My Baseball Tale

It’s the most wonderful time of the year. Everything looks shiny and bright. People are wishing eachother a good and happy season.

No, I’m not talking about Christmas. It’s Major League Baseball opening day, guys.

Today, it’s March 28th, making this Thursday afternoon (1 pm ET) the earliest opening day in American Major League history (technically the season started on the 20th in Japan this year, but today is the official opener for every team). I’m not sure what the reasoning is behind the early jump, other than to possibly give more days off to players and coaches, who will show up at a ballpark 162 times between now and the end of September (163 for players who make their league’s All Star team or compete in the Home Run Derby). This number is a sharp contrast to other sports, for instance football, where teams play one game a week for 17 weeks, with a week off each during the season, for a total of 16 appearances.

But this is not a blog about the difference between football and baseball. However, it should be noted that for baseball players, the season is a literal full-time job, with most teams playing 6 days a week and sometimes as many as 14 days in a row. It is also a full-time job to be a fan. If you miss a week of coverage, you might find that your team has slipped from first to third, and have no idea how that happened. People who play fantasy baseball are wholly consumed by trades and injuries and starting lineups. It takes work to be a true fan.

You could say I’ve been going to work my whole life.

My mother, an avid Red Sox fan for her entire life (a side effect of being raised by a widowed mother in New England who, to my knowledge, never forgot to switch on the radio at 7 pm every evening, all summer) went into labor with her second child on Boston’s opening day in 1985. She was able to finish watching the game in the hospital before delivering me that evening. I was happy, healthy, and addicted to baseball- apparently rearing to make it out in time for my first opening day.

(If we are following this course of reasoning, it makes sense that my sister has never cared much for America’s pasttime- in July of 1983, the Red Sox were halfway through their first losing season since 1966, which they finished at an uninspiring 78-84.)

Before I even started school, I owned and regularly sported a Boston Red Sox cap, could name the entire starting lineup, was collecting my first baseball cards, and had already attended spring training games in Florida. I played tee ball, then co-ed little league, then softball. I listened to games on my radio alarm clock when I was supposed to be asleep in bed. I begged my parents to pay for cable so we could watch the Red Sox at home, in our rural town in western Maine. Major League Baseball expanded in 1993, and Portland got the Sea Dogs, a AA minor league team for the National League’s new Florida Marlins. We somehow ended up with tickets to an autograph night, where we walked onto the infield grass and collected signatures from relative unknowns. To this day, that’s one of my most exciting baseball memories.

In fifth grade, my entire class raised funds to travel to Boston for two days of events and sightseeing that included, most importantly, a Red Sox game. Walking into the stands from Fenway Park’s dirty, green-painted concourse, I almost started crying. I was eleven years old and the entire experience felt like a dream. I learned about rally caps, comeback wins, and what it meant to stand and scream until I lost my voice with a stadium of people who were feeling just as crazy as I was as the Red Sox came from behind to beat the Seattle Mariners. I still have the ticket stub. If the seed had been planted before, the tree was officially growing.

My mother, meanwhile, got to enjoy watching all of this unfold. I’m not sure if she was thrilled or horrified (at the prospect of driving in the city of Boston) when I announced around age 13 that all I wanted for my birthday were Red Sox tickets so she could take me to a game. I asked for the same thing nearly every year for a decade after that.

Once I reached high school, I started reading books about baseball. W.P. Kinsella’s short, magic-realism stories about small phenomenons in fictional baseball leagues of the Midwest drew me in, as did memoirs about fathers and sons, road trips to Cooperstown, ballplayer biographies, and Doris Kearns Goodwin’s bestseller, Wait Till Next Year. I began to feel a more emotional, nostalgic reverence for the game. I read books and articles about the history of baseball. I purchased the paperback 500-page history of the New York Mets in an airport in New Jersey while on my way to watch Spring Training in 2003 and devoured the entire thing in a week.

When the Jimmy Fallon film “Fever Pitch” was released, it became the running joke amongst my friends, family, and pretty much anyone who had known me for more than an hour that I was going to end up with a man who didn’t love baseball and I would have to adjust. I have always contended that it’s much easier as a woman to meet a man who also loves baseball. As it has turned out, it’s harder than you’d think.

