Trouble in Paradise: let's get real

Trouble in Paradise: Let’s get real

I appreciate a less formal approach to life. People are their best when they are able to strip away the façade that seems to be so inherent in the business world. Perhaps that’s why I have sadly attached a negative connotation to the term salesman. Granted, there are good, salt-of-the-earth sales men and women, but I have seemed to encounter the following type most often.

Back when I was married, the husband I were vacationing in Hawaii. Aside from prancing happily on the beaches of paradise sporting an iodine-stained abdomen (I had an unexpected surgery right before the trip, appendicitis is no picnic), I was in marital bliss- or so I thought.

Lured by a free boat excursion, we decided that sitting through a presentation and face-to-face interrogation regarding plans to buy a timeshare, might just be worth it.

I have never been more wrong.

After hours of having to answer financial questions, likes/dislikes, etc. and watch them be input into a computer program that was designed to show how realistic owning property in paradise could be, the worst came. They replaced the sweet, funny girl with the boss. “The Closer” I gathered. What happened next was nothing short of public humiliation I will never forget.

The smug-looking man in his ugly brown suit came over to us. As we repeatedly said we weren’t interested and finally just told him we participated merely for the free boat excursion (doesn’t everyone?!) he told us a story of him and his EX wife. He said they never vacationed and invested in their marriage with trips as they should have. He went on to say that the marriage ultimately failed because of this and that as a young married couple, we were doomed for divorce if we didn’t own this timeshare. Really?!

Having bullied me to the point of snot-faced tears, the sweet girl came out and apologized for his behavior. Behind his back she told us he could be a real prick and he should have never gone so far.

The moral of the story: it isn’t necessary to stoop so low to get what you want. Being real with people will save you time, tears and dignity.

So as I continue my current search for my place in the corporate world, I will always remember that nobody likes a prick.

…Oh yeah, and in case you’re wondering…we didn’t divorce because we passed on the timeshare!

Ladies in the Restroom

The women’s restroom is a unique place. I’m not referring to the frequent smells of mixed perfumes and body sprays sometimes lingering after a quick freshening up. I’m not even referring to the horrendously long lines that are defining at any social event, club, or during an intermission at a play.

The women’s restroom is a retreat where women go to do more than their natural duty (pun totally intended). It’s a place of comfort, social musings, and even a therapeutic dressing room.

As preteens we would scurry off to the room with the stick-figure lady wearing a triangle dress on the door. We giggled, and whispered about the boys we were on a double date with and if we were cool enough, maybe even applied Dr. Pepper flavored LipSmackers – just because we could.

As we grew up, we would sexily saunter to the restroom to refresh ourselves, reapply lipstick, check to make sure dinner wasn’t caught in our chompers, and tousle our hair. It was a ritual of sorts.

Now, however, I look back and realize what a haven of hope public restrooms have served for me. I once got the feeling that a guy I was on a date with had taken some mind-altering substance during our date, because he was, well, acting very creepy in the car. My solution? Escape to the nearest Krispy Kreme. Feigning an intense urge to pee, I hid in the bathroom and scrolled through my phone and called someone who might possibly be able to kick some ass if the situation called for it. I found comfort in that fluorescent-lit, white-tiled restroom as I waited for help to arrive.

A few years ago (this is embarrassing to admit) I stormed off to the ladies restroom where I sobbed (okay, it was more of a hysterical, snot-faced, ugly cry) and sipped at my previously purchased rum & Coke. And, then, something amazing happened. As if by maternal intuition, complete strangers in the restroom consoled me. Not specifically knowing the root of my tears, they said things like, “You’re better off without someone like that!” “Whoever is making you this upset probably isn’t worth it.” And “Oh, honey, come out and sit with me and my friends and let’s have a good night.”

Wow.

Garnering unsolicited hugs from girls that I might previously have pegged as stuck-up airheads; I was touched.

The usual banter (especially in the restrooms of bars) is usually a cordial compliment or some assurance that you don't look slutty if you unbutton your blouse once more. Strangers have offered me their lip gloss when they see me fumble in my purse (to which I politely decline).

But for all these reasons and so many more, I have to say that the women’s restroom is a sacred, special place that creates a unique culture between women.

I think I need to use the loo...

The Last Time

The other day I had lunch with my editor, Amy. We talked, bouncing around to different topics, but I was struck by one topic in particular. She was telling me about how her two sons are growing and how she will ache when they no longer need or want her to do the maternal comforting things she takes joy in doing as their mother. She told me about a children’s book she has that is unique. The book does not focus on the all “firsts” but rather looks back on all the “lasts” with a nostalgic ache and a bit of reality. A reality that means the future brings change that sometimes makes us sad and forces us to adapt.

I kept thinking how true it is that we tend to celebrate and readily acknowledge the monumental firsts steps; the first time we talked, the first time we walked, or later in life, our first love. But we rarely seem to take note of the last times. And I realized that we often don’t know at the time, that it IS the last time.

When you graduate it’s obvious that you have attended college classes for the last time, or when you quit a job, you know in two weeks that you will no longer wake up and start your day there. But when it’s something you aren’t prepared for, like the death of a loved one, or the end of a relationship, or severe health problems that can alter your life permanently, it is poignant.

It is something that has always made me sad. I’m not one to always deal with heartache or adaptation without a tear shed or repeats of a sad song to somehow relate, curb the sting of shock or begin to transition against what I may want the reality to be.

