I like to think that usually I'm a nice person. Unless you are the fourth student to interrupt me during lunch, the flight attendant who bumps my head a fifth time with your cart, or any local driver, you will find that on the whole, I try to be friendly. In fact, husband-dear, on one of our first dates, told me that one of the things he really liked about me was that I was "just nice" (yes, I melted).
Now in the past, I've written about how southerners are nice too. And how sometimes, they take this whole "niceness" to a whole new level, a level that some might even consider annoying. I mean, it's one thing to be nice and perky, it's another thing to be nice and perky when it's seven in the morning and I haven't had my coffee yet.
But as of this morning, I discovered that there is yet another, possible more irksome dimension to this southern niceness: Forcing niceness upon people. Allow me to explain.
This morning I had to stop to get gas. As I drive close to a thousand miles per week, and my car only holds about 11 gallons, this is not something novel. But whenever it times out that I have to get gas before I get on the interstate, I'm always a little less than thrilled. I mean, would you be if it was six in the morning, you've just settled into your car, taken your shoes off, tuned into a really interesting story on NPR, and you now have to stop for gas? I'm not. But I take it in stride. I put my shoes back on, slide my card through the machine and stare into space for five minutes before getting my receipt and leaving.
But this morning, things didn't go quite that smoothly. First, I'm really tired. It's the first week of teaching, second week of late registration, and I had had it. My eyes feel swollen, my head hurts, and I'm just not feeling it. So when the pump takes about two minutes to pump out a single gallon, you can imagine that I am less than thrilled. After waiting for about ten minutes, when my tank is finally full, I wait for the receipt. Only there is none. The machine is out of ink. That just made me jump for joy. Because now I couldn't just get in my car and leave, no, I had to go into the store to get my receipt. And no, I don't leave without a receipt. Not after one incident where I slid my card, got gas, didn't get a receipt, almost just wrote the amount down, then decided to go into the store anyway, only to find the machine had messed up and I had actually not paid yet.
So there was my second hurdle: I now had to go into the store. And this meant actually getting dressed. For those of you wondering I drive half-naked: I do. Sort of. When wearing really high heels, I will drive bare foot or in sneakers. And during summer, I usually drive in my (very decent, thankyouverymuch) camisole, hanging whatever dress shirt I will wear inside my freezing office in the back. So, sighing and muttering things about early mornings and long drives and hot summers, I realized I would have to put my complicated strappy sandals on entirely, instead of just sort of standing on top of the shoe as a way to protect my bare feet from the grubby pavement. It also entailed putting on the dress shirt I had carefully hung on the back of my chair, which involved way too many movements for six, well 6:15 now, in the morning.
But here I am. I'm dressed. I have my wallet, my keys, and am now making my way across a parking lot towards the store. Together with twenty-five other people who all need coffee/chew/a receipt/the bathroom. And we're all quiet. On account of, you know, it's 6:15 in the morning. When I came to the door, I realized that one of the store employees decided that morning rush hour would be the opportune moment to windex the store doors. Now I like clean windows as much as the next person, but I needed to get in the store, so I ask her, "Excuse me?", and open the door. The lady then turns to me, smiles, and says in the perkiest voice imaginable, "Well, good morning to you!"
For those of you not familiar with southern discourse; she just told me, between the lines, that I really should have wished her good morning, and not ignored her and just said excuse me because that was just really rude.
"Good morning to you!" - a southern insult.
So anyway, there are three ways one can respond to this.
Option 1: Stop, wish her a good morning, and then proceed to tell her all about your morning. Because if someone is that eager to wish you a good morning, they must be super-interested in knowing all there is to know about your morning as well. I could have told her about fixing lunch, and running out of yogurts. About Shelby not wanting to get into her crate. About getting my skirt all covered in dog hairs, and running around trying to find a lint roller. This approach is called, "Playing it their way"
Option 2: Stop, and tell her it's freaking 6:15 in the morning, we're all just really tired, and can she please just let me get my receipt so I can drive to work. One could have even added in something like, "Not all of us work around the corner", or "If your gas station had working pumps, I wouldn't be here", or "why on earth would anyone be windexing anything at this hour?". This is known as the "I'm not from around here, and I don't play it your way".
Option 3: Ignore her completely.
I selected the third option.
Although now I feel bad for not wishing her a good morning too. I'm telling you, if you're not careful, these southern ways get inside your head, and before you know it, you're one of them. The bodysnatchers ain't got nothing on these people....
Friday, August 20, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Het verkeerstribunaal
Ik ben er heilig van overtuigd dat je alles in ieder geval een keer moet proberen. Parachutespringen, op een olifant door de jungle rijden, en aardbeien vinaigrette dressing op je salade doen - het zijn allemaal ervaringen die de moeite waard zijn. En sinds maandag kan ik nog een ervaring aan mijn lijstje toevoegen: Traffic court. Of in goed Dunglish: de verkeersrechtbank.
