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.