Good Girls

I spent the last two nights binge-watching “Good Girls Revolt” on Prime. The story of a group of women who sue over their treatment at a male-dominated newsweekly in 1969-70. The series is a fictionalized adaptation of Lynn Povich’s book by the same name. The Story chronicles a sexual-discrimination lawsuit filed against Newsweek in 1970 by Povich and 45 other female staffers. (They eventually settled with Newsweek.)

I couldn’t stop watching. Even if you are not interested in this story line, it is a completely accurate portrayal of the times. If you came of age in the seventies, as I did, it was like stepping back in time. It took me back to the days of free love and Frye boots. Of men and women trying to build relationships not knowing what we wanted because it was still unclear what was possible.

It was great acting, yes, and a good story, but the main reason I couldn’t stop watching was because it was also my story. It is every woman’s story who came of age in the seventies and wanted a career.  We believed we could change the world, and we set out to do so, not realizing that the ingrained sexism of our fathers was alive and well in their sons.

In 1975 I moved to Washington, DC. Coming from a poor background, I didn’t have the quality of education of my peers, or the knowledge of how the world worked. All I had was my brain, my hard work, and my perseverance. I eventually took a job as a “researcher/administrative assistant” for a political pundit; a conservative democrat who had worked in the Johnson administration and was now the token Democrat at a conservative Republican think tank.

I spent a year researching background material and data for his newspaper column and PBS show. At the end of that time, he decided to review the data he used for the articles, bring it up to date, and publish it as a book. To that end, he told me, he was hiring a young man who had just graduated from Yale because “a young woman like myself would be bored working with all those numbers”. I quit in protest shortly after.

A year later, when the book was published, I was back in the office to meet a couple of girlfriends for lunch. My former employer saw me the hallway and ran back to his office to give me a signed copy of his book. I immediately opened it to the credit page where in one sentence he “thanked me for typing” and then spent three paragraphs enthusiastically singing the praises of the young man who had simply updated my original research. My girlfriends had to drag me into the elevator to keep me from going into his office and telling him what I thought of him. They advised me “not to burn my bridges” and then they willingly spent their lunch hour listening to me rant about the unfairness.

I am still friends with both of these women. We just yesterday were emailing about getting together to catch up.  And, I suppose they were right about not burning my bridges. I’m sure that line on my resume and that reference helped me further my career. I also suspect that his comment about my not wanting to trouble my pretty, little head with numbers (which I will never forget) is partially why I chose to eventually go into Finance and work with numbers every day.

Thirty years spent just trying to prove one chauvinist wrong. It makes me wonder every day where all of us would be now if only we had begun with equal opportunity. So, millennials, don’t write off us baby boomers quite so quickly. You may not believe us to be as “woke” as you, but we did the hard work of breaking the barriers that makes the life you lead today possible.

The Old Bulldog

My dog and I go for a walk every morning when we awake. On our usual route, depending on the time, we often meet an old bulldog. He walks slowly across the street toward us, stops just before he gets to us, and pees without lifting his leg. Then he retreats. I believe that in his mind he believes he is still young and is racing across that street to greet a friend until his body betrays him and his bladder releases without his permission.

I’m a lot like that old bulldog. Every morning I get up and take my walk, go to work, and in my mind I’m still a young, fashionable woman, looking good and feeling fine. This lasts until something happens that reminds me of my real age.

Recently my boss and I went to view office space, contemplating a move. When we got outside, he asked me what I thought of the space. I told him the interior was intriguing ,but it lacked curb appeal. He agreed and said he didn’t like the fact that a Harley parked in front. “Really, you mean I can’t ride my Harley to work?’  His response: “I have hard time picturing you on a Harley, Mac.”

Really? I’ve been on the back of many Harleys in my day… and Kawasaki 500s… and every spring when the sun first comes out and I begin to hear the motors around town I crave to hop on the back of one again and feel the wind in my hair. Just for a moment. Just a little trip around the block would be great.

It fascinates me that as soon as you get enough grey in your hair to ensure the world that you’ve lived a life, people automatically begin to assume you have done nothing of interest.  I imagine my boss thinks that I sit at home and knit at night like old ladies are supposed to. Truth be told, I do a bit of knitting, but I do a lot more of other things, and always have.

It made me wonder what people think when they meet me now. Do they simply look at my grey hair and old body and assume that I’ve lived a quiet suburban life? Because the life I have really lived is so much different than that. I have lived in multiple places, I have traveled extensively, I have loved many people, and I have experienced so much of life. Mostly, I have danced, and I will still be dancing long after the music has ended.