Zoals jullie je vast nog wel kunnen herinneren, kreeg ik vorige maand mijn allereerste verkeersboete. En dat alleen al gold als een ervaring. Vind ik zelf. De zwaailichten, het balen, het gele papiertje, het was allemaal echt. En na alle commentaren op mijn blog, van vrienden, en manlief zelf, die allemaal door naar court te gaan hun boete verlaagd kregen, besloot ik zelf toch maar naar de rechtbank te gaan. In het ergste geval, bedacht ik, zou ik de boete moeten betalen die ik nu ook al had, en het was weer iets aan mijn "been there done that" lijstje toe te voegen.
En zo begaf DixieChick zich op maandagochtend richting de city court. En heeft daar twee uur tussen de meest uiteenlopende figuren haar ogen uitgekeken. Ik kan het niet anders beschrijven dan een ware antropologische veldstudie.
Zo begon de court met het invullen van een formulier of je je schuldig, niet schuldig, of nolo contendere verklaart, hoe oud je was, en hoeveel jaar je naar school was geweest. Nadat ik ingevuld had dat ik toch echt schuldig was aan een prachtige Hollywood Stop, en dat ik bijna langer op school had gezeten dan dat ik in leven was, was het wachten geblazen. Allereerst op die mensen die vonden dat ze niet schuldig waren. In dat geval werd je namelijk vriendelijk uitgenodigd een nieuwe court date af te spreken, zodat de agent die bij het geval betrokken was, er ook bij kon zijn. Alle mythes over dismissals door niet-aanwezige agenten gingen meteen in rook op.
En na een ruim half uur kwam de rechter zelf binnen. Compleet een wapperend zwart gewaad, een "all rise", en een oath dat we allemaal toch echt de waarheid zouden spreken. Ik durf het bijna niet te zeggen als communicatiewetenschapper, maar het was toch echt net als op televisie.
De rechter, we zullen hem maar rechter Bill noemen, nam meteen de koe bij de horens en begon met de underage drinkers. Twee tieners die betrapt waren op het consumer van alcohol voor hun 21e. Ze hadden een essay moeten schrijven waarom die slecht was, naar een cursus moeten gaan, en mochten nu voor een volle rechtzaal vertellen wat ze gedaan hadden ("ik had gedronken en begon te vechten met een andere meid over mijn nu ex-vriendje) en waarom dit slecht was ("And no, you may not read out your essay"). Na een "alright everyone, give them a hand!", en een waarschuwing dat de rechter ze nooit meer wilde zien, mochten de twee weer vertrekken.
Rechter Bill kwam in eens meer over als een maatschappelijk werker dan een strenge judge, en gedurende de twee uur werd dat idee alleen maar versterkt. Een vrouw die onder invloed een ongeluk had veroorzaakt (zonder gewonden), haar high school niet had afgemaakt, en nu bij de lokale supermarkt werkte, en die vertelde dat als ze naar de gevangenis moest, ze haar baan kwijt zou raken, kreeg te horen dat ze niet nu naar de gevangenis hoefde, maar haar veertien dagen op haar vrije dagen mocht uitzitten. Een tiener die haar boete niet op tijd had kunnen betalen omdat de vader van haar kind haar had laten zitten, en ze wilde sparen om naar school te gaan kreeg te horen dat als ze vandaag terug zou komen met het bewijs dat ze zich op school had ingeschreven, hij haar niet verder zou straffen. Maar een vrouw die beweerde dat een ongeluk waar zij bij betrokken was geweest niet haar schuld was omdat de andere vrouw bij haar de oprit op was gereden kreeg geen genade, en moest gewoon haar boete betalen. En zo ging het maar door. Rijden onder de invloed, vechten, achterstallige boetes, drugsgebruik, het passeerde allemaal de revu. En bij iedereen vroeg rechter Bill hoeveel school ze hadden gehad, waar ze werkte, en waarom dit zo kon gebeuren.
Toen het eindelijk mijn beurt was, liep ik met knikkende knietjes naar voren. Mijn plan was om de rechter mijn perfecte driving records te laten zien, en te vragen of ik een defensive driving class mocht doen in plaats van de boete. Maar zover kwam ik helemaal niet. Toen de rechter zag dat ik maar liefst achthonderd jaar op school gezeten had, wilde hij allereerst weten wat voor een diploma ik had. En toen of stopborden negeren een gewoonte voor mij was. Ik kon niet snel genoeg stamelen dat dat natuurlijk niet zo was, en ik het verschrikkelijk vond, en ik echt een perfect driving record had, en deze allemaal bij me had.
Toen begon rechter Bill te lachen, "Het is jammer dat het de eerste keer is; als het nou de tiende keer was geweest, en dan had ik je laten gaan, maar nu zal ik je toch moeten opsluiten. Welke dag wil je naar de gevangenis?"
Een rechter die eigenlijk maatschappelijk werker is, en ook nog een gevoel voor humor heeft.
Nadat het gevoel in mijn benen terugkwam, verzon ik ter plekke dat ik dan wel de eerste dag van colleges wilde, donderdag dus.
"Oh je werkt op de universiteit? Oh dat is mooi. Nou weet je wat...case dismissed."
Vijfentwintig dollar armer (want ja, de court costs moeten wel betaald worden), twee-en-een-half uur later, en vier kilo zweet lichter stond ik weer buiten. En ik beloof u: DixieChick stopt tegenwoordig voor elk stopbord. Zelfs die aan het einde van onze cul-de-sac om vijf uur 's ochtends.
