tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10750521732396054902024-02-19T03:31:30.865-05:00Pencil and ChalkTerondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075052173239605490.post-7220446627009651502019-01-03T16:48:00.000-05:002019-01-03T16:54:35.721-05:002019 mood<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4ncUqfHMhisBRnPr_oyjN1QPk2rRRJ-FrJYZsIeKs6_Nm42Kxl47zTZHDH0nARPG17CXMuzgVuaH5OUMHA90sCv9hZ1DJw0ubvuQ6lMTzn3pslqCmhNNsUC3mWic3gbnl0iJU6HxGD8/s1600/2019+Mood.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4ncUqfHMhisBRnPr_oyjN1QPk2rRRJ-FrJYZsIeKs6_Nm42Kxl47zTZHDH0nARPG17CXMuzgVuaH5OUMHA90sCv9hZ1DJw0ubvuQ6lMTzn3pslqCmhNNsUC3mWic3gbnl0iJU6HxGD8/s1600/2019+Mood.png" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Refresh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Reinvent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Restore.</span></div>
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Terondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075052173239605490.post-32374161681228750362018-12-19T10:00:00.000-05:002019-01-03T15:48:54.748-05:00Lost one<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIYGiUI2fJJsdUWF7iZHYhs1CCKShk8xgfSJb2kSVFVd8D6FhtmM5b6n9GECnNg9hHAMywOP5VBdr9fknPXcV20MCyA-CS4exK3LESgr8NukLlfE2OzRlzPOSnA4vs26j4hXpiwuk1WbE/s1600/121918+Lost+Ones.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIYGiUI2fJJsdUWF7iZHYhs1CCKShk8xgfSJb2kSVFVd8D6FhtmM5b6n9GECnNg9hHAMywOP5VBdr9fknPXcV20MCyA-CS4exK3LESgr8NukLlfE2OzRlzPOSnA4vs26j4hXpiwuk1WbE/s1600/121918+Lost+Ones.png" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Missing:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Generally svelte and
stealth,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">untouchable and untamed,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">inaccessible and
incognito.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Predator to prey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Captured, caged and
choked by fog and false mercy,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">but eager to escape<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">back to clarity and
anonymity.</span></div>
Terondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075052173239605490.post-13856740477762754622017-05-04T14:30:00.000-04:002019-01-03T16:40:13.124-05:00A bout of Bell's palsy<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJuahGG0nmVflbdjv9OFG2hRjglKeTK3rCFPTNVnflghklSOgKisBES99ECRtzq6tAiK58tqgNg-oOC5hfD15yULgKdDDjuksgJDjaSSg6hFLsiv2IwS1Kss4Rts0ZPu3-u7OWK8AI6Sk/s1600/tattyan-26096-unsplash.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJuahGG0nmVflbdjv9OFG2hRjglKeTK3rCFPTNVnflghklSOgKisBES99ECRtzq6tAiK58tqgNg-oOC5hfD15yULgKdDDjuksgJDjaSSg6hFLsiv2IwS1Kss4Rts0ZPu3-u7OWK8AI6Sk/s1600/tattyan-26096-unsplash.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Pink Daisy by Tattyan on Unsplash</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“Are you okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I’ve just completed my
weeklong “shift” of hostess duties: drafting and emailing a wedding
announcement for the local newspaper, ironing crisp white tablecloths and chair
covers, and decorating a spacious venue, to be exact. This is in addition to
pulling frequent all-nighters for a daily entertainment writer gig and defaulting
to a 24-hour nanny role that I never signed up for. So after the nuptials, I sit
quietly, observant near the dance floor in figurative retirement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">If I danced, I
would’ve sashayed to the dance floor. But that’s not my thing. I don’t like to
be watched and scrutinized, and as the tallest person on the dance floor, I’m
almost guaranteed to attract more attention that I can ignore. However, being a
wallflower was more noticeable, eliciting a countless “Come on!” with each
motion of a curved finger elevating my blood pressure five millimeters of mercury
at a time. I remain at the front table with the purses, fuming, while everyone
else shimmies, shakes, shuffles, slides, and steps across the dance floor. It
sways my response.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“If one more person
asks me…” I say before I exhale. “Yes!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">No one else inquires
about my well-being, not even the next day during brunch when my physical
features literally relax.</span></div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I happen to glance at
my reflection in a car window the next morning as I carry my plate of
breakfast. Since the inside of the house is still full of wedding guests and
it’s an unusually warm fall morning, some of us walk outside to roam the back
yard and socialize while we eat. I spot an image that doesn’t quite appear to be
symmetrical, but I attribute it to normal distortion because, after all,
doesn’t everyone’s face resemble that of a funhouse mirror whenever they look
upon the side of a car? An hour later I receive the answer to that question.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">My cousin decides to
prepare made-to-order omelets for the guests. This time I sit in the family
room to enjoy my food. The wilted spinach and sautéed onion are tender, the sausage
savory and robust. Instinctively I lick my lips. My tongue touches the left corner
of my mouth and slowly circles to cleft before it gets stuck; it can’t quite
reach the right side, let alone the right corner. I furrow my brow, puzzled
that my tongue feels as if it’s somehow locked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I attempt to complete
another circle, this time starting on the right, but my tongue and lips still
refuse to connect. I feel alarm warm the rest of my face, quickly burning to
straight panic as I rush to the bathroom mirror.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I turn my head left,
then right, carefully searching for some abnormality. I see nothing out of the
ordinary; I look like my usual self.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Smile</span></i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">, a small voice says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I watch my lips spread
and curve upward – but only on the left side. The right side of my mouth doesn’t
move at all. I’m simultaneously displaying two emotions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I rest my face and
repeat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">No change.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I try to pucker my
lips, but they only twist leftward, lopsided in a pinwheel fashion. The little
cleft moves off-center.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I try to wiggle my
nose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">It’s just as rebellious
as the right side of my mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I tell myself that this
attack on my body is reversible despite what a particular little magnet on my
cousin’s refrigerator says. I convince myself I can stop this thing before
there’s any pain or weakness in my arm, dizziness and headache, or slur in my
speech. And if I don’t verbalize what I think is happening, then it won’t
completely manifest. I suppose that was my application of the power-of-the-tongue
sermon my cousin always preaches whenever any of us starts a sentence with “I
can’t” or utters something negative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I return to my seat to
finish my omelet because, at that moment, I don’t know what else to do. I chew
in a way that no one else can detect a problem. I need to think. I remind
myself that I’m only 40.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Girl</span></i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">drink some water</i>, my
mind suggests.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I fetch a bottle and
take a few swigs. I chastise myself for indulging in pork sausage as if I
didn’t already consume bacon the prior hour, sipping one too many dark sodas,
and depriving my body of water frequently. I finish the 16.9 ounces in a matter
of gulps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">But
what if my face still never returns to its normal state</span></i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I look up and clearly see
that refrigerator magnet from where I sit: In case of a stroke, act FAST. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Face. Arm. Speech.