I met a guy in a bar a few years ago and the topic of loving baseball came up. I could only describe my feelings for the game by telling him that “baseball makes me cry.” He nodded thoughtfully and seemed to understand- he is a long-suffering Cubs fan, who also sees the beauty and emotion in the game. (In case you live in a hermit cave and missed it, Cubs fans are no longer suffering, a fact for which I am truly delighted and thankful). So, we can conclude that in my mid-30s, I’ve become a person who starts conversations with strangers in bars by telling them how a professional sport makes me sob. This is all very normal, I promise. (I should also note that we are still good friends, and discuss the finer points of the game on a pretty regular basis. See? No matter what your thing is, I swear your people are out there.)

At 33 years old, I have a Boston Red Sox tattoo on my shoulder (it’s been there for ten years), I drive to Arizona every March to watch the Chicago Cubs in Spring Training (Florida is a plane ride from Colorado. The Cubs are the next best thing, always have been) and I still treat opening day like Christmas. I don’t think I’m likely to ever love any person, or thing, as much as I love the Boston Red Sox, which is a fact that most people in my life have fully accepted by now.

So Happy Opening Day, everyone. May your fly balls be long, your pitches be swift, your feet be fast, and your loved ones be very, very understanding.

Galentine's Day

Happy Galentine's Day, everyone! If you are unaware of the celebration of Galentine's, allow me to enlighten you: on an episode of Parks and Recreation, Leslie Knope (played by the immeasurably talented Amy Poehler), invents Galentine's Day, celebrated on February 13, a day on which straight women leave their significant others at home and celebrate their female friendships. Confession: I haven't actually seen this episode, but I love the idea.

My local female friends and I will be celebrating tonight - we have simultaneous mani/pedi appointments and plans to drink wine. I have also made heart shaped sugar cookies that I plan to distribute to them. Last year, we also did the nail thing, followed by dinner and margaritas at a Mexican restaurant. Aside from the pampering appointments, it looked a lot like an average Friday (or, who are we kidding, Tuesday, or Wednesday) night.

I was inspired to write this post not about the blooming holiday that is Galentine's (although, trust me, pop culture has taken notice. You know something is trendy and here to stay when Target makes decorations and gifts specifically for an occasion. Find evidence of this here.), but actually about a topic that seems to creep back into conversation every few years. That topic is girl-on-girl crime.

Look at me with all these television and movie references! I'm so in tune with pop culture!

When I speak about girl on girl crime, I mean women believing that they need to put someone else's lifestyle, hairstyle, or interests down to make their lifestyle, hairstyle, or interests seem or sound better. We do this all the time. This very casual, everyday comparison: "wow, seriously. I would never dye my hair that color. What is she thinking?" or "I just cant understand why someone would ever pay that much for those shoes. Don't they have better things to spend their money on?" or "I cant believe some women take a vacation and just spend the entire time at the resort. Don't they know there is a whole world to explore out there?"

Or, for instance, this kind of viral social media meme:

The message here is that you're a better woman, or a cooler woman (I mean, just look at that great beanie, comfy flannel, and adorable dog!) if you're into being in the woods and kindling your own flames rather than owning nice shoes or jewelry.

In this meme, the better, or cooler, women apparently want a hammock as well as a campfire. But no diamonds here! Apparently, you can only be one type of woman or the other. Even the phrase "some women" is inherently judgmental because it implies an "other", as if one is saying "not ME, of course, in my comfy flannel and cute beanie, but SOME females, apparently, enjoy jewelry and shoes."

In case you were wondering, I like jewelry and shoes, and I also have a closet full of flannel shirts and hats. I love going to the mall and Las Vegas, getting dressed up for dinners with my girlfriends, and making campfires before I get filthy in the wilderness. No cute dog. Yet.

I want women to stop believing what popular culture tells us, which is that if you're different from me, we cant possibly get along or have anything in common. Apparently, modern society would rather that young women be a divided group than a united force. I would say that I wonder why this is, and it seems pretty subversive to suggest that perhaps it's systematic the way that young women are taught to dislike one another... oh wait.

Building another woman up for her talents, her interests, or her style, even if it is totally different from your own, can cause no harm. Literally, zero harm. So why don't we do it? Are we actually scared of things that are different than us? Are we threatened by other women? Or are we just used to believing that we cant welcome something we don't understand?

Spoiler alert: I don't have the answers.