Zoals jullie je vast nog wel kunnen herinneren, kreeg ik vorige maand mijn allereerste verkeersboete. En dat alleen al gold als een ervaring. Vind ik zelf. De zwaailichten, het balen, het gele papiertje, het was allemaal echt. En na alle commentaren op mijn blog, van vrienden, en manlief zelf, die allemaal door naar court te gaan hun boete verlaagd kregen, besloot ik zelf toch maar naar de rechtbank te gaan. In het ergste geval, bedacht ik, zou ik de boete moeten betalen die ik nu ook al had, en het was weer iets aan mijn "been there done that" lijstje toe te voegen.
En zo begaf DixieChick zich op maandagochtend richting de city court. En heeft daar twee uur tussen de meest uiteenlopende figuren haar ogen uitgekeken. Ik kan het niet anders beschrijven dan een ware antropologische veldstudie.
Zo begon de court met het invullen van een formulier of je je schuldig, niet schuldig, of nolo contendere verklaart, hoe oud je was, en hoeveel jaar je naar school was geweest. Nadat ik ingevuld had dat ik toch echt schuldig was aan een prachtige Hollywood Stop, en dat ik bijna langer op school had gezeten dan dat ik in leven was, was het wachten geblazen. Allereerst op die mensen die vonden dat ze niet schuldig waren. In dat geval werd je namelijk vriendelijk uitgenodigd een nieuwe court date af te spreken, zodat de agent die bij het geval betrokken was, er ook bij kon zijn. Alle mythes over dismissals door niet-aanwezige agenten gingen meteen in rook op.
En na een ruim half uur kwam de rechter zelf binnen. Compleet een wapperend zwart gewaad, een "all rise", en een oath dat we allemaal toch echt de waarheid zouden spreken. Ik durf het bijna niet te zeggen als communicatiewetenschapper, maar het was toch echt net als op televisie.
De rechter, we zullen hem maar rechter Bill noemen, nam meteen de koe bij de horens en begon met de underage drinkers. Twee tieners die betrapt waren op het consumer van alcohol voor hun 21e. Ze hadden een essay moeten schrijven waarom die slecht was, naar een cursus moeten gaan, en mochten nu voor een volle rechtzaal vertellen wat ze gedaan hadden ("ik had gedronken en begon te vechten met een andere meid over mijn nu ex-vriendje) en waarom dit slecht was ("And no, you may not read out your essay"). Na een "alright everyone, give them a hand!", en een waarschuwing dat de rechter ze nooit meer wilde zien, mochten de twee weer vertrekken.
Rechter Bill kwam in eens meer over als een maatschappelijk werker dan een strenge judge, en gedurende de twee uur werd dat idee alleen maar versterkt. Een vrouw die onder invloed een ongeluk had veroorzaakt (zonder gewonden), haar high school niet had afgemaakt, en nu bij de lokale supermarkt werkte, en die vertelde dat als ze naar de gevangenis moest, ze haar baan kwijt zou raken, kreeg te horen dat ze niet nu naar de gevangenis hoefde, maar haar veertien dagen op haar vrije dagen mocht uitzitten. Een tiener die haar boete niet op tijd had kunnen betalen omdat de vader van haar kind haar had laten zitten, en ze wilde sparen om naar school te gaan kreeg te horen dat als ze vandaag terug zou komen met het bewijs dat ze zich op school had ingeschreven, hij haar niet verder zou straffen. Maar een vrouw die beweerde dat een ongeluk waar zij bij betrokken was geweest niet haar schuld was omdat de andere vrouw bij haar de oprit op was gereden kreeg geen genade, en moest gewoon haar boete betalen. En zo ging het maar door. Rijden onder de invloed, vechten, achterstallige boetes, drugsgebruik, het passeerde allemaal de revu. En bij iedereen vroeg rechter Bill hoeveel school ze hadden gehad, waar ze werkte, en waarom dit zo kon gebeuren.
Toen het eindelijk mijn beurt was, liep ik met knikkende knietjes naar voren. Mijn plan was om de rechter mijn perfecte driving records te laten zien, en te vragen of ik een defensive driving class mocht doen in plaats van de boete. Maar zover kwam ik helemaal niet. Toen de rechter zag dat ik maar liefst achthonderd jaar op school gezeten had, wilde hij allereerst weten wat voor een diploma ik had. En toen of stopborden negeren een gewoonte voor mij was. Ik kon niet snel genoeg stamelen dat dat natuurlijk niet zo was, en ik het verschrikkelijk vond, en ik echt een perfect driving record had, en deze allemaal bij me had.
Toen begon rechter Bill te lachen, "Het is jammer dat het de eerste keer is; als het nou de tiende keer was geweest, en dan had ik je laten gaan, maar nu zal ik je toch moeten opsluiten. Welke dag wil je naar de gevangenis?"
Een rechter die eigenlijk maatschappelijk werker is, en ook nog een gevoel voor humor heeft.
Nadat het gevoel in mijn benen terugkwam, verzon ik ter plekke dat ik dan wel de eerste dag van colleges wilde, donderdag dus.
"Oh je werkt op de universiteit? Oh dat is mooi. Nou weet je wat...case dismissed."