Time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">My mind wanders to the
possible permanent effects if I don’t seek immediate help. I admit I should do
something, but I decide to not dial 9-1-1 because I don’t want to alarm the 40
or 50 guests who are presently in and out the house. They’d definitely panic
and further fuel my anxiety, so I tiptoe through the crowd to locate the
calmest relative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“I think I need to go
to the emergency room,” I say to her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I smile for emphasis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">She stares at my mouth
for a few seconds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“Lemme find my keys,”
she says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I’ve scared the shit
out of her, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">We drive the 20 miles
in practical silence, interjected with a few words of small talk within the
final seven minutes of the ride. We don’t discuss my face. We continue the idle
chatter in the waiting area.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">It’s fairly quiet in
my triage room, too, except when the first, second and third members of the
medical staff enter and ask me to repeat my symptoms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“Has anyone talked to
you about possibly having a stroke?” the last one asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I pause before I
answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">My face warms for the
second time that day, only this time it’s from what I perceive to be
nonchalance on her part, especially since she isn’t a doctor. Besides I wasn’t
fully prepared for that kind of validation; I still wanted to hear something
different. I hadn’t seen a doctor or taken a single test, yet here this woman comes
to speak a stroke into my existence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“No,” I say instead,
“but the thought did cross my mind.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">She leaves me to my
racing thoughts, which linger on my elevated blood pressure reading. I beat
myself up again. I disconnect myself from monitors at least four times because all
of that water I drank earlier had nowhere else to flow. I grow antsy between
bathroom breaks so I practice facial expressions. It’s during this time that I
realize I can’t blink my right eye independent of my left; I have to close them
in tandem. I wonder when someone is going to actually treat me if I’m indeed
having this stroke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">A young, petite woman
sporting a long ponytail finally enters the room. She introduces herself as the
doctor and asks me to repeat my symptoms for the fourth time and to perform
specific exercises.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“Raise your arm,” she
says. “Now make a fist.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I lift it with a
swiftness and clench my fingers with a tightness. I need to prove there’s no
weakness or paralysis in these limbs. I can also raise my right leg and circle
my foot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">My doctor informs me
that she doesn’t think I’m having a stroke because my entire right side isn’t
affected – it’s only my face that’s uncooperative – and my speech isn’t slurred.
Unlike the previous staff member who utters a premature diagnosis, my doctor
prefers to hold her guess until after my CT scan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I don’t like tight
spaces. I’ve entered the tunnels twice before this time: One was opened with
“windows” but the other one was completely closed. The latter makes me
extremely uncomfortable with the blurs of buzzes and clicks and the closeness
of the machine’s ceiling to my nose. I automatically feel like I can’t breathe.
I want to blurt, “Forget it!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I mention this to the
man who administers my scan so he asks me about my weekend as he wheels me down
the hall. He tells me to close my eyes before the base that I’m lying on glides
into place. It’s not as bad as I’d remembered, maybe because my mind is focused
on the stroke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">The doctor and I
reconvene in my triage room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“Just as I suspected,”
she says. “It’s Bell’s Palsy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I’ve never heard of
the disorder, although I later learn I know several people who’ve been
afflicted by it at some point: a friend’s mother, some cousins, at least two
classmates. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“I knew it!” says one
of my cousins when I return home. She had it in college and thought she
detected it in me during the reception. But we had such a quick conversation
and my words were deliberate while the lazy motion of my mouth was subtle. Mostly
everyone else could only say I seemed to be “talking funny.” Like me, they
weren’t familiar with Bell’s palsy, either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Bell’s palsy occurs
when the nerve that controls the muscles on one side of the face becomes
inflamed and paralyzed, ultimately causing the facial features to droop. The
underlying causes can be a common cold, the herpes virus that causes cold sores
or shingles, or even stress. It is not related to a stroke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">The doctor tells me to
await the nurse for my prescriptions – an antiviral in case I picked up a bug
and a </span><a href="http://www.mayoclinic.org/steroids/art-20045692"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">corticosteroid</span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";"> to suppress the inflammation and
simultaneously stimulate my facial nerves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">The nurse tells me she’s
been diagnosed with Bell’s palsy three times, although I read it’s rare a
person relapses. She correctly assumes it’s highly unlikely I got this from a
virus. “Whatever stress you’re under,” she says, “I suggest you let it go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Eliminate it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Press a stress-be-gone
button.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Except I can’t because
it surrounds me. It haunts me. I live in the midst of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“I know,” is all I can
say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">She explains the
purpose of the antiviral and steroid along with its potential side effects.
“You have to take this on time, exactly as prescribed” because you have to wean
yourself off of it in 10 days and not abruptly stop after 10 days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">She also recommends
that I buy an eye patch for my protection since I can’t blink or make tears. I
later find that the elastic hurts the back of my ear and the patch itself
protrudes a little and blocks the line of sight in my left eye. I suffer from
an occasional headache, and my vision blurs as my right eye attempts to focus
whenever I remove the patch. Consequently, I eventually give up electronics for
a few months.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I go home to find a
little bit more information on Bell’s palsy such as a clue or two that indicates
the illness is about to strike. In retrospect, the dull throb behind my right
ear a day or so before the wedding rehearsal was one of the first signs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I was at another
cousin’s house for the rehearsal dinner. As I stood in her kitchen
complimenting her on the spaghetti, I caught myself still massaging the area
behind my lobe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“There’s this weird
pain behind my ear,” I mentioned to her. But I brushed it off as an everyday
ache and pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Earlier that day, a
third cousin and I stood in a Walmart line discussing a quick run to our
favorite bakery. I happened to be chewing gum while thinking about an airy
chocolate éclair and a poofy cream puff with a light filling. Those thoughts
vanished when I bit down on the inside of my lip. Hard. For the third or fourth
time that morning. By the time I got my donuts, I had given myself two blisters
on the inside of my lip. The lip-biting was yet another sign.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">After reading up on
the illness, I perform a more scrupulous daily inspection of my face. I stand
in the mirror practicing my smile, looking for any sign of improvement, willing
my mouth to expand the way Uma Thurman’s character willed her big toe to wiggle
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kill Bill</i>. I puff out my cheeks
with air but my lips make the sound of a deflating balloon because they don’t
seal. I dribble when I drink because my bottom lip doesn’t fully grip the rim
of a glass. I sip through a straw for several months. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Around the same time
every evening, I get extremely hot. For about one long minute, raging heat radiates
my face from the inside. I need an industrial-sized fan; I need some sweat to
escape my pores. It’s as if my face is straining with all its might to perform
some bodily action, but for the most part it can only remain immobile. The
right side of my face – particularly my lip and cheek area – involuntarily
twitches like that of a dog when he’s exercising his keen sense of smell. But that
was an indication of my nerves reawakening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">My eye is the first
facial feature to start functioning again. I’m ecstatic to finally ditch the
pirate patch, but it’s winter before my full smile returns. Oddly I forgot my
minor affliction because worrying about my appearance wouldn’t help me heal any
faster. Besides, I adopted the attitude <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">y’all
know what emotion I’m really trying to convey, anyway</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Sometimes I do worry
about a reoccurrence, though, because I constantly exhibit the characteristics
of a superwoman. I fall back into the trap of trying to balance my wants and
needs and </span><a href="http://www.pencilandchalk.com/2016/03/xonecole-how-i-learned-importance-of.html"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">accommodate everyone else’s</span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">. I show no stress only because I hide
it well, but acting like it’s not present doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, and
not all stress is displayed as wild-eyed hair-pulling or nail-biting. Stress
can manifest itself in many ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Whenever I feel as
much as a twinge behind my ear, I often flash back to the lip-biting, drooping
and drooling. I immediately start to contort my face to be sure all its parts
move and return to their proper resting places: Can I wiggle my nose? Can I
curl my bottom lip? Can I chew without biting my bottom lip? Can I wink? Only
then do I remember to breathe and regard it as a gentle reminder that I’m once
again doing too much and neglecting to take care of me.</span></div>
</div>
Terondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075052173239605490.post-18634167938959942262016-03-18T21:41:00.000-04:002016-07-08T14:28:17.393-04:00[xoNecole] Go get him! Study shows women who make the first move have better dating success<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLZ8hsxA9QNm-k1OjHfDXmQ1icHcqVKg6r9PPP3ZKcnnd-QE4z4PKlY9D4lFdu7fETl6Q1z1kF2aEuTfdOaZqDZGyK5hYvw6xsZEd72pyOzevhZH878RN6Wt9Y-GPay25tb6WpGCYTQvs/s1600/Go+Get+Him.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLZ8hsxA9QNm-k1OjHfDXmQ1icHcqVKg6r9PPP3ZKcnnd-QE4z4PKlY9D4lFdu7fETl6Q1z1kF2aEuTfdOaZqDZGyK5hYvw6xsZEd72pyOzevhZH878RN6Wt9Y-GPay25tb6WpGCYTQvs/s1600/Go+Get+Him.png" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I’m sitting at the bar
enjoying sushi and my second $9 cocktail when one of my friends taps the
shoulder of the guy sitting next to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“Hi!” she says to him.
