The Change-Cravers

It is the constant joke amongst my acquaintances that I move a lot. The supposed transient lifestyle that I lead has become the stuff of legends, with people frequently cracking jokes about how I have lived in a ton of different states (to be clear: three) and how I will never stay anywhere very long, despite having been very fond of making grand social-media statements about "having found where I belong" (I don't do this anymore, because apparently it makes me look flighty - crazy - when I change my mind again 8-12 months later...). 

A small amount of introspection and I realized this need for new, exciting things extends to many areas of my life - relationships and jobs, to name two.  And I had managed to convince myself that perhaps something had gone wrong in my young life (okay, that didn't take much convincing, a lot of things went wrong) to cause me to be detached in some way, or at least flaky about important parts of adult life. I was pretty sure it was my problem alone, perhaps something that will be fixed with counseling (someday, when I can afford it, that is).

Not long ago I began to wonder if this need for constant change extended to my sister, as well, who has not done anything so drastic as moving to different states twice in one year, but who seemed to change apartments (and cities once, Portland to Boston and back again, but that took years) rather often, always sure that there was a nicer place, with better parking, more space, or less obnoxious neighbors (she once lived above an angry single woman who asked her if she could "walk quieter", and who, after moving out, my sister proceeded to see everywhere). Then, she bought a house, and since purchasing this house less than two years ago has switched jobs four times (always in the same field, different locales).  I thought that maybe she, too, had been traumatized by past events and now couldn't bear to "settle" in all parts of her life, either.

Today, I mentioned this to my mother, who I should probably point out is the only 55 year old I know who I can firmly say has never had a career.  In the 29 years of my life, she has been a convenience store clerk, receptionist, secretary, high school publicity director, decorative interior painter, bakery proprietor, newspaper reporter, writer, and teachers assistant.  I am sure I have missed a few (sorry, Mom). I don't know why it hadn't occurred to me until today that my sister and I may have gotten this change-craving attribute from out mother - perhaps because she has also been married to the same man and resided in the same house for 25 years. Sure, she may have changed jobs more often than her Honda's engine oil, but to me, she was settled. 

And then she told me "you guys get that from your grandmother". 

What? Grandma Wight, the rock of neighborhood babysitting, pillar of the local Congregational church and generally regarded by everyone younger than her as The Most Sensible Woman on Earth? This is the lady who, my freshman year at Hartwick College, snipped out and mailed me a newspaper article about how one could easily live on $10 a week. Not a reckless bone in her body.

"Oh yeah. When Donna would come over, she always marveled when my mom had rearranged the whole living room." Apparently my mom's best friend's mother never moved the furniture, and I am confident if you dropped by her parents house in Connecticut today, the couches might be new, but are probably in the same place as their likely-floral-printed predecessors of the 1960s. 

It would never have occurred to me that moving the furniture was a sign of change-craving.  However, I have been in my current apartment for less than ten months, and it is on its third design. Every time I go to my mother's house, something is moved (which is probably less work for her than repainting rooms, something she used to do perennially).  

I spent the rest of the day pondering why an entire family of women might be like this, and all I can conclude is that it is engrained in our genes to be creative, independent, and too smart to be satisfied with the monotony of daily life. My grandmother changed what she had the control to change in the 1960s - I am sure the frequent rearrangement of furniture was pretty radical at the time. My mother changes jobs so often because she has too many excitements, ideas and talents to waste them doing the same thing forever.  In my sister's case, as an RN, she is constantly on the hunt for where she can go to work and do the most good- always looking for a place where they need her more.  

And I, I am the craziest of all, perhaps the last in the three (or maybe more? Gasp!) generations of restless, change-craving, independent women.  I pierce things, tattoo things, paint my walls, furniture and nails too frequently.  I chop my hair, dye it, try out new styles and, as previously mentioned, move from state to state four times in two years. My dating history is definitely a subject for a whole other blog post (or maybe whole blog) of its own.  And yet somehow, as of today, I have been comforted by knowing this is an inherited trait, that two of the women I have looked up to and respected the most felt (and feel) the same as I do.  You don't get over it, you just find different things to change. 