Vijfentwintig dollar armer (want ja, de court costs moeten wel betaald worden), twee-en-een-half uur later, en vier kilo zweet lichter stond ik weer buiten. En ik beloof u: DixieChick stopt tegenwoordig voor elk stopbord. Zelfs die aan het einde van onze cul-de-sac om vijf uur 's ochtends.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Serial triathlete
Here's a question for you: How do you know if you've become a serial triathlete?
Hint: It's not the number of triathlons you complete. In fact, it's completely unrelated to how often you compete. Today, as I was participating in my fourth triathlon, I realized that I too had become a serial triathlete when, while riding my bike, I no longer felt almost giddy with excitement, repeating the words "I am in a triathlon! WOW!" over and over again. Instead, I found myself distracting myself from the discomfort in my legs and behind by thinking about what to write in this blog.
So what did I come up with while trying to maintain a speed a little above my comfort zone just to make sure the girl in the Gator Tri outfit didn't pass me again? Well, I came to the conclusion that a triathlon is really very much like kindergarten: Everything you need to know about life, you can learn while in it. And while once again passing Gator Girl, I managed to came up with several interesting "learning opportunities".
Take the swim for instance. This particular triathlon is known for its absolutely terrible swim. Not only are the waves enormous (for those non-triathletes, that would not be the waves in the lake, but the groups of participants who start the swim at the same time), but they start extremely close to another, which means that for the better part of the swim, you are literally on top of other women trying to find that one piece of lake not filled with kicking swimmers. And as I was getting kicked, punched, and pushed, and in turn smacked several women in various body parts as well, I realized that this potentially getting-your-face-kicked-in situation could be easily avoided if I stayed towards the back end of the wave. But then I immediately noted that I am *clears throat* just slightly competitive, and so that would have not been an option. And there was my first lesson of the day: If you don't like the heat stay out of the kitchen.
My second lesson of the day came to me when I had finally found my own piece of quiet aquatic real estate. I had fought to the front of the pack, and was finally able to crawl through the water without tapping someone on their behind/head/arms. Now just because I was no longer in danger of being stomped on, does not mean that suddenly the sky opened up, my body became weightless, and I won the triathlon. That really only happens in the movies. No, the swim remained tough, albeit punch-free. The water was positively lukewarm, the weeds were everywhere, and everytime I got some water in my mouth, I tasted gasoline from the marina a few hundred yards down the beach. But complaining is something I really only do in my blog (well, and to husband-dear), and so instead I started singing a song in my head. Humming to myself, I forgot about the nasty water, the bike and the run that were still waiting for me, and instead was just happy. And there was my second lesson: If you have a good attitude, most things turn out to be pretty enjoyable.
So then you're done with the swim, you've managed to run into the transition area without tripping and breaking your neck, you've pulled on socks, shoes, glasses, gloves, and helmet, and you are now on your bike. And as you're peddling for dear life, a man comes up behind you and yells, "You need to stay on the right unless you're passing!". Slightly taken aback, as the acceptable cycling warning is "On your left!", you move over and eye the man with the slightest disapproval. Then you hear him yell at the next person, and the next one after that, and you decide this man is nothing less than a tri-nazi. But then you get to thinking. What is a man doing here? All the men have their own waves, which start a good five minutes before your own all-female wave. So the fact that this guy is riding all the way in the back must mean that he really bombed on the swim, and is probably seriously ticked off at himself. And although you can't resist yelling, "The polite thing to say is "on your left"" when you pass him a few miles down the road , you realize that here is your third lesson: Although people may act seemingly inappropriate towards you, it's usually an expression of something completely unrelated to you, and you should really not take it personally.
And then there was Gator Girl. Gator Girl earned her name because she was wearing what could best be described as the tiniest tri-outfit known to man, entirely in the colors of the Florida Gators. Beside her tiny outfit, the only reason that I noticed her was the fact that starting at about mile 2, she and I kept passing each other. She would pass me, and after letting her get the mandated 15 feet ahead of me, I would catch up, pass her, and then try to stay ahead. At one point, our speed was up to 24 mph, and we were egging each other one every time one would pass the other, "Finally!", "Well, it's about time!", "We need to train together!" (we did, after the race, exchange email addresses) "Dang, are you this good at running too?", "Are you going to pass, or do I need to kick it some more?". Although it was all in good humor, it did have me pushing myself to speeds I did not think I could reach. And there was my next lesson: If you surround yourself with quality people, you will rise to new levels as well. (And may the record show that I beat her on the bike and the run..heehee).
Finally, there is the ever-returning question that plagues every triathlete: How hard should I push myself? When you're swimming, you know you have two more events to go. While on your bike, you know you will still need to push yourself through a run. So at every turn, you ask yourself, should I go faster? Can I go faster? How will it affect my run? At one point, I stopped the endless merry-go-round, and told myself that, hey, the run was going to suck regardless, so I might as well give it my all now. And I did. And there was my final lesson of the race: You can prepare for the future all you want, but at the end of the day, all you have is now. And you need to live each moment to the fullest.
So there you have it, my five triathlon-lessons.
In a few weeks, husband-dear and I will be doing an "adventure jam" (mountain biking, running, and canoeing). I wonder what I will come up with then.