“What’s your name?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">He tells her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“Have you met my
friend, Tee?” she replies, as she turns her back to us to continue conversing
with the group behind us, as if she has just accomplished a major task.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">It’s an awkward
introduction. He’s confused and annoyed – mainly, I presume, because dude is
already engrossed in a conversation with a young woman on the other side of
him. So I’m initially horrified because all my friend has done is inadvertently
let him know that I’m possibly 1) a relationship reject; 2) incapable of
meeting men on my own; or 3) a homewrecker. Then I grow angry because I’m none
of the above, and she’s placed me in a humiliating position all because I’m not
flirting and mingling to her satisfaction. I’m left seething in my seat, mumbling
under my breath that if I wanted to meet dude, I would’ve introduced mydamnself.</span></div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Okay, I’m lying about
that last part.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I’m not that forward
when it comes to meeting men. I’m ingrained with that you-don’t-chase-men
wisdom and that includes not approaching them to express initial interest. I’m
taught to always allow the man to come to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">But </span><a href="https://gma.yahoo.com/okcupid-data-finds-women-first-move-online-better-131649232--abc-news-sex.html"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">according to an informal survey</span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";"> conducted by dating site OkCupid,
that way of thinking is so antiquated and doesn’t exactly yield desirable
results: “Women who reach out first have a better chance of success.” In fact,
those women who initiate contact are 2.5 times more likely to get favorable
responses than men who make the first move, and those replies will spark more
conversations with men we actually want to talk to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“When women are
proactive, there’s a big win,” OKCupid chief product officer Jimena Almendares
tells ABC News. “This is data that is showing that if they actually speak up,
they have so much to gain.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Admittedly, this makes
sense. Like many women, I’m generally more selective about whom I entertain or allow
in my personal space even in a public setting, so if I actually step to a guy,
I must be really intrigued and simultaneously imagining a name change,
mortgage, and a set of twins, too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Still my initial
thought was in a world where we can now swipe left and right to a relationship,
making the first move <i>seems</i> more acceptable
and reasonable. But how does the information translate to real life? Will a man
find this behavior too aggressive? Emasculating? Desperate?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">On a </span><a href="http://www.seesomeworld.com/blog/behind-the-scenes-at-gma"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">recent segment on <i>Good Morning America</i></span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">, writer, author, relationship
expert, and BFF-in-my-head Demetria Lucas D’Oyley reminds us that times have
changed and first moves on our parts no longer indicate thirst, so there’s no
reason why we can’t update our rules, apply them to real life, and take complete
charge of our dating lives. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">“It’s 2016,” Lucas-D’Oyley
says. “We’ve been doing things the wrong way for a really long time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">I reflect on my dating
history just to refute OkCupid’s findings and Lucas-D’Oyley’s statement and support
my Grandma’s wise words: “You don’t chase no man.” But I find that I have no grand
success story to share. I’m usually one of those women who’s posted up outside
of the spotlight enjoying happy hour fare, afterward crossing her arms,
avoiding eye contact, delivering a mean blank stare, and daring a soul to
interrupt her chill evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">But that’s less about
me being standoffish and more about me using past experiences to gauge my
present – I’ve had undesirable men follow and stick to me like old honey just
from exchanging pleasantries. They come out the woodwork to sniff me out like <i>The Walking Dead</i> extras, and spend the
remainder of my evening plotting an escape route. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">And since I’m an
introvert who cringes at the idea of introductions anyway, it’s also more about
me preserving my mental energy and small talk for someone who actually piques
my curiosity. But even then, I would’ve never
stepped to him. I’d unfurrow my brow, relax my tight lips, and hope he gets the
hint that it’s okay for him to strike up a convo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Perhaps in that aspect
we <i>have</i> gotten it all wrong.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";">Read the rest <a href="http://xonecole.com/go-get-study-shows-women-make-first-move-better-dating-success/" target="_blank">on XoNecole</a>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Terondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075052173239605490.post-28667522431237032912016-03-16T01:40:00.001-04:002022-03-26T15:43:12.737-04:00[xoNecole] How I learned the importance of saying 'No' after being diagnosed with Bell's Palsy<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQzi6LBAjbECBy5yRRqy10up0N4qdefmCKZow5gj-o8gCWaXqn9Vp2vTVQwklI19lTb6pAk8mKV8UZPuAF-L6vTT2P4LAcihtTTnXc8aTm6DtUSooRGV0L1It1_DekmU7oTWJJwWFgxvSbf5M7I6XGi3jcQIhMFhZxR_jE7LCsH_ptUQ4aIUAM04t/s1080/The%20evolution%20of%20Pencil%20and%20Chalk%20blog%20post%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQzi6LBAjbECBy5yRRqy10up0N4qdefmCKZow5gj-o8gCWaXqn9Vp2vTVQwklI19lTb6pAk8mKV8UZPuAF-L6vTT2P4LAcihtTTnXc8aTm6DtUSooRGV0L1It1_DekmU7oTWJJwWFgxvSbf5M7I6XGi3jcQIhMFhZxR_jE7LCsH_ptUQ4aIUAM04t/w640-h640/The%20evolution%20of%20Pencil%20and%20Chalk%20blog%20post%20(1).png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif""><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">Since I was a
teenager, I’ve been conditioned to be independent and ambitious. Against some
family members and friends’ advice, I applied to a more selective university
and was accepted. Upon graduation, I relocated to urban Northern Virginia
instead of returning to rural hometown Virginia. And when it came to building a
finance career, I was focused on promotions and paychecks. But being a
go-getter came with a whole other set of responsibilities that I had to fulfill
that weren’t even my own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">In a scene from
Tuesday’s “Purging and Cleansing” episode of <i>Being Mary Jane</i>, Kara pretty much tells MJ that she can’t be the
head of everyone’s household. MJ not only takes care of her own home, but she
also maintains order in her parents’ home, including supplementing her family’s
financial downfalls and acting as the family spokesperson to deliver the news
everyone else needs to say but no one wants to deliver.</span></div>
<a name='more'></a><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">In the latest
episodes, we learn that Patrick is taking a prescription drug to get him
through the day. MJ stages an intervention at her parents’ home on their
behalf, but she ends up being the one taking her niece, D’Asia to and from
school.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">Kara tells MJ that
she’s taken on her parents’ fight in addition to starting a new chapter in her
career, not to mention still dealing with the aftermath of a breakup, her best
friend Lisa’s death, and her extortionist CeCe’s never-ending demands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">“And then everybody’s
gonna turn around and wonder why you drowned,” Kara says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">Or sometimes they
don’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">When I lived
long-distance, I, too, filled financial gaps by making periodic deposits in
accounts, but I also received family’s mail to interpret the fine print on
documents, completed forms and made calls on their behalf to resolve issues, and
found myself in the middle of disputes. At times I grew resentful. I asked
myself why nearly every phone call ended with a problem. And I often wondered
why none of the other adults could make decisions, until of course they messed
something up, and I had to be the one to research it and fix it. But things
were at least manageable from a distance. It wasn’t until I returned to my home
to launch a writing career that I became overwhelmed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">There were family
members in my house, one with the most cute, bubbly, inquisitive child, and since
I freelance from home, I inadvertently fell into the “live-in nanny” trap. I
turned into the person to get the child dressed and on the bus and the person
to get her off. And eventually the default person to babysit period because the
assumption was I had no real job, which to most is defined as one inside a
brick and mortar establishment with a time clock. In the meantime, I was
grinding to get more published bylines and my own deposits. I was up beyond
midnight and up again by 7 a.m. for bus duty. With everything I already had
going on, I was barely staying afloat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">One weekend, I helped a
cousin make last minute preparations for her wedding. I recall having a dull
ache behind my right ear during the rehearsal dinner, and for the next two days
I kept biting the inside right of my lip. Throughout the reception, I enjoyed my
freedom for the first time in weeks, but I noticed the puzzled looks and
unusual concern for my well-being.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">“Are you okay?” most
asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">“Yes! If one mo’
person asks me that question…!” I retorted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">The next morning, the
mother of the new bride cooked a huge brunch. I remember taking my first plate
outside and glancing at my image in a car window while laughing. It looked
“funny” but I thought, <i>Aren’t all
reflections distorted</i>? My second plate was an awesome loaded omelet to
order. This time I sat in the family room trying to relish the combination of spinach,
fresh tomatoes, and pungent onions, but when I tried to lick my lips, my tongue