But I am learning that no matter how many firsts I have, most of them will come to a point where I’ll be faced with a journey ended, a door closed, or a memory that will remind me that my lasts can allow me to begin something new.

It’s kind of a crazy thing to think that nearly everything major in my life will have a last sooner or later. My job, where I live, various relationships, even my worn-way-too-much-because-I-love-them boots will one day retire, and I’ll be sad; but not forever.

That is all….

This isn't Candyland

Why can’t I make up my mind?

I’m too optimistic in the sense that I am a dreamer and just inevitably think things way in my future will work out the way I want them to. (I totally realize this can also be referred to as naïveté.) At least this seems to hold true for the big, important things. I “just know” I’ll have a fulfilling career, a wonderful husband and a belly that will harbor some well-adjusted babies -- sure to be the apple of my eye.

On the other hand, I am a pessimist in that I over analyze things, perhaps too insignificant to be a burden to my wandering mind. Such as, how many brain cells I am losing whenever I give myself a manicure, or if some obscure comment made by someone I barely know means something alarming that I should mentally prepare for.

I have been genius at fabricating scenarios, possible outcomes and rehearsing conversations I will probably never need to have with someone I will probably never be confronted by.

Why do I torture myself? Ever since I was very young I have spewed out reasons to create obstacles and hardship in the future, but despite this, I still believe deep down that it’s all just going to work out and be okay.

I don’t want to be caught off guard with some horribly disappointing reality and not have even seen it coming. But I also need to get my head out of the clouds and realize that, yes, things will be okay, but this isn’t Candyland and I am not Princess Frostine!

Going Solo

Marco and I were standing in line at the movie theater when we saw a frail, white-haired, polyester-pant-wearing man at the ticket window inquire about the actors in a particular movie. He must have found the cast to be suitable and announced that he wanted one ticket. In his feeble manner he told the guy at the ticket window that he was a senior (as if his snow-colored hair and lines of character across his face weren’t intimation).

He was old and hobbled a bit when he made his way to the entrance, but he was dignified and I found something endearing about him. I’m not sure what movie he was headed to see, but I suspect it wasn’t an action movie or thriller.

Marco and I commented on the fact that the man was alone. This was somehow disheartening because I automatically assumed he must have been happily married to his sweetheart for decades and that she past away, leaving him to attend movies solo and eat unimpressive meals because cooking for one doesn’t warrant the effort.

Marco thought the man probably enjoyed seeing the movie alone. He told me that when his [future] wife dies he will play golf, drink beer and see movies all the time- and that it will be “awesome”.

I remember the one and only time I went to the movies alone and it felt nice but also a bit peculiar, as I felt like people took pity on me. It was Christmas Eve and I went to a nighttime showing where families and couples were plentiful. I didn’t feel awkward because I was alone at the movies; I felt awkward because I was alone at the movies and it was Christmas Eve. I can’t really use that experience as a good barometer for solo-movie-watching though, but I am glad I did it.

I don’t know if that old man was happily alone, or not, but I know I was happily accompanied. And for now I’ll stick to bringing a date- until maybe next Christmas Eve when I can defy the season of togetherness (which I openly adore).

I love your style

The fanciful styles of flapper girls and dashing men of whatever years donned the skinny ties, trench coats and those oh-so-adorable hats. Marco and I recently watched Revolutionary Road (not set in the time of the flapper girls) but in the 50s…I think-But not the 50s you conjure up in your mind as poodle skirts and bowling shoes; but a more refined house-wife style. The kind where women are up cooking an enormous breakfast before 8am, with a full face of makeup, styled hair and perfectly ironed clothes with a set of pearls delicately strung around their necks. That sort of style.

Marco made an admiring comment on the style… nostalgic for skinny ties and hats. I sometimes wish I was I lived in a different time not just for the fun of fashion, but for the things that seem so trivial; where glass Coke bottles abound and dancing was a must-have social skill.

I love the conveniences that living in 2010 affords me as a woman in my 20s, but I do like to think what life would be like if I were a rebellious flapper girl who showed her independence through high hemlines, cigarettes and curse words.

Social norms, candy & smoking

There is an undeniable bond between perfect strangers who smoke (cigarettes). I am not part of this microcosm of nicotine lovers; I am however, an avid observer of their bizarre display of casual camaraderie that seems to combust at the moment one reaches for his or her Marlboro lights or fancy spearmint flavored sticks.

This unfortunate habit can make even the soft-spoken, coy girl strike up a conversation with a fellow smoker. Usually her lead in is, “Do you have a light?” Or, “Can I bum a smoke?” This one in particular really amuses me though. Take for instance, the fact that I may really like peanut M & M’s. Now let’s say I am on a plane, or waiting outside of the DMV and someone pulls out a bright yellow pack of peanut M & M’s. I would never assume that just because I like the same candy and often eat them myself, that I can “bum” a peanut M & M. That would just be weird.

I get that asking for a smoke doesn’t seem very strange on its face, but if you look at it this way, it is. I might have low blood sugar and really need that peanut M & M, just as the person who ran out of smokes might really need her nicotine fix, so what’s the difference?

I think this should change, because if people can share in their love for nicotine and cancer, why should I feel silly about wanting to share in my love for candy and cavities??

Just a thought. If you want to change this social taboo, then go ahead; ask someone if you can bum a Boston Baked Bean….