Hint: It's not the number of triathlons you complete. In fact, it's completely unrelated to how often you compete. Today, as I was participating in my fourth triathlon, I realized that I too had become a serial triathlete when, while riding my bike, I no longer felt almost giddy with excitement, repeating the words "I am in a triathlon! WOW!" over and over again. Instead, I found myself distracting myself from the discomfort in my legs and behind by thinking about what to write in this blog.
So what did I come up with while trying to maintain a speed a little above my comfort zone just to make sure the girl in the Gator Tri outfit didn't pass me again? Well, I came to the conclusion that a triathlon is really very much like kindergarten: Everything you need to know about life, you can learn while in it. And while once again passing Gator Girl, I managed to came up with several interesting "learning opportunities".
Take the swim for instance. This particular triathlon is known for its absolutely terrible swim. Not only are the waves enormous (for those non-triathletes, that would not be the waves in the lake, but the groups of participants who start the swim at the same time), but they start extremely close to another, which means that for the better part of the swim, you are literally on top of other women trying to find that one piece of lake not filled with kicking swimmers. And as I was getting kicked, punched, and pushed, and in turn smacked several women in various body parts as well, I realized that this potentially getting-your-face-kicked-in situation could be easily avoided if I stayed towards the back end of the wave. But then I immediately noted that I am *clears throat* just slightly competitive, and so that would have not been an option. And there was my first lesson of the day: If you don't like the heat stay out of the kitchen.
My second lesson of the day came to me when I had finally found my own piece of quiet aquatic real estate. I had fought to the front of the pack, and was finally able to crawl through the water without tapping someone on their behind/head/arms. Now just because I was no longer in danger of being stomped on, does not mean that suddenly the sky opened up, my body became weightless, and I won the triathlon. That really only happens in the movies. No, the swim remained tough, albeit punch-free. The water was positively lukewarm, the weeds were everywhere, and everytime I got some water in my mouth, I tasted gasoline from the marina a few hundred yards down the beach. But complaining is something I really only do in my blog (well, and to husband-dear), and so instead I started singing a song in my head. Humming to myself, I forgot about the nasty water, the bike and the run that were still waiting for me, and instead was just happy. And there was my second lesson: If you have a good attitude, most things turn out to be pretty enjoyable.
So then you're done with the swim, you've managed to run into the transition area without tripping and breaking your neck, you've pulled on socks, shoes, glasses, gloves, and helmet, and you are now on your bike. And as you're peddling for dear life, a man comes up behind you and yells, "You need to stay on the right unless you're passing!". Slightly taken aback, as the acceptable cycling warning is "On your left!", you move over and eye the man with the slightest disapproval. Then you hear him yell at the next person, and the next one after that, and you decide this man is nothing less than a tri-nazi. But then you get to thinking. What is a man doing here? All the men have their own waves, which start a good five minutes before your own all-female wave. So the fact that this guy is riding all the way in the back must mean that he really bombed on the swim, and is probably seriously ticked off at himself. And although you can't resist yelling, "The polite thing to say is "on your left"" when you pass him a few miles down the road , you realize that here is your third lesson: Although people may act seemingly inappropriate towards you, it's usually an expression of something completely unrelated to you, and you should really not take it personally.
And then there was Gator Girl. Gator Girl earned her name because she was wearing what could best be described as the tiniest tri-outfit known to man, entirely in the colors of the Florida Gators. Beside her tiny outfit, the only reason that I noticed her was the fact that starting at about mile 2, she and I kept passing each other. She would pass me, and after letting her get the mandated 15 feet ahead of me, I would catch up, pass her, and then try to stay ahead. At one point, our speed was up to 24 mph, and we were egging each other one every time one would pass the other, "Finally!", "Well, it's about time!", "We need to train together!" (we did, after the race, exchange email addresses) "Dang, are you this good at running too?", "Are you going to pass, or do I need to kick it some more?". Although it was all in good humor, it did have me pushing myself to speeds I did not think I could reach. And there was my next lesson: If you surround yourself with quality people, you will rise to new levels as well. (And may the record show that I beat her on the bike and the run..heehee).
Finally, there is the ever-returning question that plagues every triathlete: How hard should I push myself? When you're swimming, you know you have two more events to go. While on your bike, you know you will still need to push yourself through a run. So at every turn, you ask yourself, should I go faster? Can I go faster? How will it affect my run? At one point, I stopped the endless merry-go-round, and told myself that, hey, the run was going to suck regardless, so I might as well give it my all now. And I did. And there was my final lesson of the race: You can prepare for the future all you want, but at the end of the day, all you have is now. And you need to live each moment to the fullest.
So there you have it, my five triathlon-lessons.
In a few weeks, husband-dear and I will be doing an "adventure jam" (mountain biking, running, and canoeing). I wonder what I will come up with then.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Identity crisis
See, this is what happens when people pay me compliments - I develop a really impressive case of writer's block. Suddenly, I'm so overcome by the fact that people like what I wrote, that they in fact like it so much they want to see it published, that I don't know what to write next. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for all the love. Really grateful. But also a little curious to the reason behind all the compliments.