couldn’t reach the right side of my mouth!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">I rushed to the
bathroom to look in the mirror. I looked normal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">Smile</span></i><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">Then I realized my
mouth only moved on the left. In fact, not only did my mouth not stretch to the
right, I couldn’t blink my right eye independent of my left one!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">My cousin and I
quietly exited the house of 50 guests – thinking I was having a stroke – and rushed
to the emergency room where the doctor ultimately diagnosed me with Bell's
Palsy, a temporary paralysis or weakness on one side of the face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">“I don’t know what
type of stress you’re under,” she says, “but I suggest you eliminate it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">She prescribed an
antibiotic in case it was caused by some sort of infection and a 10-day steroid
regimen. I later learned the pain behind my ear was the first symptom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">I returned home with
the intent of resting for a few weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">“Can you get her off
the bus?” my relative asked a day or two later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">I looked at her,
incredulously. Did she not see my damn face? I’m not healed! “Are you going
somewhere or something?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">“No,” she responded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">It was that moment I
realized I had to change my environment if I wanted to get better. It took a
pirate patch and three more weeks before I could blink my eye, and a few more
months for my vision to not blur when staring at the computer and for me to
drink without drooling or have a normal smile again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">It was a scary moment,
but the experience taught me the meaning of self-care and that it’s more than
hair appointments and spa treatments. I also learned that although I may feel
guilty, I can’t give away all of me even if I think I have a little bit to
spare. The idea of a strong Black woman is a proven fact; the one of
I-can-do-everything-because-I-am-Superwoman is a dangerous myth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">As I continued to
watch the conversation between Kara and MJ play out, I caught myself nodding in
agreement. “You need to be a little selfish right now,” she says. “You need to
see who else is capable of showing up.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">But more importantly,
I need to stop saving folks who don’t care if I sink or swim. It’s really okay
for me to just say, “No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Terondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075052173239605490.post-87985273281977235572015-12-07T09:30:00.001-05:002022-03-26T16:05:12.322-04:00"Being Mary Jane" in real life is destructive and emotionally exhausting.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif""><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-vFCKSrTEfffnFYPgizhA484TvLTTw5I5JSAHcrPLybP0AEVSTLiPRqbPbUguMnHh5tEG4EY-ckxhFH0NxNtx44LOeK9_Fv5gCIVN8GbUlwu5IHpXfkWl6wG8hGdesKunt8VX6IzLIQO1svcGGEXnHp_q6PjngxJ-R233AVw_XcENdmrdQ-ACfBWZ/s1080/The%20evolution%20of%20Pencil%20and%20Chalk%20blog%20post%20(2).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-vFCKSrTEfffnFYPgizhA484TvLTTw5I5JSAHcrPLybP0AEVSTLiPRqbPbUguMnHh5tEG4EY-ckxhFH0NxNtx44LOeK9_Fv5gCIVN8GbUlwu5IHpXfkWl6wG8hGdesKunt8VX6IzLIQO1svcGGEXnHp_q6PjngxJ-R233AVw_XcENdmrdQ-ACfBWZ/w640-h640/The%20evolution%20of%20Pencil%20and%20Chalk%20blog%20post%20(2).png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif""><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">As I watch the dinner
scene on Tuesday night’s <i>Being Mary Jane</i>
unfold – the one where MJ educates her family on money management – I smirk.
Here’s the family, finally happy together in one room (with the exception of
PJ, who’s back in LA price-rigging on his new job) and MJ feels it’s the best
time to tell her folks how to spend and save their dollars courtesy of Suze
Orman. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">MJ
has no chill</span></i><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">, I initially
say to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">But I can’t get
annoyed with her – this time – even when she tells her dad that he isn’t buying
Niecy or anybody else a car, because something about the whole situation
suddenly seems so familiar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">At 15, my mother
succumbed to metastasized breast cancer and instead of me continuing to be a teenager,
I immediately assumed responsibility for my family’s business affairs. I was
the one to interpret the fine print on documents and balance accounts and dispute
and negotiate bill errors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">I vividly remember calling Verizon several times on my grandmother’s behalf over some Miss
Cleo-typed calls a relative had placed on my grandmother’s phone. For at least
three months, these charges appeared on her bill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">“But she didn’t make
them and we called about them last month, too,” I’d cry to the customer
service rep. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif""><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">Finally someone initiated a block and authorized a credit but it
didn’t cover what I had combed through the multi-paged bills and calculated as
the “fraudulent” charges, maybe because of taxes and all those additional fees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">“There’s still $27!” I
say, exasperated, to the rep.</span></div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif""> </span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“I’ll just pay that,”
my grandmother offers from the other line.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">My new role was
overwhelming and I can’t imagine any of my 17-year-old cousins having to
fulfill it today when they should be laughing at Vine videos and applying to
college.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">Being the first in my
immediate family to graduate from college and move away from my rural hometown
only increased my responsibility and some others’ feelings of entitlement. They
viewed me as the one with the “good job” and the “good money,” but it didn’t
make me feel proud and important. Instead I grew tense and resentful and
eventually felt less like a family member and more like the family accountant,
banker, mediator and attorney.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">At some point I no
longer wanted to be the responsible one. I wanted to be reckless and vulnerable
for once or thrice. And I wanted to feel appreciated and wanted, not needed. It
explains why MJ goes on a baller shopping spree, dropping over six figures on
big-ticket brands like Hermes, Louboutin, and Tesla for her birthday. The
birthday not one family member remembered – except for her mother. At the end
of the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">Last year immediate
family members were under the same roof as me and still conveniently “forgot”
my birthday. While they celebrate everyone else’s birthdays with surprise
parties complete with full spreads and open bars – even one member having the
audacity to tell me about a potential surprise celebration an exact week after
mine – I didn’t get a card, balloon, cupcake or a miniature bottle of liquor. But
I did get the message: We only want what you have and
we don’t really give a fuck about you as a member of our family. Or a person.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">Fortunately the
deciding moment for me had already come after my grandmother handed over her
checkbook to another relative to write out all of her bills, yet she called <i>me</i>
to cover an overdraft charge that the relative created. I was in charge of the
checkbook for at least a year and had saved whatever was left over each month,
which I never rolled over and included in the following month’s balance. But
somehow the relative not only spent the entire social security check but also
the cushion I built and then some! And I was automatically pegged to finance
the mistake! But as another cousin often says, “The devil is a liar.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">Of course I felt
guilty after refusing to reconcile the account, after all it was my
grandmother. But somewhere along the way, there grew this comfort and belief that
I’d always be available to fix problems financially because surely I’m not
going to neglect family. This isn’t about neglect or selfishness, though. It’s
about respect and riddance to the expectation that I’m obligated to take care
of everyone simply because I appear to be able to without any care or appreciating behind it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"">So while it may seem
that MJ is full of nerve to tell her dad what he’s not going to buy with his own money and for whom, she has every right to voice her concern because from what
I see – and know – she’s going to be the one ultimately responsible for paying
the maintenance, insurance and the note.</span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"> </span></div>
Terondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075052173239605490.post-8719866858249221252014-06-23T09:30:00.000-04:002018-08-06T16:33:38.601-04:00[Clutch] Over 30, single, and shamed<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sometimes
I dread reconnecting with friends and colleagues. Once we navigate
all the pleasantries – where do you live, what do you do now and
how's your family – the conversation eventually shifts to and
dwells on my unmarried status.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I
wish the conversations were limited to “Hi” and “Good seeing
you again” and didn't wander to “You ain't getting any younger”
and “What you waiting for?” I'm very aware of the fact that I'm
39.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For
some strange reason, it's always the ones I converse with the least
on a personal level who launch a no-holds-barred matchmaking campaign
with a two-part preference survey, leaving me to feel like an
unwilling contestant on
“The Dating Show.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">During
one outing, a colleague spends the first hour asking, “Do you think
he's cute? What about him?” This, of course, is a trick question.