Over the shoulder boulder holder

In sixth grade, my stepmother informed me that the letters on my tshirt were no longer "sitting flat". I guess it was a not-so-subtle way of telling me I needed a bra. I remember this shirt exactly, as it was "Bugle Boy" brand and had the name written in big block letters across the chest (how's that for irony?).

I was horrified. Embarrassed, because she made this announcement in front of my father and sister, and also frustrated that she was correct in this. Oh, the beauty of becoming a woman.

Despite her more than occasional insistence that she was a better parent to me than at least two of my others, my stepmother did not buy me my first bra. And thank God for that, since she was the type of person who would routinely stuff her own double-D assets into Victoria's Secret lace-covered "demi" push up bras.

No, my first brassieres were bought for me by my own mother, and I don't even know where we got them. Likely JCPenney or Walmart, and I can guarantee I did not try them on first or have a formal fitting (years later my mom would tell me a story about a little old woman with a foreign accent who ran the lingerie shop in her hometown of Milford, CT and unceremoniously announced to my aunt that "one is bigger than zee other!". Had that happened to me at age 11 I simply would have died on the spot). Anyway, we arrived home with the bras, both sport-style, since they would be the "most comfortable" and have the best support. I went upstairs to try them on.

"Are you kidding me?! This is the most uncomfortable thing I have ever worn! I can't believe that all women put up with this all day every day." I was, for lack of a better word, pissed. What an unfair world this was, where simply because I was born a female, I had to go through the rest of my life wearing what was basically a boob-girdle. Oh, the humanity. I stomped around and spent the rest of the evening in my room in near-tears over my fate. What if someone saw a strap? All my friends (male) were going to just die with laughter if they knew I was wearing a bra.

Two years before this, my friend Christian Morgan and I had taunted my sister's best friend, Sarah, on a school bus when we noticed an extra strap sticking out from her shirt collar. "Sarah's wearing an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder!" we screamed. I still regret this behavior. If I had only known the pain and restriction that Sarah was already suffering, perhaps we would have been more understanding.

As I am sure you've guessed, I got over the anguish of my initial discovery of women's undergarments. In fact, I may have even purchased a bra that wasn't a full elastic sport style by the time I turned 16 (when all my girl friends had been wearing "real bras" for years).  The realization that I had to "hold the girls up" every day for the rest of my life was a tough one, though. It's a really miserable moment for a tomboy to realize that she's going to be a woman (and don't get me started on what happened a year later. Let's just say that when nearly all of your information about emerging womanhood comes from a Judy Blume book, things get a little confusing. "Wait a second, this isn't a one-time thing? This is going to happen every month for the rest of my life?!")

I still wear a sports bra every day of the work week. Amazing how they don't feel so uncomfortable anymore... But you can keep the lace and the push ups.

The Mistaken Gender Thing

While driving my company vehicle at work this week, my coworker and I stopped at a light.  A person crossed the street in front of us and I joked "let's play a game- is that a man or a woman?" He looked up from his ubiquitous smart phone and immediately judged "woman".  We went back and forth for a moment, concluding that it was, indeed, a female because of how she walked.

Right after this, my coworker turned to me and said "you realize people must play this same game with you, right?"

After getting over my initial offense to the statement ("I am a lady, goddammit!"), I sputtered "yeah, maybe, but only at work!"

Disclaimer- work is landscaping, always has been (since college). Landscaping involves jeans of a necessarily un-womanly cut, tshirts, boots, and depending on the season, heavy outerwear and hats.