I find myself wondering why they liked it, and how I can best replicate that. Was it the topic? Do I have a whole slew or runner-readers who relate to my tales of inattentive drivers? Or was it the structure? The fact that I actually used a basic intro-body1-body2-body3 layout, as opposed to a long-winded introduction with lots of little, less-than-relevant anecdotes followed by a short little body with not half as many interesting stories? I don't know. And that makes me nervous. And then I don't know what to write anymore.
As it is, I have to admit, I'm having a minor blog-identity crisis. You see, when I started this blog 2.5 years ago, I was completely new to the south and its bugs, tea, dress codes, love for the church, and everything else that is deemed perfectly normal to most people spending their life down here. But as of late, I've started to notice that I too am starting to resemble these people more and more.
Take roaches for instance. When my parents visited us this summer, and my mom was absolutely, positively grossed out when she discovered a dead roach next to her bed, I had a hard time relating. The first thing I told her was that the guest room was right next to the attic, and any roaches that we have seem to come from there. That didn't help at all. Then I tried to make her feel better by telling her it was dead, and that that meant our anti-roach spray was still working. No effect at all, unless you count her shrieking that a dead roach was still a roach. My next tactic was to tell her that, in Georgia, seeing a roach in your house does not mean that you are not hygienic, or that you have an infestation. Seeing one or two roaches just means that a few of the little buggers decided to venture out of the trees they lived in, and visit your house. Yep, no difference. The only response I got was something to the extent of "Oh. My. God. They live in trees here?"
So, yes, I'm having a harder time being the outsider than I did 2.5 years ago. And where does that leave this blog? Obviously, there are still things that make me shake my head, like the persistent inability to take a turn without ending up in the wrong lane. Or the complete obsession with celibacy before marriage. But on the whole, I've learned how to blend in pretty well.
But then what about my blog? Obviously, I love writing about my life. Unfortunately, my life isn't interesting enough for me to write about it in detail as some of my favorite bloggers do. If I did, every post would read something like; "Got up, was really tired, went to work, taught a class, worked on a research project, drove home, ran/biked/swam, went to sleep". But I can write about some of my more notable observations. But can I still do so under the "life in the land of Dixie" banner? Should it still be called Southern Tales? And if I chose not to do that anymore, than who am I? A runner? A professor? An evil stepmom? A Dutch woman in the US? A liberal who ended up married to the military?
Hence, my identity crisis. And now I have a little assignment for my readers (you know, all five of you) - who am I? How should I present myself? And my blog? Any ideas?
I find myself wondering why they liked it, and how I can best replicate that. Was it the topic? Do I have a whole slew or runner-readers who relate to my tales of inattentive drivers? Or was it the structure? The fact that I actually used a basic intro-body1-body2-body3 layout, as opposed to a long-winded introduction with lots of little, less-than-relevant anecdotes followed by a short little body with not half as many interesting stories? I don't know. And that makes me nervous. And then I don't know what to write anymore.
As it is, I have to admit, I'm having a minor blog-identity crisis. You see, when I started this blog 2.5 years ago, I was completely new to the south and its bugs, tea, dress codes, love for the church, and everything else that is deemed perfectly normal to most people spending their life down here. But as of late, I've started to notice that I too am starting to resemble these people more and more.
Take roaches for instance. When my parents visited us this summer, and my mom was absolutely, positively grossed out when she discovered a dead roach next to her bed, I had a hard time relating. The first thing I told her was that the guest room was right next to the attic, and any roaches that we have seem to come from there. That didn't help at all. Then I tried to make her feel better by telling her it was dead, and that that meant our anti-roach spray was still working. No effect at all, unless you count her shrieking that a dead roach was still a roach. My next tactic was to tell her that, in Georgia, seeing a roach in your house does not mean that you are not hygienic, or that you have an infestation. Seeing one or two roaches just means that a few of the little buggers decided to venture out of the trees they lived in, and visit your house. Yep, no difference. The only response I got was something to the extent of "Oh. My. God. They live in trees here?"
So, yes, I'm having a harder time being the outsider than I did 2.5 years ago. And where does that leave this blog? Obviously, there are still things that make me shake my head, like the persistent inability to take a turn without ending up in the wrong lane. Or the complete obsession with celibacy before marriage. But on the whole, I've learned how to blend in pretty well.
But then what about my blog? Obviously, I love writing about my life. Unfortunately, my life isn't interesting enough for me to write about it in detail as some of my favorite bloggers do. If I did, every post would read something like; "Got up, was really tired, went to work, taught a class, worked on a research project, drove home, ran/biked/swam, went to sleep". But I can write about some of my more notable observations. But can I still do so under the "life in the land of Dixie" banner? Should it still be called Southern Tales? And if I chose not to do that anymore, than who am I? A runner? A professor? An evil stepmom? A Dutch woman in the US? A liberal who ended up married to the military?
Hence, my identity crisis. And now I have a little assignment for my readers (you know, all five of you) - who am I? How should I present myself? And my blog? Any ideas?
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Running etiquette
So just in case you don't follow American weather, we've been going through a major heat wave here in Georgia. Now if you consider that what most people in Europe and the more northern states consider a heat wave is viewed as normal summer weather down here, you can imagine that a heat wave here is truly that: A heat wave. We're not talking double digit heat, we're talking triple digits in the shade with close to 100% humidity. We're talking severe heat advisories, we're talking people dying from working in their yards, we're talking an AC that will not stop running. In short, we're talking the seventh circle of hell.