Reply “Yes” and she's bound to give the “come hither” finger.
Respond with “No” and the line of questioning never ends.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“I'm
still trying to figure out your type,” my colleague says.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I
don't answer. My damn buzz is gone. I thought I graduated from high
school over 20 years ago. I just want to go home.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The
whole thing is annoying. Borderline angering. I never complain. I
don't peruse dating sites or ask everyone I know if they can hook me
up. I don't even cry, “There are no good men out here” or “I
can't find a man!” I think they still exist. I simply continue with
and improve other aspects of my life like quitting my job,
researching graduate programs, considering relocation and
establishing a career. My existence doesn't end because I'm single
although my single status may be influenced by my life choices.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I
express my concern and discomfort before the next happy hour. I don't
decline the invitation because I'm a sucker for the sushi and
cocktails. This time I'm seated at the bar between another colleague
and a man who I've never met. Another colleague stands behind me. The
stranger happens to glance in our direction and the standing
colleague abruptly asks, “Have you met my friend Teronda?”
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Um
what?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He's
confused, too. “No,” he says. And he's annoyed. I'm not sure if
it's a reaction to the out-the-blue question or the fact that he's
already chatting with the woman seated on the other side of him. Is
it a platonic friend? Girlfriend? Wife?!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My
colleague turns her back is if her mission is complete. But I can't
face the man because I'm horrified. I'm sure she just sent the
message that I'm 1) a desperate damsel or a relationship reject 2)
incapable of meeting a man on my own and 3) possibly a home-wrecker.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And
once again my buzz is gone and I just want to go home.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But
the single-shaming runs rampant. I'm not the only one who experiences
it.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One
of my girlfriends calls me for my take on a potential setup. Her
friend's neighbor, a widower for less than a year with five children
including a two-month old, wants to meet someone. My
never-been-married friend, who has no kids, is the first person to
come to mind.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Shouldn't
I be offended?” she asks.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Girl
he's looking for a nanny, maid and cook,” I joke. Sort of. It
really <i>is</i>
an internship for those full-time positions. I sincerely understand
his situation and I'm not mad at him. But the friend who thinks they
should meet? She deserves a side-eye.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">My issue with the random matchmaking and unsolicited dating advice is the underlying preconceived notion of hopelessness, helplessness, flaws and incompleteness. We must be selfish, afraid of love, unknowing, picky or broken. As women and especially after a certain age, we're defined by titles of “wife” and “mother” hence the active mission to get us older singles married and pregnant. We're beyond the age to afford the luxury of attraction, common interests and compatibility. The “best” solution is to just toss us anybody because right now we have nobody.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Another one of my girlfriends defends our singleness rather nicely in a Facebook post: “Because 30- or 40-something year-old women aren’t in committed relationships doesn’t mean we can’t get or keep a man.” We can but sometimes decide to remain minus one for a little bit. Or maybe forever. Either way, it's our choice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Single is only my current status, not my ultimate fate. My life may not resemble a “typical” 39-year-old's but that doesn't give anyone the authority to intervene or attempt to fix it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">This essay was originally published on <i>Clutch Magazine</i> online. </span></div>
Terondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075052173239605490.post-9380413041303238832013-08-29T22:53:00.005-04:002022-03-26T16:20:23.202-04:00My summer fling with Boston<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); color: #222222;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgc04aUmyq2Lk6zpq7IzRSFk5q6Hk83r2qWd7F31-cALuRAzC6LcmRk3mCM0-korFjcABBO1GVmCLptXFbp4ULQj-EwkzVOMgK3fpfh_uQQNLjgBd68dXmS9imwifu4MzkbC-sjVtNnt8ttK9_B6tJZmOphFKlSr3ZDJT3yT0IXMNezaXxiic6hHodM=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgc04aUmyq2Lk6zpq7IzRSFk5q6Hk83r2qWd7F31-cALuRAzC6LcmRk3mCM0-korFjcABBO1GVmCLptXFbp4ULQj-EwkzVOMgK3fpfh_uQQNLjgBd68dXmS9imwifu4MzkbC-sjVtNnt8ttK9_B6tJZmOphFKlSr3ZDJT3yT0IXMNezaXxiic6hHodM=w640-h640" width="640" /></a></div><br />Boston and I never clicked.</span><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
I had hoped for an immediate connection but what I got were
coldness and distance. Incompatibility. I soon learned things wouldn't progress
to anything long-term. Not then. Perhaps I expected too much too soon or maybe
those who tried to sell me on Boston's best qualities erred on the side of
misrepresentation. Their experiences were full of excitement and grand memories but what about the downsides because my experiences were heaps of
disappointments and a literal hunger.</span></span><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); color: #222222;"><br />Honestly, I hated Boston.</span><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
My move was eight Augusts ago to a tiny furnished student apartment
with no air conditioner, mind you, on Buswell Street. The studio was depressingly dark for
22 hours of the day. The brightest spot was the bathroom with all sparkling white
fixtures that I accented with fuchsia and practically vaporized with a
clean-linen scent. I actually loved the bathroom.</span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="more"></a><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
Sunlight peeked into my bedroom disguised as a living room
sometime between 6 and 8 a.m. It sneaked in and out as quietly as a booty call
with no note. Most mornings I missed its departure.</span></span></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);">I spent my days desperately trying to get to know Boston,
ignoring every sign to break up and move on to the next city.</span><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
My car was still in Virginia so I initially traveled
everywhere by foot. I walked those streets entirely too much, quickly twisting
my ankle on an uneven sidewalk near the towering Boston University Barnes and
Noble. Never mind I wore flip flops.</span><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
The person who advised, “Don’t bring your car because
Virginians know nothing about New England snow,” should’ve warned my clumsy ass that I
needed to hopscotch down the sidewalks.</span><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
An excruciating pain crept in later that night. I managed to
numb my injury with a bag of frozen peas that lingered in the freezer. I had
stopped cooking days (or maybe weeks) prior when one of those insects with
antennae that usually travels in packs crawled across the counter top. It and
its family and friends could have the kitchen. I didn’t need it after all.</span><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
There was a 7-Eleven on the corner to which I managed to limp
the next morning. As I approached the door, a kid ran out with a handful of goodies.
