaining the neighborhood with tales from the trenches of Match.com.
I have yet to make pickles, but I have grown a few fine vegetables. As for Martha, she’s rekindled an old flame, now hot enough to make her blush in the telling.
Martha is 63. Surprised?