When I was about eight years old (see photo in pilot blog post for reference here), I was mistaken for a little boy all the time.  I loved this, probably because I not-so-secretly wished I was a boy- they got to wear better, cooler, more comfortable clothes, and besides, who ever heard of the Red Sox having a female center fielder? In restaurants, stores, and one particularly memorable time in McDonalds when my then-stepmother rudely corrected the cashier, I was apparently often referred to as "your son" to my parents, something that I bet bothered my mom for less than one second, but drove my stepmother absolutely wild.

After about age 14, it stopped happening.  Simply put, I grew boobs. D-cups, to be specific, and I figured I appeared to be certainly, clearly, definitively a female.  Regardless of my choice of clothing or hair style or profession, it's really impossible for people to miss The Female Figure, right?

Wrong.  In 2013, at the age of 28, I was shoveling snow at the hospital I worked at as a groundskeeper.  Big storm, big boots, warm jacket and hat.  Someone called out something very pet-name-like, and I picked up my head.  "Oh! I'm sorry! I thought you were Brian!"  Brian was my 19 year old coworker,  and the person doing the calling was his own mother.  

Less than a year after this incident, I cut my hair very short (that's right, my hair wasn't even in a pixie cut when Brian's Mother mistook me for her teenage son!) and moved to Florida, or as I like to refer to it, the land of stopped time, anti-progression, and traditional-gender-ideals.  No one under the age of 45 in Gainesville had a pixie cut.

The other thing about the south? Everyone is "ma'am" or "sir", so if someone is not 100% sure of your gender, they just seem to wing it and pick one.  I was in Florida for six months. I can't count the times someone picked wrong. It became less of an embarrassment to me and more of an amusing game, in which I would loudly point out "oh, it's actually ma'am!" and watch the various shades of red on cashiers faces when they actually looked up and saw BOOBS situated two feet below the short hair. (Note: this was the south, though, so I am sure for all their embarrassment, they probably felt some kind of vindication in discovering that I was a short haired chick in dirty work clothes - definite lesbian, practically a man anyway.)

I am not saying that I dress like a prom queen outside of my professional life. Ok, so the uniform of jeans and tshirts pretty much carries over into my entire life. The most glorious part is simply not caring.

I cut my hair short the day I decided I "didn't care" (and then immediately pierced a second hole in my ears so I could wear dangly, girly earrings).

Always a bridesmaid

The trend is nothing new.  I am in my late 20's, so naturally by now I have attended more weddings than I can count.  However, I have also been a participant in six (soon to be seven) special days.

There are reasons that I am a great choice as a bridesmaid.  I am resourceful. There is a really good chance that at any given time, I will have a knife, safety pins, some kind of string, an extra bottle of booze, or Advil on my person or in my bag.  I am also nearly-always single, so having me in a wedding usually means I won't bring a date and will be able to commit my attentions to the needs of the bride for the entire magical weekend.

However, I am extremely unlikely to have brought along a hair straightener, nail polish remover, extra mascara, bobby pins, hair spray or lipstick.  I once went to a wedding weekend and forgot my strapless bra (which was necessary for the bridesmaid dress, which I would have known if I had bothered to try it on more than once before the ceremony).

When the other members of the bridal party are planning where and how to get their hair done for the big day, I am considering when I will have a chance before the event to get my hair cut really short (so I won't have to waste the time and money getting mine fixed up at the salon). I honestly have done this for every wedding I have ever been in. Advice, ladies- if your hair falls above your shoulders, no one will try to convince you to get an expensive up-do. You're welcome.

One of the most challenging things (for a perpetual tomboy) about being a bridesmaid is trying to look like you belong in whatever outfit has been chosen for you.  I have always felt like I move awkwardly in formal clothes, probably in part because heels aren't my regular footwear, but also because parts of the body are exposed that are not normally on display in a pair of jeans and a tshirt.  What do you mean, everyone will see my underwear if I bust out my favorite disco-style moves on
the dance floor? Oops. My favorite kinds of weddings are the kind where everyone changes into comfy clothes halfway through the reception.