I heard the cashier yell, “Get back here!” I turned around and limped back to
my apartment. I didn’t need the snacks either.</span><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
And so I dropped eight pounds in a matter of weeks. Perhaps
my daily destination should’ve been some real food spots.</span><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
But diversity in ethnic foods wasn’t that popular in my
neighborhood, although I acquired an addiction to the hot and sour soup at this
particular Chinese restaurant at the basement level on Commonwealth Avenue. I
sniffed after every slurp. And smiled, maybe even laughed a little bit, because
mostly everything else I tasted in the city was bland.<br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
Italian cuisine, which was served at every other Boston
establishment alongside seafood, wasn’t one of my favorites. During that time
pasta and bread were at the bottom of my culinary must-haves. I had to be in
the mood. Or in Italy. I was a Virginian who craved artery-clogging,
calorie-laden, heartburn-inducing soul food. I was desperate that I fed the
stereotype and asked a stranger where I could get some fried chicken and I
wasn’t referring to a chain restaurant, either.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
He knew exactly where to go, but he didn’t share. “But you
don’t want to go there,” he uttered instead.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
I later realized he may have been referring to Roxbury. I’m
still not sure if he didn’t see color, momentarily forgot I was black or
thought I was too suburb-smart (instead of street-smart) to venture into the
neighborhood. The conversation abruptly ended – because I was offended – and so
did my quest for good food.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
At a minimum, Boston couldn't even sustain me. I really
didn't ask for much.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
It was 30 degrees cooler outside my apartment so I started to
wander aimlessly down Commonwealth Ave. to Massachusetts Ave. to Newbury or
Boylston Streets. I focused on any object – real or imaginary – ahead of me so
I didn’t have to acknowledge the same bouncers outside restaurant lounges,
doormen outside the hotel near Mass. Ave. or the construction workers who
paused to watch me embarrassingly walk by. I had never felt such an intense
sense of not belonging before but for the first time I wasn't worried about
street harassment; no one smiled my entire stroll and no one so much as uttered
“Hi.”</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
Instead I heard their chuckling inner thoughts. “Here comes
that tall, lanky, Black chick again today,” they probably said. “She knows she can just ride
the T, right?”</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
“You do know I know what you’re saying, right?” I would’ve
replied. “And I would if I knew how.”</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
Of course this was nonsensical considering I maneuvered DC
and New York City’s subway systems like a local. I was never confused as long
as I saw a fare machine and a map. The only difference between the other cities
and Boston was Boston’s fares were paid with tokens instead of fare cards.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
I even visited other cities solo, immersing myself in the
culture like a proud resident instead of a lost tourist. Once I intuitively
drove alternate routes from the Westin Bonaventure Hotel in Downtown LA to
Venice Beach for a week. My sense of direction was oddly clear and I felt
secure. I felt “at-home” as I conversed with the locals. But unlike other
cities, Boston left me uncomfortable, disoriented and out-of-place. Its actions
said, “Fuck the starved, lonely Southerner. Go back from where you came.” And
so I ended things after a mere two months.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
But exes have a habit of reappearing – albeit in my nightly
news and Twitter timeline – and triggering regrets and rare memories of good
times. They force us to doubt, rationalize and eventually oblige, even if it's
nearly a decade later.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
Well there was that fancy dinner and cocktail at the trendy
lounge attached to Hotel Commonwealth, where my name was on the phone display
upon check-in, although it was misspelled.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
I still felt special, though.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
And I do remember how my mouth watered almost daily for the
chunky sausage and artichoke pizza and tangy side Caesar salad at the café on
the bottom floor of 580 Commonwealth.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br />
And I can't forget about the best chicken biryani (and I'm
generally not a fan of chunks of meat in my rice) next to my friend Nishat's version
near bustling Harvard Square...I'm still not sure how I managed to save half
until the next day.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); color: #222222;"><br />
Oh! And Jamba Juice! I indulged in my last (literally since it's now a retired
flavor) tart Cranberry Craze on Boston University's campus.</span><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
So what about the intricacies or characteristics I may have
missed? Could there have been a misunderstanding on my part?</span><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
Maybe Boston and I can reach a mutual agreement on the
rebound. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); color: #222222;">Just maybe.</span><span face=""verdana" , "sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
But I'm doing things a little differently and taking things a
little slower this time: following selective Boston entities on Twitter;
glancing at flights for special fares; and researching must-try spots myself
instead of solely relying on natives who don’t look like me. And, no, Boston
doesn't necessarily have to woo me with my one major weakness – food. But it
does help. It always does.</span><br />
<span style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238);"><br />
Still, reminiscing isn’t enough for me to permanently recommit
to Boston. I've set my sights on another major city. Or at least that’s my
stance for now. But it is enough to lure me back even if it’s just for a
one-night stand.</span></span></div>
Terondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075052173239605490.post-76160836837680309802013-08-08T16:32:00.000-04:002018-08-06T17:01:00.745-04:00[Clutch] I'm not mad, I'm an introvert<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg43BizirDx_hhFqfIdJC_y1fQph0GRZCKhDGBF9Ce51cIvJAVBf6aZkDopUQVkL2kbOHPg5EQNyeW2m_ZE8BXgo-rJ0jAVtL6xEeOMyDvNz7EatHhQqLTtApkBrm30_IrL3fYa-omhOy8/s1600/080698+Introvert+Screenshot.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="702" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg43BizirDx_hhFqfIdJC_y1fQph0GRZCKhDGBF9Ce51cIvJAVBf6aZkDopUQVkL2kbOHPg5EQNyeW2m_ZE8BXgo-rJ0jAVtL6xEeOMyDvNz7EatHhQqLTtApkBrm30_IrL3fYa-omhOy8/s1600/080698+Introvert+Screenshot.png" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Near
the end of my last two jobs, I pretty much disliked the positions and
some of the people. But I especially hated those mandatory
team-building exercises that involved role-play and meetings that
required active participation. Lunch was the best part of those days
until I was forced to participate in that, too.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Why
are you so quiet, Teronda?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I
hate that, too, by the way. I wasn't exactly ignoring anyone. I
flashed a periodic smile and added an occasional “Oh” to indicate
I was listening. But I didn't have anything new or insightful to say
to such light chitchat. All I really wanted to do was eat my
pepperoni pizza slices in silence so I could regain enough mental
energy to make it through the afternoon without a panic attack.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">I'm
just wired like that. I'm a</span>n introvert and I'm not here for
small talk.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Really.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My
words are deliberate and rehearsed. Small talk is too impromptu but
deep conversations are greatly
appreciated.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/jennagoudreau/2012/01/26/the-secret-power-of-introverts/" target="_blank"><span id="goog_1688473223"></span>Between
one-third to one-h</a></span><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/jennagoudreau/2012/01/26/the-secret-power-of-introverts/" target="_blank">alf</a><span id="goog_1688473224"></span></span>
of Americans are introverts but many of us pretend to be extroverts
in an attempt to escape the anti-social, depressed,
mute, standoffish, inhuman, flawed, moody, mad and indifferent
labels. Unfortunately we're not actresses who can remain in character
for 10-hour days. Suppressing our introversion is a second job and
eventually it seeps out like a soon-to-erupt volcano. Sitting amidst
nonstop noise one minute too long can be mentally exhausting,
overstimulating and possibly detrimental to extroverts if they
continue to push us.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I
rolled my eyes every time I spotted a team of colleagues prancing
toward my desk with their notebooks of three-part questions and
you-are-gonna-help-me-now attitudes on figures I didn't even
calculate. Things got real, real quick when my coworkers hovered over
my shoulder watching me open files and touching my computer screen
launching into another series of probing questions.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I had an immediate answer alright: Back the hell up because you've just invaded my personal space. Better yet, open the files at your own desks, type your questions and e-mail me. I'm fluent in passive communication and writing anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We're reserved, soft-spoken, innovative thinkers who refuel and thrive in solitude within quiet environments like closed offices or our homes. In these spaces we pen our novels, compose our music and paint masterpieces. Low-walled cubicles, open work spaces and even nightclubs are to an introvert what tight elevators are to a claustrophobic. Or what solitary confinement is to an extrovert.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I recuperated from the daily firing squads immediately after work in my car with no music and again in my apartment with novels, magazines, logic problems, crossword puzzles, naps and/or a lightly-scented candle. More than likely if we're an introvert, we're a nerd, too. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I wore an invisible “Do Not Disturb” sign. Don't wave at me. Don't honk your horn. In fact, don't even look at me because I won't see you. Don't knock on my door. And don't call me, either.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My phone still rang for evening chatter before I even had a chance to recharge, though. “Why don't you ever answer your phone?” most asked. Because I couldn't eat my pizza in peace like I needed. But I never bothered to explain in detail any deliberate send-to-voicemails because that led to hurt feelings and confrontation. And I'm not here for that, either.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Don't get me wrong, though. I'm rather friendly. I laugh and joke daily, throw cocktail parties periodically and plan weekend outings. (All within spaces I can somewhat control, it seems.) And when my friends need me, I perform cartwheels followed by full splits to show my support. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm also down for being social publicly. I do love to go out and eat and sip, watch a movie, play or comedy show or chill at a lounge or any other gathering just like an extrovert. But it'll be short-lived like Cinderella's presence at the ball. Please just don't make a big fuss when introversion rolls up, taps me on the shoulder and tells me it's time to go home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This essay was originally published on </span><i style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Clutch Magazine </i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">online</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
Terondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075052173239605490.post-16023391811633377612013-08-08T16:23:00.002-04:002018-08-06T16:34:55.112-04:00[Clutch] Back to my roots -- My return to relaxers<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I did something terribly wrong during my transition from relaxed to natural hair. Perhaps I omitted a few steps, mixed incorrect ingredients or screwed up a technique because my lush layers morphed into tangled tumbleweed and I lost nearly half of my hair within four months.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
I got the bright idea to go natural so I could run, practice yoga and take swimming lessons without scrambling to restyle my hair afterward. I grew obsessed with the wild, coiled, spiky look. Never mind I hadn't shampooed, rolled or flat ironed my own hair in over 12 years or I only had a mere two inches of new growth attached to inches of bone straightness. I could still achieve a full ‘fro with the right product, Nikki Walton's “Better Than Good Hair” and step-by-step instructions on a few YouTube videos, right?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
Wrong.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What I got most weeks was a stringy, sticky, greasy mess: a throwback to my third-grade self when I went through that ma-I-can-do-my-own-hair-because-I-am-too-old-for-ribbons-and-plaits phase. Only this time I was 38 not 8. The products that tamed my roots left the chemically-straightened part of my hair limp. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
I tried to fluff it out one morning before a short road trip. My aunt’s boyfriend stopped mid-step and fell into a fit of laughter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
“You look like one of the Jackson 5,” he finally managed to say.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
Attempts to use less curling soufflé resulted in a big frizzy pouf. I positioned my body face-forward, with no left or right turns, because my hair didn’t fall back into place as it once did. If I glanced down, my hair stuck straight out. I looked like I wore a bad wig. Or weave. In a mug shot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
My natural ‘do became the epitome of a natural don’t and I didn't know how to fix it. My appearance definitely didn't feel complete. How was I supposed to look cute with a jacked up head? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
I really should've kept my regularly scheduled touch-ups.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
I was over 200 miles away from my long-term stylist so I texted one of my girlfriends who had been natural the entire 10+ years I’ve known her. I told her I was going to resume relaxing my hair because I didn’t like it. I looked crazy. She replied, “Natural hair is a journey and [once] you make it, you will feel so free and empowered and there is nothing some knucklehead can say that will make a difference.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
But I really did look like a Jackson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
My friend proceeded to send texts about two-strand twists, blow dries, pins and puffs. Did she not remember I only needed to finger my hair into place before all this? With no vegetable glycerin, coconut oil, oil sheen, pudding or water, might I add. Wrap, unwrap and go. But in this semi-natural state, I needed variant concoctions of moisture and protein depending on daily use, pre-poo, deep conditioning, nighttime, midmonth...I can’t. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And my hair couldn’t either. A few weeks after those texts, I looked down and to the left as I styled my stiff pouf in the bathroom mirror and noticed my sides were significantly longer than the back (after I adjusted the hair that was sticking off.) The entire underside of my hair, the longest layers, had broken off and barely covered my nape! My hair suffered some sort of withdrawal and was not thirsty for any water, either. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It craved that creamy crack. I was relieved to find some under my aunt’s bathroom sink and slapped globs of it on my roots, nape and edges. My scalp tingled and I watched my kinky curls inhale, stretch and relax. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was naïve about transitioning. Having been dependent on relaxers for nearly 25 years, I knew nothing about my natural hair other than it was coarse, itchy and lacked body when it was time for a touch-up. And despite the line of demarcation warnings, I still thought all that grease and water would prevent my thick strands from snapping. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I also thought it would be “easy” and truly versatile. But really how much texture-manipulating could I have done to chemically-straightened hair? I know a 'fro would've been more realistic had I started from scratch with all new growth but I simply couldn’t bring myself to proceed with the big chop. I don't have the face, namely the nose, for that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Ironically, I still have to cut some of my hair now that I'm left with thinner, harder, more brittle and uneven strands, much like the teenager who holds on for length no matter how split the ends. I'll probably need some scarves, hairpins, headbands and flowers after all. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I feel a mixture of regret, guilt and failure. How crazy it must sound to be totally incapable of managing what’s naturally mine. Chemicals didn't damage my hair; I did! I envy and applaud the fierce curlfriends who can rock the teeny weeny afro and nurture it into a crown full of voluminous spirals but that won't ever be me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'll take the sodium hydroxide, please. I just want my long, bouncy, relaxed hair back.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This essay was originally published on <i>Clutch Magazine</i> online.</span>Terondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075052173239605490.post-50724291287710520732013-08-08T16:04:00.002-04:002016-03-18T21:14:15.655-04:00[xoJane] Yes, people, I know I'm skinny so please quit telling me!<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I am skinny.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This I can see from every reflective surface I walk past so please spare me the news commentaries, public service announcements, business memos, full-page classified ads and the current cover of Allure magazine.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I still haven’t figured out why people feel obligated to comment on my lean stature (I’m not only slim but also an inch shy of six feet tall.) or my eating habits or assume it’s even acceptable or welcomed. Mentioning someone’s weight is akin to questioning her age unless she brings it up first. But I don’t.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Yet some people are so nonchalant with their statements, connecting them to irrelevant observations and buttering me up with compliments before blurting out their thoughts.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Love your hair. Nice outfit. Oh, by the way, do you eat?”</span><br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Do you want to get smacked?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But most times they just look for a way to steer the conversation toward my weight. They study me for an open invitation – a gesture or a key word – to swoop in and voice their opinions and concerns.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A few years ago I attended brunch the morning after my friend’s wedding. The buffet was a fabulous spread of made-to-order omelets and waffles, eggs benedict, sausage, an array of pastries, fruits and crisp bacon (woo hoo!) to name a few. I ended up with two plates on my first visit because I have this plate peeve with runny foods disturbing the texture of other foods. As I sat down I felt several pairs of eyes scan my hands. One guest leaned over to the bride, who later told me he asked, “Is she gonna eat all of that?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Hell yeah. And I could’ve eaten yours, too, had you continued to neglect your dish to stare at mine. Mind your business.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I find it funny that people assume I’m a picky eater on some anti-food campaign. It’s actually quite the opposite. However, I do read labels – for calorie counts. More is ideal. And I eat almost anything (flavorful, that is) but have a proclivity for certain foods over others that have nothing to do with taste. Baked or sautéed chicken and fish are rarely filling unless I scarf down bread with it. Something about the greasy stuff keeps me full and my body from kicking into weight loss mode. So I prefer everything fried.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Of course I must then counterbalance the effects from all the extra fat but I’m not allowed to utter the words “run” or heaven forbid “exercise.” They’re less synonymous with health than they are with dieting and they inadvertently elicit a last-minute intervention.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“You don’t have any weight to lose!”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Well who said anything about losing weight? Can I preserve my heart, please?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s easy to respond to the verbal rudeness and tactlessness but things become rather tricky when ignorance decides to ogle and smirk instead. I can’t necessarily fight back with words if none were spoken in the first place. Then I may come across as not only skinny but also confrontational and paranoid.