I have learned, however, in my tender 33 (almost 34, how terrifying) years on this earth that your social life can be infinitely enriched if you appreciate your friends, colleagues, and even acquaintances for their differences. My friends and I are all incredibly different people, yet we come together over our shared interests and learn from each other in areas that we differ. Do we clash on occasion? No, we are absolutely perfect and flawless human beings.

I kid. Of course we do. But it always ends in one or more of us taking a step back and realizing that we all do things differently because we are dynamic, intelligent, and unique human beings.

Unique human beings who all really love a good pedicure. And wine. Cheers to Galentine's Day!

You spin me right round, baby

Have you ever heard the expression/advice, “do one thing per day that scares you”?

Why would I want to do that? Why would anyone want to do that? I hate being scared. I don’t watch horror films, even around Halloween. I try to avoid walking anywhere in the dark alone. Roller coasters and other amusement park rides are totally off the table for me. I am, for all intents and purposes, a true-blue, card-carrying wimp.

But, I also like trying new things, especially if there’s the chance I might really enjoy them. I recently decided that I am going to do one thing every week that I have never done before, for at least an hour, and see if any new hobbies or passions arise. At best, I’ll transform myself into a person with even more diverse interests. At worst, I’ll get some amusing fodder for my blog. 

This Monday, I went to a spin class. I am sure that I am not alone in my stereotyping of “spin” – that it takes place in a dance studio, full of soccer mom types in varying colors of spandex. It’s a fad exercise program, I believe, where people use expensive stationary bicycles to pedal very fast for 45 minutes. I pictured all of these classes taking place in the middle of the work day, making this fad inaccessible to anyone other than the stay-at-home-Mom set. 

Exercise classes in general make me very nervous- I have always thought that walking into one that already has an established clique of fitness must be the most intimidating thing that you can put yourself through at 6:15 on Monday morning. However, my friend Erin had convinced me that spin classes are fun, and she attends this one, so I assumed some of my anxiety would be calmed by having a friendly face there. 

Next thing I discovered is that spin class has a pre-registry, which must be done on the rec center’s website. Spoiler alert: small municipalities aren’t working with the latest and greatest mobile-friendly web tools. After a couple of frustrating hours at work, trying to find the link to sign myself up for the class while simultaneously serving beers to Denver Bronco fans, teachers on their day off, and four drunk hunters from Minnesota, I still hadn’t figured it out, so I gave up. I decided I would march into the gym at 6:15 (let’s be real: 6:05, because if you know me, you know I live by the motto “if you’re on time, you’re late”) and see if there were any spots available. 

Next spoiler: no way. 

Apparently the Monday class is always full, all eleven spots taken, and since Erin had managed to sign up the night before, my first attempt at spinning was not looking good. Except that by class time, 6:15 on the nose (RESPECT, Helen. Respect.), Erin had yet to show. Upside: I was going to get a spot in the class. Downside: I was going to have to do this Thing I’ve Never Done Before alone. (When Erin did show, it turned out that she had forgotten her shoes, and since apparently it’s not considered kosher to participate in a spin class while sporting Ugg boots, she let me keep her spot.)

This is where my presumed stereotypes about spin class (and workout classes in general) participants started to go off the rails. For starters, half of the class was male. Men getting up at 6 am to ride stationary bikes. Even more interesting is that they were all significantly older than myself, and mostly older than the very fit women in the class. (Now that I’m writing this down, perhaps this is not such a mystery after all...) I believe I was close to, if not actually, the youngest person on a bike that morning. I was also, as predicted, the only female not sporting some form of spandex pant. I cracked some self-deprecating jokes about how no one wants to deal with a newbie on a Monday morning (Garfield HATES Mondays, am I right?), they chuckled politely and assured me it was fine. Someone handed me some 4 lb weights (what?! I thought this was cycling), and we were off to the races. 

Without going into a play by play (spin by spin?) of how the class went, let me say that my ass was kicked. As someone who considers herself relatively fit (I run about 10-20 miles per week, hike sometimes, mountain bike, and have a labor-intensive day job), I assessed the room (and the instructor, a 5 foot tall woman who looks to be about my mother’s age) and thought I would be fine, I would make sure they knew I was a first-timer, and they would all be moderately impressed by my abilities and level of fitness. However, when I was sweating harder than a menopausal woman in Florida, I looked around the room to smiling, mostly dry faces. These people are animals. On top of biking continuously at varying levels of resistance, we also continued to pedal while doing bicep curls and shoulder presses.