Before I go on, I will stop for a moment and tell you that I really do like weddings. It truly is an honor to be included in the most important day of your friend's life. And there is always, always enough alcohol at the reception to make anyone forget that their shoes are uncomfortable.

The other challenge about being a lady in a wedding is the realization that, for about an hour or 2 before (and sometimes after) the ceremony, life gets really gendered and unfair.  Hold on, are you telling me that the groomsmen are really all standing around the hotel bar in their suits, downing beers and mixed drinks, catching the Sox game and snacking on cheese platters while we are confined to a tiny room, poking the last of the now-drooping baby's breath into the bride's bouquet while an over-zealous photographer snaps photos of us zipping her dress and helping her put on her shoes?

I want to be a groomsman.

And of course, the dresses.  I am not knocking bridesmaid styles or formal wear in general, it's just not for me.  My closet consists of tshirts, jeans, flannel shirts, and hoodies.  I dread any event where I am required to look "business casual" or "semi formal", because while I have plenty of clothes designed for hiking, working, riding my bike or running errands, I have almost zero things in my closet that will work for, say, a bridal shower, a rehearsal dinner, or a bachelorette night out.
However, if I ever have to chaperone a prom, I should be all set by now, because true formal, well, the weddings have taken care of that.  (And no, I will not be posting photos of myself in a bridesmaids dress, as I seem to be having trouble uploading them).

Finally, the most amusing part about being in weddings is the response that people give to someone like me when I get all gussied-up in a dress and heels.  "You look so great!" and "oh, how pretty!" or my personal favorite, "wow! You look like such a girl!" Fascinating, since I am a girl. Such a wonder that changing nearly nothing about my appearance (as mentioned above, I never have my hair done for weddings and go with very minimal makeup and nails) besides stepping into a dress and some nice shoes will transform me into something people consider feminine.

If I ever get married, I am going to have my bridesmaids in blue jeans and Red Sox jerseys.

The Good-Time Charlie Girl

When I was about nine years old, my then-stepmother warned me about always hanging around with boys. My two best friends at the time were a pair of brilliant, hilarious, creative males, and the three of us spent a lot of time together.  We could be seen plotting the next edition of our weekly magazine during recess, and were regular fixtures at each others homes for sleepovers and evenings after school.

"If all of your friends are boys, you're going to get a reputation as the Good-Time Charlie Girl."

At nine years old, I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

As best I can determine (in my terribly extensive ten minutes of Google research), the "Good-Time Charlie Girl" term is a combination of the designation "Good-Time Charlie" (used to describe a man who is social, outgoing and always the life of the party) and a reference to characters such as the star in the 1965 play "Charlie Girl", about a tomboy who's mother is trying to marry her off to a millionaire aristocrat, despite Charlie (Charlotte)'s attempts to dodge the engagement.

Sounds right.

After being issued this warning several times over the next few years, I finally got curious and asked my stepmother what it meant to be a Good-Time Charlie Girl.  She explained that it was "a girl who is always hanging out and being one of the boys, but then ends up always being available to have sex with all of them." I was probably about thirteen by now and completely horrified by her suggestion that, by having male friends, I would inevitably grow up to be the town whore. (In case you haven't figured it out by now, my then-stepmother was not exactly the smartest, understanding or most qualified person to be parenting teenagers. More on that in a later post. Maybe.)

The best part about these exchanges with my stepmother is that, at age nine, I looked like this:

Twenty years later, I will admit I don't look much different (although I don't always make this face in photos today).  However, I did not become the town whore (if you want to dispute this, I assure you the comments section of this blog is NOT the place...please), but I did - and still do - accumulate a large store of tales about what it's really like being a childhood tomboy, an independent and free-thinking teenager, a perpetual tshirt-wearing straight woman (with short hair), and one of the vast minority (females) in my chosen profession. 

So welcome to my blog about what it's really like as the Good-Time Charlie Girl.