So, the next time you meet a grey-haired person who may be walking a bit slower than they used to, remember it means they have lived a life, and in their minds, they are still a young bulldog racing across the street to meet a friend.

MY BIG FAT LIFE

My doctor recently told me that a very large lump on my wrist (the size of a jaw breaker if anyone remembers what those are) is most likely not malignant but rather a “fatty tumor”. I think it speaks volumes about my mental health that I was far more upset about her calling something on my body “fatty” than I was relieved about not having cancer again.

I have considered myself “fat” my entire life. Oddly, it’s only now when I truly am fat that I realize for most of my life I was perfectly within normal range. For many years I was a size 8 or 10 petite. But, at the time, I still viewed myself as fat. My mother had the same issue. As an older woman, she was beyond tiny; a size 6 petite hung on her in the end. Yet she still talked about her “fat”. Her fat that no longer even existed. Rather than slimming down as I age, as my mother did, I have doubled in size. Truly, if some mad scientist knew how, we could make two humans out of me. Perhaps one could carry on under my old name (since SSA refuses to change it anyway) and Mckenzie James could go off and enjoy a new life.

After a trauma a few years ago, I began to eat to soothe myself and haven’t quit yet. Because of COVID, and everyone being isolated, it was easy not to notice as I gained and gained. Now it is as though I’ve woken up from a deep sleep and see myself for the first time in years. The necessary weight loss seems an insurmountable goal. But necessary for my health, my self-esteem, and most importantly for an old fashionista, to preserve my fashion sense. 

I have reached the point where I can no longer shop in normal department stores. I now am consigned to the “plus-size” stores. I can tell you, although they try hard to describe it differently, plus-size clothing hasn’t changed much in years. Now all 12 of the major stores can be found on the same website, carrying mostly the same over-sized moo moos sold at Woolworth’s in the fifties and sixties. Although the word muʻumuʻu means “cut off” in Hawaiian, because the dress originally lacked a yoke, that’s not how the fashion industry spells it, is it? I have long suspected designers spell it differently for obvious reasons. And who wants to wear clothing named after the sound a cow makes? No one does.

This all was driven home for me recently as I shopped for a dress to wear to a wedding and realized that retailers may have gotten it wrong with this move to plus-size models. If the idea is to sell more clothes, it isn’t working for me. When I shop, I want to believe that I’m going to look great in the clothes I buy. I know that’s no longer possible in reality, but I want to believe it for a moment. I want my illusion as I’m doling out my dollars.

Yesterday I scrolled through pages and pages of dresses worn by women my size and thought, “if that’s what I’m going to look like, why spend the money?” They’ve taken away the illusion, and illusion is what sold clothes. I guess I should thank them for saving me money because I didn’t purchase anything, and I am DEFINITELY having this fatty tumor surgically removed!

Feeling Nostalgic for the Holiday Card

I’m going to repost this every year until Holiday Cards become special again. This year is even worse as the few cards I used to get have turned into postcards with family pictures on one side and just your address on the other. It is so not the same as picking out a card with a picture and a greeting that symbolizes how you’re feeling this this year. Are you feeling religious? humorous? nostalgic? joyful? sparkly? So far this year only one real card from an old friend who as always….wentt

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I miss holiday cards. I still get some, and I send and give them, but it’s not like it used to be. I can remember at one time having a card list that was over a hundred names long. Probably closer to two hundred. The day after Thanksgiving every year I’d spend the long weekend writing, addressing, and stamping holiday cards while I watched my favorite holiday movies. You can get a lot done during the 130 minutes of “It’s A Wonderful Life”, especially if it’s your 100th time watching, and you know every word by heart. For me, it was a peaceful and festive way to spend the weekend.

I love everything about the holiday card tradition. I look forward to picking the perfect one that matches exactly how I’m feeling that year. I enjoy figuring out what to write inside, as I always write something more than just a signature. I savor choosing the pens I’m going to write with. I like the annual updating of my contacts and verifying of addresses involved in the process which sometime means a conversation you wouldn’t otherwise have had. For years now I’ve also purchased smaller blank cards with a festive drawing or scene on the front which I us e when sending thanks for any Christmas gifts

I also enjoy getting holiday cards in my mailbox and seeing which greetings each of my friends, acquaintances and work mates have chosen: some religious, some humorous, some simply festive. I have one friend who always sends the tiniest most exquisite holiday cards. I know it’s her each year the moment I see the small envelope in my mailbox. I have another who always sends humorous, sometimes borderline lewd, greetings. I cherish each one I get.