To wrap it up, things hurt today (as I’m writing this, it is two days since I took the class). But I didn’t fail. And I didn’t die of embarrassment. And I’ve also signed up for a class tomorrow morning. 6:15 am. Spin classes will no longer be something I’ve never done before, but they are apparently something I’ll be doing again. Luckily, I have some colorful spandex in the closet, just waiting for my second go-around.

Let's Touchdown a Home Run

I was at Target the other day (this fact should shock exactly zero of you, since I love that store and spend most of my hard-earned cash there, so much that several friends have even suggested an intervention), browsing for a new top to wear to a holiday party. I stumbled upon what we'll call the "not quite juniors, not quite adults" section of the women's wear department. There, I spotted some t-shirts, which from a distance looked cute and very much my style - crew neck, sporty, football-striped type cotton things. I walked over to them, anticipating something I might be able to wear while watching some playoff games this weekend.

Instead, what I found was this:

 

Oh, I discovered. They have cute little sayings on the front. Let's see what they've got.

"Rooting for the commercials" is sort of silly, and also a nod to all the people, men and women, who watch the Superbowl just to see the preposterous amount of money that corporations spend on a new ad, to be revealed to the largest television audience of the year. Sure, that's funny. However, they aren't selling this shirt in the men's section. They wouldn't dare. Men watch football to root for the football teams, after all (at least, that's what modern popular culture dictates). It's the women who can only be lured to the screen during a sporting event by the promise of amusing advertisements, right?

I sighed and continued to flip through the rack. 

Of course, a shirt designed in a football style, but only highlighting the half-time entertainment. Because that's why a female would watch the Superbowl- to see if Lady Gaga is going to show up in an outfit made entirely out of non-clothing materials, or if there's going to be a wardrobe malfunction or some obvious lip-syncing. Flashy lights and entertainment are all we women care about! Thank goodness there's a break in the boring sporting match to let us ladies have something to enjoy. Again, this is a product that would never be sold in the men's department. Real men don't care about the half-time show. They just use that time to refill their beer buckets and holler at their girlfriends to bring some more snacks, right?

You have got to be kidding me. Let me get this right, here - young women are supposed to dress in a cute, football-inspired jersey t-shirt for the big game. But there has to be a saying on the front, preferably one that puts us in our place and makes sure that everyone at the Superbowl party knows that despite the style of clothing, we are still just pretty little idiots. The only message that this shirt conveys is that women know nothing about professional sports, and that fact is something adorable that should be celebrated. "It's so silly and cute that I don't know the difference between football and baseball!" If you're wearing this shirt, you might as well have a sign on your back that says "I'm just here so you can slap my ass and send me back to the kitchen for more brewskis". 

I really thought we were past this, Target. There is no practical reason that women should pretend to be ignorant about professional sports, or that it should be considered charming and attractive to be dumb. We live in the United States of America. Everyone knows the difference between a touchdown and a home run. Everyone. We do a disservice to the demographic that these clothes are geared towards (I would say probably the 18-28 set) by continuing to promote the concept that cluelessness and femininity are one in the same. 

I'm certainly not saying that every woman should know professional sports inside and out. If you aren't a fan, that's a personal choice. I just can't believe this clothing was ever made. If a woman doesn't like football, then she doesn't have to dress for the game. And she certainly shouldn't find that her game-inspired choices include clothing that suggests any level of idiocy because of her disinterest. Nor should a woman who is a sports fan find that the only styles available to her at a large national chain are designed to depict her as silly and stupid. 

Here's an idea: let's treat women (and by extension, women's fashion) like they are intelligent, dynamic human beings who can be interested (or not) in any subject they like. Let's stop designing clothes for girls that suggest its cool, trendy, and attractive to be dumb. Maybe if we start there, society will eventually stop treating young women like they're uninformed, silly little girls who need to have even the most basic concepts explained. 

Girls, its ok to know about sports, and it's cute to be smart. Stop letting society take that away from you.

Stone Cold

It's possible that you're aware that I enjoy a cocktail from time to time. 

And when I say "from time to time", I actually mean that I'm likely to be the life of most parties, always ready for a Sunday brunch bloody mary bar, and I never miss a Wednesday Winesday with the girls at our favorite restaurant. Brewery tours and tastings are my favorite. I recently took a trip to Ireland, where I averaged 3-4 pints of Guinness each day, and it was every bit as delicious and magical as I had heard it would be. 