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Years after the brunch incident, after I started to finally gain weight, I was in Gap looking for a few summer pieces when I noticed this couple sitting on a tee shirt display (don’t ask me why) glancing at one another and then sneering at my calves. The first two times I kept browsing and let the shit slide. They were too dumb to realize I could also see them in a mirror. The third time I stopped mid-browse, turned to face them and gave the best what-the-fuck-you-looking-and-laughing-at face I could muster. That became my standard greeting. Not a friendly “Hi. How are you?” in passing but a bit of mocking met with a whole lot of <a href="http://onlineslangdictionary.com/meaning-definition-of/mean-mug" target="_blank">mean mugging</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At this point one may envision a long-limbed, bony creature covered with wafts of cloth based on these folks’ reactions. But I was a tad bit bigger during these encounters. I was much smaller way back in my preteen and college years and people (adults!) were even ruder. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I recall this one outfit that I absolutely loved – navy and white horizontally-striped bell-bottoms and a coordinating long navy flared top – and I wore it to casual special occasions in lieu of a skirt or dress. It probably wasn’t the most flattering for my frame but I had the crazy notion I could hide in big clothes. It never dawned on me that I’d appear frumpy, unfashionable and even more frail.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I wore that ensemble one night during my freshman year as I walked across campus with three of my new dormmates. We approached a group of guys who weren’t students but lingered on campus trying to attract college girls. One of the guys yelled did I have a particular terminal illness and laughed like he was on stage at the DC Improv.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was less humor, more humiliation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was many, many years before I stopped seeing myself as gangly; although I still had the small frame, I also grew new curves, which only fueled my increasing appetite and pushed me to maintain my figure. Yet those who knew me long-term simply couldn’t (or refused to) acknowledge I wasn’t the same miniscule size I used to be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“You ain’t no size six!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sorry to disappoint you, pretend seamstress. I can’t squeeze into a zero or two. Maybe a four if there’s some stretch in the material.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But why are you questioning my size and why was I debating it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Perhaps because I’d worked so hard to disassociate myself from my old self, the one that I found less attractive, mainly because my community convinced me that it was. Very few looked like me; everyone else was full-figured. So although no physician ever told me I was unhealthy, I still felt extreme pressure to fatten up. Fast.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There seems to be this comfort, or presumed political correctness, in openly discussing pounds and sizes when these attributes fall on the opposite (lower) end of the weight spectrum. It’s uncouth to bluntly tell a stranger or a loved one to her face she’s too fat (or print on a magazine cover “400 Pounds of Fabulous Fun”) but since everyone apparently wants to be thinner, it’s okay to talk to me about my slimness. I should be grateful or flattered I’m in the latter category but never offended someone mentioned it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Just know that I am insulted and I was constantly cloaked in a three-piece suit of shame until recent years. And that suit didn’t include shorts, dresses or skirts; it took me nearly 30 years to wear anything that showed my legs. My summer wardrobe consisted of jeans and khakis. Fortunately I could double up in the winter with layers of denim, fleece, wool and corduroy. And it wasn’t to keep warm, either.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now that I’m 35 pounds heavier, I feel better about my appearance and more able to quickly shut down all the snide remarks that are dished out to me. But I realize I’m still not considered average build. I’ve never stated it nor alluded to it. Ever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So folks can quit tapping me on the shoulder and whispering in my ear as if they’re sharing some dirty little secret. I see what you see and I already know what you’re about to say. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This essay was originally <a href="http://www.xojane.com/issues/yes-people-i-know-im-skinny-so-please-quit-telling-me" target="_blank">published on xoJane</a>.</span></div>
Terondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075052173239605490.post-11627319122230803312013-08-01T23:53:00.001-04:002014-08-11T22:49:03.952-04:00Adventures in the library part I<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I boycotted
my public library six months after discovering where it was located.
Never mind I had lived in Fairfax for nearly five years by then.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Why would I
go, though? I have no kids to surprise with story time and I buy all
of my books and magazines online, on my Nook or at the bookstore. The
library just wasn't a place I needed to frequent. But it seemed to be
an ideal spot to concentrate and get work done – namely my writing.
I just wish someone told me the library is no longer a quiet zone.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sat at a
table with two other individuals, one who appeared to be mumbling to
herself. But I didn't say anything. Instead I retrieved my ragged,
but trusted, earbuds and inserted them into my laptop so I could
drown out her unintelligible drivel with some music. Unfortunately I
hadn't pushed the connector all the way in and sound escaped from my
built-in speakers, playing for the entire table.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But I
immediately realized the mishap because I generally remove my buds
from my ears once I turn the music on and listen to see if I can
still hear it. Unlike everyone else, I don't want to disturb anyone.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Excuse
me! Excuse me!” the mumbler said while she frantically waved her
hands.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I know,”
I retorted. “I'm fixing it.” But my mind was saying, “<strike>Bitch</strike>,
please.” It was six seconds of tunes, yet she had been speaking
into a recorder for over 30 minutes. <i>That</i>
was an activity reserved for a private office.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From there
my library experiences grew weird.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On another
particular day, I sat at a chair with a folding writing surface
tucked away by a window and an electrical outlet. I periodically
broke up the constant grind with Facebook Mobile (always on silent!)
so I was staring at my phone as another patron sat in the matching
chair about six feet from my right. She unzipped her laptop bag,
placed her Dell on the folding table top and commenced to talk to her
machine.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I felt it
best to ignore her but sometimes I just disregard my initial
instincts. I looked in her direction.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She asked
me why this little plastic rectangular piece was partially sticking
out. I told her it was to protect the space designated for a PC card
from dust and she only needed to push it back in. That led to a few
more questions that I met with “I don't know.” I mean, damn, I
had a Dell but I wasn't Dell technical support.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Do you
mind if I use your phone?” she asked as if she were requesting the
time.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My mouth
formed the shape of a Cheerio because I was on the verge of asking,
“What?” One, who doesn't own a cell phone? Two, who asks to use
someone else's phone in a <i>library</i>?
Three, what emergency could you be possibly having right about now?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I'm
sorry; my battery's dying,” I quickly replied. I started to
retrieve my laptop bag but as my luck would have it, a required
Windows update had begun to install. I seriously contemplated taking
my chances to see if my operating system would actually crash if I
unplugged my laptop (My battery was so old that my computer instantly
went into <strike>hibernate</strike>
completely off mode as soon as the prongs detached from an outlet.)
and packed it away. But again, I'm not technical support.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I needed my
laptop so I put my phone away.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next
day, I returned to my same seat at the same time. An hour later, so
did she and she came munching on a bag of Cheetos. So not only could
we hold phone conversations in the library, we could also eat! I made
a mental note to bring my Big Mac combo from the adjacent McDonald's
next time.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
intentionally avoided eye contact this time but it didn't work.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Excuse
me. Excuse me. Do you mind if I use your phone?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I'm
sorry. I left it in my car.”
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I figured
after two consecutive rejections, she'd leave me alone. But to be on
the safe side, I found a new seat in the library on the third day. It
was still tucked away behind some bookshelves but I remained
cautious, checking the aisles for a woman with long black hair and a
laptop bag and leaving my phone in my purse. When I checked it, I did
it in a way that passersby would mistake me for searching for a stick
of gum. A few uneventful days passed.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A week
later, I made the new chair my unofficial assigned seat. It was
semi-secluded. No one could find me. Very few passed by unless they
were headed to the study room. Patrons were quiet – except another
woman who talked to her boyfriend in her nightclub voice. She got the
evil eye.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Needing to
make a Facebook status about her, I pulled out my cell. From
between the stacks emerged the phone lady!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Can I
use your phone?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I searched
for Ashton Kutcher and Betty White because surely I was getting
double-punked.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don't
let anyone use my phone,” I abruptly said. The phone lady walked
off in a huff.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I returned
to the front tables on my subsequent visit. Hiding clearly didn't
work either. I glanced up and damn if phone lady wasn't walking
towards me! I slipped into defense mode. It was time for me to break
library protocol as I knew it and raise <i>my</i> voice a few
octaves. But she continued past me. Then I realized she sat at a
student's desk diagonally behind me.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I waited.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Barely 20
minutes later, I heard a laptop lid slam down followed by an outburst
of “Stupid!” Phone lady got up and walked straight past me, past
the library stacks. I have no clue of her final destination because I
packed my shit and left. I needed a new spot.</span></div>
Terondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07587296778673732687noreply@blogger.com5