Some years I have lined them up on the mantel, or strung them across the wall with lights, or bought special holiday card holders and displayed them in the shape of a Christmas tree or a star, or simply covered my refrigerator with them. Whatever I choose to do it brings me joy every time I see them and remember all the connections I’ve made in the world. Some people I only hear from during the holidays each year. It’s special. It’s as if we’re nodding to each saying,” I know we don’t talk much anymore, but I remember you, and I remain fond of you.”

I get a lot of holiday wishes emailed, or sent via text, now and it’s just not as meaningful. You can’t hold on to it. You can’t put it with all your others to make you smile when you see them every day. Digital greetings are a nice thought, but they feel fleeting, and they don’t have the same beauty and character that paper greetings hold. I know I’m old and the younger generations have their own ways of making and sustaining connections, but I can’t help but feel they missed out on something special when the holiday card went digital

A Very Brief Update on My Fashion Addiction

All I noticed when lining my masks up to take this picture was that many colors are missing and I clearly need more!

The fashion accessory of 2020!

Grateful

There was a snippet in the New York Times on Thursday, November 19, 2020 entitled “Tell Us What You’re Thankful for, in Six Words”. This year, when the world seems sometimes to be swirling the crazy around us at a break-neck speed, and at others to be at a completely at a standstill, it seems to me more important than ever to take a breath and remember what we’re thankful for.

I remain, of course, grateful for all of you. For everyone who reads, listens, and supports me. What I wrote automatically was “Freed from sexual trauma at last”. The words came swiftly and automatically. I realized as I wrote them that although this year has been the toughest on record, it’s also the year I made the most important advancement of my life. This may be true for you, as well.

Regardless, whether you are grateful for the simplest pleasures or the greatest achievements, let’s share them, in six words, and keep this gratefulness going!

The Roots of My Addiction

I’ve struggled with many addictive behaviors over the years so let me be clear which one I’m currently referring to. It is shoes. I am completely addicted to shoes. t. At one point in my life I owned at least 300 pairs of shoes. I was shameless in my love of them. I would pay anything for the perfect pair. Now, older, poorer, and living somewhere where fashion is not an icon, the numbers have dwindled significantly. But still, I have my own version of a shoe closet. Nothing like Mr. Big built for Carrie, mind you, rather just a repurposed linen closet filled with my favorite shoes, boots, and sandals. Every day I ensure I put on exactly the right shoes for my outfit, for the season, for the event.

Recently in therapy, while discussing something completely unrelated, I figured out the beginning of this deep-rooted addiction. When I was eight, I desperately wanted a pair of brown and tan saddle shoes. Not because I already loved shoes, not at all, but because at that moment it was the sign at school that you were in with the “in” crowd.  Oh yes, that really does begin that young. All the cool kids at school had them and like any eight-year-old I wanted to fit in. My Dad brought home a pair of saddle shoes for me, but they were not brown and tan but rather black and white. Totally unacceptable. I would certainly be made fun of if I wore them. So, I refused to wear them which led to a huge family row. We were poor and, even second hand, they were costly.

Looking back on it I realize it was amazing that my Dad even knew I wanted saddle shoes. There were six of us kids and none of us got any individual attention from our parents.  All I remember about my Dad at eight is that he was always at the mill working. I should have bee so happy that he was even paying attention to me Rather, all I could think about was how mortifying it would be to wear those shoes to school and be teased mercilessly all day, every day. Let’s be honest, kids can be cruel.

We went to a catholic school, because faith was of paramount important to my mother, so not everyone in our school came from the same social class. We probably were some combination of lowered fees and charity. You might think all the social classes together would make for a democratic, inclusive, and collaborative learning experience. What it really did was highlight our poverty and make us stand out as different and unsuitable. Especially since the school did not believe in uniforms. Those children with money dressed fashionably with extensive expensive wardrobes and the rest of us wore the same three or four outfits day after day making our social status visible and obvious.

The need to fit in and define our place in the world is so strong when we are young. The fear of being an outcast at school, where I was already teased relentlessly because I was bigger than most of the kids, was stronger even than my need to please my parents and bond with my Dad who I desperately wanted love and attention from.

I realized as I was telling this story to my therapist that this was the beginning of my need for shoes and fashion. It wasn’t about joy, or fun, or expressing myself. It was about fitting in and being certain no one could judge me for not having the correct outfit, the correct shoes, the correct accessories. I didn’t want to be found out as the poor kid who didn’t belong. This feeling of not being good enough, of no coming form the right place, of not fitting in, of being judged for my beginnings has lasted to this day.

The good news is, I finally understand it, and I’m working on it. The other good news is…. I do love these shoes!

Shoes, shoes, I love my shoes!

Empath – Blessing or Curse?