On the eve of my 32nd birthday, while drinking gallons of water and trying to prepare for the two-night celebration, I decided I would take a break from drinking, following the weekend. No wine, no bloodies, no complimentary drink after the lunch shift at my bartending job. I also decided that April 9th would be the perfect day to start, since my birthday was the day before and I was sure to be totally disinterested in alcohol. 

For 27 days, I had not more than a sip (tasting a friend's new and interesting beer doesn't count, people - I was sober, not dead). On the suggestion of someone who had taken similar breaks before, I didn't put a time limit on my total sobriety - I was advised that setting a timeline of "a month" or "two weeks" would just leave me counting down the days until I could crack open my next microbrew, and would thus accomplish none of the perspective I hoped to gain. 

Here's what happened.

1) I needed way less sleep. As a person who highly values my shut-eye, I have always said I need 7 hours to function properly, 8 to feel great, and with 9, I'm a true rock star. After a few days of no alcohol at all, I found myself waking up without an alarm after 6-7 hours, feeing completely rested and ready for the day. Don't think I'm converted - I still really want that full 8. But with nothing coursing through my system to make me more exhausted, waking up with the sun feels very natural. My sleep quality got better, too - no 3:00 am wake ups to pour another glass of water.

2) I got dehydrated. I know this sounds ridiculous, since alcohol is actually what dehydrates you (we've all slogged into our favorite breakfast place on a Sunday morning, ready for the waitress to come to our table so we can plead "coffee and a water, please, lots of water"), but without the knowledge of damage done the night before, I almost completely forgot to drink water. Four days into my sober period, I woke up with a splitting headache, urine the color of marigolds, and soreness and exhaustion after 7 full hours of sleep. Whoops. 

3) I lost weight. A couple of days ago, right before I decided I wanted a margarita too much to be able to resist, I weighed myself and found there is 8 pounds less of me than on April 9th. While I wasn't drinking, I was not paying any special attention to my eating habits, and had slacked off a bit with my running schedule. It didn't matter, I lost weight anyway. My face also appeared slimmer and tighter. By this time, I had reconciled the dehydration issue, which surely helped with this result. 

4) I realized how much free time I really have. When you get out of work at 5:00 pm on a Friday and have no plans to drink, the amount of things you can accomplish seems endless. I did laundry on a weekend night. I grocery shopped on a Saturday at 8 pm. I helped a friend clean and organize his home. I sat on my couch with a coloring book and my Netflix subscription while the bars downtown filled up, and then popped out of bed ready to make the most of my Sunday - just 4 hours after those same bars were closing. I thrift shopped, scoured my apartment, and entertained my parents over a long weekend (in which most of our planned activities started before 8 am). 

5) I felt socially liberated. You know how some people will tell you the truth about a situation, but only after they've knocked back a few glasses of Cabernet? I just started opening my mouth (and my text messages) in an entirely sober state, consequences be damned. I analyzed my friend's dating lives openly and honestly. I flirted with abandon. I told people how I felt about them. Simply, I decided that anything I might feel comfortable saying when my BAC was heightened had better be something I would say sober, too. As far as I know, all of my relationships are still intact and no one has been offended, which brings me to my next point...

6) I realized that nobody cared. Perhaps that's the wrong way to phrase it, because my friends did care. They cared to be supportive, to let me know that they were proud of me for taking a break and working towards making healthier choices. When I say nobody cared, I mean that not one of my closest friends tried to convince me to stray from the plan. I attended all four Wednesday Winesdays that occurred this month, sipping iced tea or water while everyone else drank wine. Did you know that your average "soft" drink costs about $2.50? Oh, yeah...

7) I saved money. I have no idea how much, but I do know that going out for dinner is actually a pretty reasonably priced endeavor if all you're having is dinner. Between alcoholic beverages bought for myself and those I jovially purchased for my drinking partners, I estimated my average weekly spending on booze to be somewhere between $40 and $60. Whoah. Going home from an evening out with cash still in my wallet is a wonderful feeling (waking up on a Sunday morning knowing exactly how much is left in there is even better). 