Now, circle of hell or not, a heat wave is never an excuse to not exercise. It just means that everything we do gets shifted to either an indoors activity, or to really early in the morning. And it's the really early morning outdoors activity that I would like to talk about today. And then I'm specifically talking about running.
When I run early in the morning, I stick to a certain runner's etiquette. You know, things that I believe will make other people's lives easier. If it's dark or dusky outside, I'm the dork who always wears a reflective belt. I'm also the idiot who will, one day, injure herself tripping into a ditch, as I always run on the far side of the road, so drivers who are more concerned with their coffee and early morning radio show, won't accidentally run me over. I never run without a shirt, and insist that husband-dear wears one as well, no matter how hot it is. Because although I realize that most drivers might not mind seeing me without a shirt, I myself can't stand men running with merely shorts on, so I figure that it's only fair that that I stick to the rules I insist on for others. Moreover, I make sure to stop for people pulling out of their driveways, as I figured that in their half-asleep state, they're not really likely to look both ways before pulling out. So all in all, I like to think I do a pretty good job thinking of my fellow Georgian's needs.
But you see, after weeks of doing all of this, I am going to throw down the gauntlet, and insist that all those lovely Georgians stick to a few rules of their own as well. Rules that might make my life a little easier. Because judging by the way some of them behave (and look), you would think they have never ever seen a runner before.
First, although I can understand turning your high beams on when you first see a piece of reflective tape bouncing around about three feet of the ground, do you have to keep them on? Once you've established that there is, oh my word, a runner on the sidewalk, do you have to keep shining your lights at me? I don't need help to see the road, and in all honesty, your bright lights are merely blinding me. And oh yeah, when I hold up my hand to shield my eyes from your brights, that is not a greeting for you to reciprocate. It's five in the morning, you do not honk your horn unless it's the only thing between you and a serious crash. Let me enlighten you - when I hold up my hand, it's because you're blinding me. Turn off your brights. It's that easy.
Second, don't honk or scream out your window at me. I realize you a) might know me in a vague, hey, that's our neighbor four houses down, let's wish her a good morning kind of way, or b) think it's really cool I'm running this early in the morning, but it's five in the morning for me too. Just because I'm running, does not mean I'm any more awake than you are. Chances are, I'm actually half-asleep while doing my intervals. When you honk your horn, you freak me out. And I don't like that. So please don't.
Third, I realize some of you suffer from the "when I look at something, I end up steering towards it" syndrome. I also realize that many of you really can't be blamed for that, just like we can't blame you for the fact that many of you can't take turns without ending up on the wrong side of the road. It's what happens when you live around here and your biggest fear in traffic is hitting a deer. And usually I'm totally cool with that. But when it's dark, and I'm running along the side of the road, and your lights keep coming closer, and closer, and closer, and I'm in the ditch and you're still coming closer and closer, I will cuss you out. Really loudly.
Now that we're done with the drivers, let's turn to what I like to call "road side courtesy", that is, the behavior of people regarding their yards, the sidewalk, and the road that runs by your house.
Honestly, I'm not sure if any of you ever use the sidewalk, but I would like to point out that it is not meant for dumping your trash. Or setting your trashcan. Or stacking the result of a weekend worth's of pruning. You are more than welcome to place all of those objects in the designated spot, namely (and I am quoting our trash company's pamphlet here), the side of the road. That does not equal the sidewalk. The sidewalk is meant for walking. Or running. Or cycling. Not your trash. I realize I can't make you fix the lights that light up your driveway, and thus your sidewalk, but that does mean that I am unable to see the huge bags of discarded feed that you so carefully set in the middle of the sidewalk, especially if your neighbor is blinding me with their high beams (see my first point earlier). And that means I trip and fall, or maybe just twist and ankle. And that in turn means I'm unhappy. And I don't like that, which means I will probably cuss some more. Just saying.
Also, can we restrict putting our trash out until, oh, trash day maybe? I mean, I'm not sure what the purpose is of placing your broken TV, your old unused bags of cement, and half of the dead tree that you finally cut down in the middle of the sidewalk the day -after- trash was picked up, but I'm imaging you're thinking something like, "Well, I sure don't need that dang tv messin' up my garage, jus' when I'm workin' on cousin jerry's Chevette, so let me just go an' set that thang out there on that there piece of concrete right in front of the road. Why, it was jus' so nice of the county to put that there right fur our trash.."
Well, actually, I obviously have no idea what any of these people are thinking, but you get the idea. It's a pain.
Oh yes, and let's talk sprinklers. I realize sprinklers are a fact of life down here. But dear lord can we please set our systems up so that they don't start with the sprinklers right by the side of the road? I don't mind getting wet at all, in fact, I will go out of my way to run through sprinklers. But what gets me every time is the abrupt and loud, "Ratatatatata-cha-cha-shhhhhhh". I will seriously jump a foot in the air every time. I'm sure it's really hilarious to look at, but when I'm running, the last thing I need is an even faster heart rate. Seriously people.
So now that we have some of these ground rules set out for all of us, I would like to let you all know that I will probably be running again on Tuesday morning. You have all been warned. Thanks.