I don’t know how others feel about being empathic; but for me it tends to suck. Although it has kept me safe on more than one occasion (knowing when not to get in a car with someone, knowing not to rent a room or buy a house) it also always makes me the person in every room who sees (feels) something going on that no one else sees or feels. It took me a very long time to realize I was the only one who was experiencing this. Up until a few years ago, I believed that everyone else saw and felt these things, as well, but were simply afraid to speak out.

I grew up with a Mom that always knew what was going on. You could be gone for a week, have one cigarette on the first day of your trip, and when you arrived home a week later she’d asked you why you’d been smoking. She would wake up in the morning and let you know that someone 2,000 miles away had died in the night long before she got the phone call letting her know the person had passed away. I’m certain it was those same highly intuitive instincts that helped her survive and maintain her sense of humor during a life of hardship, hard work, and dysfunction. Apparently, she passed this trait on to me.

I don’t know if one is born with this skill or if it is learned. Perhaps my sister was referring to this intuition when she told me she thought I was “too sensitive” to have been born into our family. Maybe it is something all children are born with but then lose as they grow up. Perhaps only those of us raised in environments that made us always-fearful hold on to it as a way to protect ourselves. All I know for certain is that I have some sort of sixth sense that has kept me out of trouble and safe in situations that might have ended up very differently. (This sense tends to shut down completely when I’m sexually attracted to someone, but that’s a subject for a very different essay.)

Here are just a couple of noteworthy examples of what I mean by “seeing” things others don’t see. In my twenties, I went to a party with a friend where I knew no one else there. We were only making a drop-in appearance and stayed for no more than twenty minutes. When we left, I asked her how long her boss’ wife had been sleeping with the Chief Operating Officer. She told me I was crazy and, of course, I couldn’t explain why I even thought this was true. I just knew it to be so. A few months later, she called to tell me the COO had quit his job and moved away with the boss’ wife. She wanted to know how I had known what was happening. Just a feeling.

Many years later, I had another party experience. I was visiting a friend out of state and she took me to a house party on a lake. Sensing it was unsafe, I began asking her if we could leave but she was having too much fun socializing to take me too seriously. The next thing we know the host’s girlfriend started throwing anything she could get her hands on at me and then at the host, pummeling him with beer bottles and screaming. Now can we leave?

I have always been the truth teller, bursting forth with information most didn’t want to hear. A therapist once asked me why I can’t just keep information to myself. I honestly don’t know the answer to that, only that I am compelled to tell the truth about what I see and feel. Maybe it is the one remnant of being raised Catholic that remains with me. Thou shalt not lie.

To me, the conclusions I draw are obvious and I haven’t always understood why others couldn’t see them as clearly as I do. Now that I am aware of what is happening I try to hold my tongue, knowing that no one else can see or feel what I do and that they will likely resent me for bringing it up. It’s like seeing someone standing on a railroad track, seeing the train coming straight for them, and when you warn them, they should get off the tracks they get angry with you, and stay angry with you. Even when they end up in the hospital in critical condition, for some reason they are angrier with you for trying to save them than they are at the train that almost cut them in two. To avoid the fallout I now try very hard to close my eyes to the train and keep my head down and my mouth shut.

For months, I have kept my truth to myself about a current colleague knowing that saying it aloud would do no good and most likely harm my career, making me seem paranoid or even spiteful to those around me. Until yesterday, when my boss asked me to share with him any issues I have with that colleague, and then out it flew like a bird that had been released from a long captivity.

Both my sixth sense and my inability to remain quiet are a curse that will undoubtedly be the end of me.

CAN THE MILLENNIALS SAVE US?

I have spent a couple of weeks now watching “The Man in The High Castle” on Netflix. The show is based on Philip K. Dick’s Hugo award-winning novel and takes place fifteen years after a different end to World War II in which Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan occupy America. In it, a young woman discovers a mysterious film that may hold the key to toppling the totalitarian regimes. You can’t help but notice while watching this series how gradual and subtle the transformation is from decent human being, to Nazi believer, and then to perpetrator of full-blown atrocities. The similarities to what is happening right now in America are also frightening.

During this same period, I was involved in a “team building” exercise at work. One of the things we did was answer some questions regarding lying and killing. “Would you lie to get out of a traffic ticket?” “Would you kill to get out of a traffic ticket?” “Would you lie to save yourself?” “Would you kill to save yourself?” “Would you lie to save someone you loved?” “Would you kill to save someone you loved?”

I honestly can’t remember what point was being made with these questions. What I do remember is that at least half of my team answered “No” to every question and that I found it shocking because I believe I would kill to save others and myself. Of course, none of us knows how we will truly behave until faced with the actual decision but I want to believe that when the Fourth Reich rises, which seems closer than ever now, I will fight to the death for what I believe in.