I'm quite sure some of you will read this and be immediately concerned or convinced that I have a problem with alcohol. "Why would she feel the need to take a break, unless she was boozing hard every night and spiraling out of control?", you'll ask. The answer is: I have never felt out of control, but I came to a realization that alcohol doesn't need to be a social priority. When friends invite me to their home for a bbq, my first thought does not need to be about what type of beer I should bring. My second thought does not need to be a plan on how to get to and from the gathering without driving - automatically assuming that every social event will potentially result in being too intoxicated to drive is just ridiculous. 

Drinking had also come to be seen as a reward for me (this is something I partially blame on pop culture, which is inundated with portrayals of hard working men and women kicking back and letting loose with beer, wine, or margaritas on a Friday after a "hard week"). Saying "I deserve these beers, I just worked six days in a row", or "I pulled a double on Friday, so Saturday night I'm going out" makes little sense. If I am working this hard to earn a little free time, shouldn't I be spending that time feeling my best - waking up with a clear head and enough energy to really enjoy a day of freedom?

If this blog post has been an inspiration to you, then I am sorry to disappoint: I had margaritas on Friday, and woke up yesterday feeling less than stellar. I also had a bloody mary at brunch this morning. Laying off the booze for nearly a month didn't make me want to stay sober forever. However, it did help me gain some important perspective about how I view and value my social relationships, my free time, and my health. Moderation, something I have never been great with (ask me about my sugar addiction!), is my new goal. 

Maybe next month, dessert. Maybe. 

Advocacy

Yesterday, I had the day off. I got up when I felt like it, drove to the bank where I was greeted kindly by the staff and confidently deposited some tips and pay checks into my account. I pumped gas and was pleasantly disregarded by the others at the gas station. I went on a hike through some beautiful National Forest land with some friends, and finished the day with dinner at a restaurant, where we all sat at the bar (smelling like woods, sweaty wet feet and campfire) and were treated with kindness, respect, and no suspicion despite our appearance. After we ate, I dipped into the ladies room before we departed. I dropped off my friends and came home to my apartment that was rented to me on the spot 15 months ago, the same day that I met the landlord. 

The political climate did not affect me yesterday. As a privileged white person, I was able to complete all of my tasks and recreation activities without incident. I am not a minority in my skin color, nation of origin, sexual preference or gender identity. Someone in my position could find it very easy to believe that what is happening in our country has nothing to do with me, and therefore ignore it. 

I'm just here to say, I really wish you wouldn't. 

I was skimming some information about the Republican Party's desire to dismantle and "replace" the Affordable Care Act, and I read some comments that struck me as quite selfish. It seems that many Americans who have access to health insurance through their job, or their spouses job, believe that they should not have to pay taxes into a system that pays to subsidize insurance for others. We don't live in a socialist society, they argued. It's not our responsibility to pay for other people! But then I saw an excellent point that needs to be expanded on. 

If you live a mile from work and drive the same road everyday, do you not pay municipal taxes that cover the cost of maintaining roads for others to use? Just because you never cross a bridge in your town doesn't mean that you obtain no benefit from the bridge being there and being used by others. Property owners who have no children still pay school taxes to their district. They do this willingly, because even though they have no children that will be educated in those schools, the understanding is universal that the education of America's youth is important. Is the right to healthcare not also important? 

What is important is Americans getting behind the Affordable Care Act and making their voices heard, especially those who do not use it for their health insurance. It is incredibly important to advocate for programs we believe in, even if they are not personally affecting us. Indifference from those seemingly unaffected by their policies is what the GOP is counting on in our current political climate- that those who do not get hurt by their policies will turn a blind eye. 

Being passive in situations of injustice simply because the injustice is not directed at you is the same as saying you don't care that it is happening. I think of this often these days, particularly every time I use a public restroom. I am a female. This happens to be the physical gender I was born with and also what I identify as. I also choose to identify as a "tomboy", and up until about the age of twelve, I was often directed to the men's room when I asked a server or a store employee where the restrooms were located. It was embarrassing and awkward, and on more than one occasion I had to search for the women's room after finding that their directions landed me in front of a bathroom designated for males. Nevertheless, time marched on and I grew breasts, as one does, and this no longer occurs. But I can easily recall the painfully awkward feeling of having to decide, as a preteen, if I should explain to a restaurant employee that they got my gender wrong or simply hunt for the bathroom with the picture of the skirt-wearing person on the door.

I think of this lately because I imagine it would be much, much more uncomfortable for a transgendered person have to explain to an employee, or worse, another patron using the restroom, what their gender is, simply to justify why they are in a particular place to use the toilet. Public bathrooms are uncomfortable enough without having to constantly stress that someone may openly question you about what anatomy you're hiding beneath your clothes. 

I am a female, and I use the women's bathroom. But I will never stop advocating for those who identify as a different physical gender than they were born with to be able to use any damn toilet they want. If you break it down simply, those who oppose transgendered bathroom rights are arguing that their right to feel comfortable in a public restroom is more important than the rights of a transgendered individual. We live in America, right? Aren't we supposed to be striving for equality? My comfort (or semblance of comfort because, let's face it, all public bathrooms are gross) does not matter more than anyone else's, regardless of their gender identity. 

I might be a white, middle class person, but I am also a single woman with no desire to procreate. Legislation aimed at making it harder for a woman to have control over her own body and reproduction has been popping up in state after state since Donald Trump was elected (and before). If you are a man, a married woman with children (or plans to have them), or a person who knows they want to have kids someday, this might seem like an issue that doesn't matter to your life. The "I would never have an abortion, so I don't care what laws are made about it" stance is a dangerous one. If a woman's right to choose if her body creates another human is taken away, it is the same as our government declaring that women are unfit to make their own life choices. Regardless of how you feel about abortion, you should at least care how our political leaders feel about women's power over their own lives. You may have chosen to have a family, but you got to make that choice. Others should have the same ability. 

If you believe that you can be passive when it comes to the current government, that your life will remain unaffected by their policies, you might be right. If you're lucky, you will be right. However, as legislation is proposed and enacted that specifically targets the rights of certain races, religions, and genders, it is up to the rest of us to amplify their voices. The social construct of our nation runs on the premise that we are an open and accepting "melting pot" of races, religions, and lifestyles. When the governing power in our nation is the group perpetuating racism, injustice and bigotry against minority groups, the advocates have to take a stand. 

You might be a straight white person with easy access to health insurance, who has never experienced discrimination or hatred. This is why it is your responsibility to not put your head in the sand. Advocacy is about using your privileged position and your voice to declare that you care about those who are being targeted. 

I might get to walk through life without my rights being called into question on a regular basis, but you can count on me working to make sure yours aren't, either. 

Singles Awareness Day

We are a little over a week from Valentine's Day, that most ridiculous of holidays when people who are content to just love eachother the other 364 days of the year feel the pressure to make grand gestures, when it is impossible to find a place to eat dinner, when some single women band together to celebrate "singles awareness day" (acronym SAD) and drown their sorrows in troughs of merlot like adult members of some cackling she-woman man-haters club. 

It's probably important to start by saying that I'm not one of those women. Of course, my friends and family know that I always love a good holiday excuse to drink booze and eat candy, but I certainly do not dwell on my singlehood any more or less on February 14. However, some of those around me do, and in February especially I find I am subjected to "there's someone out there for everybody", and "you'll find somebody someday" or, more likely, "but WHY are you still single?" The last, I should add, is usually in the form of a compliment, which I am more than happy to accept. It's also the inspiration for this blog post.

I could get up on my soapbox and rant about how our culture treats being single as something to get past, a mere phase that for most of us lasts the first 17/18 years of life and only rears its head intermittently after our teens. Or how those of us who choose to remain single are either treated as damaged goods or as someone to be pitied, implying that while we pretend to be happy solo, we are actually miserable inside (also implying that we don't know the true depth of our own emotions, which I have always found more than a little insulting). I could get on my soapbox and... Oh, excuse me, can you give me a hand stepping down from way up here? 

This post is not about how single people are treated, but rather about the many reasons why I choose to remain in this state of non-relationship status. Don't worry, this isn't about to be several pages about my past heartbreaks (there aren't many) or a tale about how my parents ruined the idea of relationships for me (although I could probably use that excuse handily), because those are not why I choose singlehood.