In the February 3, 2020 issue of Time Magazine, Charlotte Alter writes about “How Millennial Leaders Will Change America.” Alter interviews Haley Stevens, freshman Democratic Representative from Michigan’s 11th District, who is quoted as saying: “Kids of the ’90s, we grew up thinking that we were going to change the world.” Well here is a news flash for Alter and Stevens: us kids of the ‘60s thought the same thing! I grew up believing our generation would rid the world of racism, sexism, poverty, hatred, and war. For a brief moment, when Obama was elected on November 4, 2008, I thought perhaps we had come a long way toward meeting some of our goals, but I’ve never been so wrong.

Unfortunately, the headline in this morning’s paper reads “Trump Acquitted”. I couldn’t even pick it up and bring it inside. I just left it lying there. I knew it was coming, but just like when you hear of someone’s death who you knew was dying, the fact that it was preordained makes it no easier to bear. Although the verdict in the third presidential impeachment trial in U.S. history was never in doubt, I still find it sickening. The evidence clearly proved that Donald Trump coerced a foreign government to interfere in our election for his personal political benefit, placing his personal interest above our national interests. I also believe that the president deliberately obstructed Congress by blocking testimony from witnesses and the production of documents during the course of the investigation.

I will fight if the time comes because the stakes are historically high, but I’m old now, and I don’t mind admitting I’m tired. So, Millenials, if you truly want to make a difference, now is your chance to save America. VOTE. Use your votes. Use them to change what is happening in this country and thereby change the world. Democracy is counting on you.

Rinse and Repeat – or Renew?

I have been struggling for a while now wondering what to do with the time I have left on the planet.   It seems that as I was aging my world had been shrinking until one day I awoke to realize I had very few close friends and a surprisingly empty social calendar. If I didn’t continue to work, I wondered, how would I fill my days? This is a question I never had to ask when I was younger as my life naturally kept unfolding before me. But it’s more challenging at this age especially because I have no partner in life, no children and, as naturally follows, no grandchildren to enjoy.

If I died today I’ve already lived a full life: traveled and seen other parts of the world; lived in different cities; had more than one career; did a small part to help raise a couple of beautiful humans; seen an amazing amount of incredible theatre, dance and other forms of entertainment; shopped until it (almost) isn’t fun anymore; had a great love; and had a shocking amount of magnificent sex. I’m certain the list could go on endlessly. After all, although I hate to admit it, I’m pretty darn old. So, am I done?

Most days now I spend 8-9 hours at work, leave exhausted, feed the dog, feed me, and stream some Netflix. On the weekends I clean the house, do my laundry, and wonder how to fill the hours without work. Am I supposed to simply continue to rinse and repeat that for the next 20 years? It seems relatively meaningless. Being who I am I’ve asked many people about it, from my therapist to close friends to complete strangers and the answers have been interesting in their diversity.

Some people pretend they didn’t even hear the question. I think it may seem too mystical for them. It’s too much like ruminating on the meaning of life. Others tell me they wonder about the same thing.   Many feel that they know exactly what they would do, if only they had the money in their old age to do it, but sadly, they do not.

At brunch one Sunday the women in my high school group recommended I “stay busy”. Never having been one for just doing something for the purpose of looking or keeping busy that suggestion didn’t particularly resonate with me.   How would it look on my tombstone? “She kept herself busy.”   Still, remembering how much I used to enjoy sewing, I began a fabric project for the holidays. Everyone on my list will get homemade gifts this year and I am keeping busy.   Still, once the project is completed I can’t just keep sewing things for no purpose. Can I? I had a fleeting moment where I envisioned myself crocheting unwanted afghans for everyone connected to me by blood, marriage, living arrangements or having been unfortunate enough to friend me on Facebook. (Send me your color scheme requests.)

To be honest I never really believed I’d find the answer so when it came it was completely unexpected. I was chatting with my physical therapist while he manually manipulated my body with traction and he said, “I think the key is to remain curious”.   Bingo! That not only resonated it made fireworks go off in my head. My life had become smaller because I had lost my interest in life. My curiosity about life, the thing that had always moved me the most, kept me interested, and often got me in trouble — the need to question, investigate and understand life and the people we enjoy it with – was the reason I began to write in the first place.

Since we had this conversation, the universe has opened up again. I have found fascinating articles to read in magazines I don’t usually pick up, I have had stimulating conversations with people I might simply have walked past, I’ve seen advertisements for things and places I want to experience all of which have led me to more reading and more conversations and more research and to write my first blog post in over a year. Remarkably, I think I may be getting my groove back just in time to begin a new year!