1) I'm very comfortable being alone. Right or wrong, I have grown very used to being single. I haven't been in a meaningful (read: potential for actual comfort and happiness) relationship in nearly 10 years (apologies if this is insulting to...anyone). Even in my last (9-month) stint of coupledom, which was rife with manipulation, disagreements, and degradation (sounds fun, right?), I never truly saw it as a permanent situation. I've become accustomed, possibly even addicted, to my time being all my own. I go to work, pay my bills, exercise, run errands, and do all the other entirely unpleasant things required to be a functioning adult, but the rest of my waking and sleeping hours are mine. I do not feel pressure to throw myself into a false interest of another persons activities (what do you MEAN you don't want to watch another human play video games for 5 hours? What kind of monster are you?) or plan my own activities to include someone who may or may not actually be interested in them. I know relationships are all about compromise, but as time flies by, I have started to realize that life is short, and doing things you aren't sure you want to do simply to maintain the adoration and respect of another person is, for me, a waste of that precious time. If I want to spend a Sunday morning watching Gilmore Girls re-runs and cuddling on my couch with a pizza-shaped fleece pillow (something I consider to be a perfectly delightful piece of home decor), I can do it, without another person trying to convince me that watching a documentary on the evolution of computers would actually be more fun. Which brings me to my next point...

2) Sharing your living space sucks. I actually don't know one solitary human who doesn't agree with me on this. I truly believe that couples move in together at the stage in which they discover they can tolerate eachother for long periods of time, are already spending every night stealing covers from one another, shifting through 253 different uncomfortable sleeping positions together, and also realize exactly how much money they can save by cohabitating. Even my mother, who has not been single since her teens, would probably tell you that she has fantasies of having her own space where no one else is around to move things, dirty her dishes and linens, eat her food, or walk through the house in their muddy boots. When I leave my apartment, be it for two hours or seven days, I return to find it in exactly the same condition that I left it. Which is to say, my hideous pizza-shaped fleece pillow is always prominently displayed on my couch, the collection of sports paraphernalia from my favorite teams is still on the shelves and wall, and my clean laundry is still safely piled, unfolded, in the basket (because folding laundry is the most tedious chore in the world, so if you live by yourself, why do it?). If I want to buy pink floral curtains for my house (or, more accurately, the Han Solo frozen in carbonate shower curtain I have been coveting), there is nobody else who gets to add their two cents. No compromise here. Speaking of compromise...

3) Currently, the social and political opinions of others piss me off. If one more middle class, middle aged, white male tells me to "relax", "calm down", or (the worst one yet) "stop" when it comes to getting worked up about my concerns regarding our current poilitical climate, I swear they might get punched. I know that the man who has been elected president of the United States doesn't represent the opinions of all people who fall into the aforementioned category, but there seem to be a heck of a lot of them who are largely apathetic to his actions. So many have taken the "but it won't affect my life" stance to what is happening, and to me that is unacceptable. The president is beginning to wage a war on minority groups and women in this country, and a person who doesn't care about how this will affect those around them, myself included, has no place in my personal life. I am better able to resist on my own. Also, the magnitude of what is being done to America is so great, that it would seem almost selfish or wrong for me to prioritize dating or romance in times like these. 

4) I don't like to feel uncomfortable. Relationships end. I realize many of you will call me pessimistic for this statement, but the average person has 5/6 relationships in their life (five for women, six for men, which is interesting in itself, but that's a topic for another time). Which means even if every one of those people only married once and stayed married till death, there are still four or five failed relationships for every human being. Five awkward breakups, five people you now have to avoid in your small town. Five people you once cared about deeply who are no longer a part of your life. Five rounds of town gossip. Up to five living situations that are uprooted or altered. Maybe even five pets that you bought together that one of you will never see again. Five rebounds (okay, we all know that's the fun part). Five different families that are disappointed because they really believed their son had found "the one" when he met you, and you even helped his mother with the dishes. Five bouts of crying, getting used to sleeping alone again, figuring out how to pay bills solo when you had become accustomed to having help. No, thank you. I prefer to keep my life happy, simple, and as low stress as possible. As I mentioned above, life is pretty short. I can't justify wasting precious hours, weeks, or days trying to emotionally recover from another dating roller coaster- not when I could have never boarded it in the first place and could instead be happily lying on my couch with my pizza pillow and the Gilmore Girls. 

If you, too, feel these things about being single, know you aren't alone. It may not be what our culture teaches us, but it's fine to chug your merlot next week and eat your heart shaped candy gleefully instead of with tears and regret. As for Singles Awareness Day, why not celebrate it 365 days a year, loud and proud? While you're at it, treat yourself to Chinese takeout and some Netflix reruns next Tuesday- you won't be able to get a table at a restaurant, anyway.