Now, circle of hell or not, a heat wave is never an excuse to not exercise. It just means that everything we do gets shifted to either an indoors activity, or to really early in the morning. And it's the really early morning outdoors activity that I would like to talk about today. And then I'm specifically talking about running.
When I run early in the morning, I stick to a certain runner's etiquette. You know, things that I believe will make other people's lives easier. If it's dark or dusky outside, I'm the dork who always wears a reflective belt. I'm also the idiot who will, one day, injure herself tripping into a ditch, as I always run on the far side of the road, so drivers who are more concerned with their coffee and early morning radio show, won't accidentally run me over. I never run without a shirt, and insist that husband-dear wears one as well, no matter how hot it is. Because although I realize that most drivers might not mind seeing me without a shirt, I myself can't stand men running with merely shorts on, so I figure that it's only fair that that I stick to the rules I insist on for others. Moreover, I make sure to stop for people pulling out of their driveways, as I figured that in their half-asleep state, they're not really likely to look both ways before pulling out. So all in all, I like to think I do a pretty good job thinking of my fellow Georgian's needs.
But you see, after weeks of doing all of this, I am going to throw down the gauntlet, and insist that all those lovely Georgians stick to a few rules of their own as well. Rules that might make my life a little easier. Because judging by the way some of them behave (and look), you would think they have never ever seen a runner before.
First, although I can understand turning your high beams on when you first see a piece of reflective tape bouncing around about three feet of the ground, do you have to keep them on? Once you've established that there is, oh my word, a runner on the sidewalk, do you have to keep shining your lights at me? I don't need help to see the road, and in all honesty, your bright lights are merely blinding me. And oh yeah, when I hold up my hand to shield my eyes from your brights, that is not a greeting for you to reciprocate. It's five in the morning, you do not honk your horn unless it's the only thing between you and a serious crash. Let me enlighten you - when I hold up my hand, it's because you're blinding me. Turn off your brights. It's that easy.
Second, don't honk or scream out your window at me. I realize you a) might know me in a vague, hey, that's our neighbor four houses down, let's wish her a good morning kind of way, or b) think it's really cool I'm running this early in the morning, but it's five in the morning for me too. Just because I'm running, does not mean I'm any more awake than you are. Chances are, I'm actually half-asleep while doing my intervals. When you honk your horn, you freak me out. And I don't like that. So please don't.
Third, I realize some of you suffer from the "when I look at something, I end up steering towards it" syndrome. I also realize that many of you really can't be blamed for that, just like we can't blame you for the fact that many of you can't take turns without ending up on the wrong side of the road. It's what happens when you live around here and your biggest fear in traffic is hitting a deer. And usually I'm totally cool with that. But when it's dark, and I'm running along the side of the road, and your lights keep coming closer, and closer, and closer, and I'm in the ditch and you're still coming closer and closer, I will cuss you out. Really loudly.
Now that we're done with the drivers, let's turn to what I like to call "road side courtesy", that is, the behavior of people regarding their yards, the sidewalk, and the road that runs by your house.
Honestly, I'm not sure if any of you ever use the sidewalk, but I would like to point out that it is not meant for dumping your trash. Or setting your trashcan. Or stacking the result of a weekend worth's of pruning. You are more than welcome to place all of those objects in the designated spot, namely (and I am quoting our trash company's pamphlet here), the side of the road. That does not equal the sidewalk. The sidewalk is meant for walking. Or running. Or cycling. Not your trash. I realize I can't make you fix the lights that light up your driveway, and thus your sidewalk, but that does mean that I am unable to see the huge bags of discarded feed that you so carefully set in the middle of the sidewalk, especially if your neighbor is blinding me with their high beams (see my first point earlier). And that means I trip and fall, or maybe just twist and ankle. And that in turn means I'm unhappy. And I don't like that, which means I will probably cuss some more. Just saying.
Also, can we restrict putting our trash out until, oh, trash day maybe? I mean, I'm not sure what the purpose is of placing your broken TV, your old unused bags of cement, and half of the dead tree that you finally cut down in the middle of the sidewalk the day -after- trash was picked up, but I'm imaging you're thinking something like, "Well, I sure don't need that dang tv messin' up my garage, jus' when I'm workin' on cousin jerry's Chevette, so let me just go an' set that thang out there on that there piece of concrete right in front of the road. Why, it was jus' so nice of the county to put that there right fur our trash.."
Well, actually, I obviously have no idea what any of these people are thinking, but you get the idea. It's a pain.
Oh yes, and let's talk sprinklers. I realize sprinklers are a fact of life down here. But dear lord can we please set our systems up so that they don't start with the sprinklers right by the side of the road? I don't mind getting wet at all, in fact, I will go out of my way to run through sprinklers. But what gets me every time is the abrupt and loud, "Ratatatatata-cha-cha-shhhhhhh". I will seriously jump a foot in the air every time. I'm sure it's really hilarious to look at, but when I'm running, the last thing I need is an even faster heart rate. Seriously people.
So now that we have some of these ground rules set out for all of us, I would like to let you all know that I will probably be running again on Tuesday morning. You have all been warned. Thanks.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Heur haar
Het is weer eens hoog tijd voor een Nederlands verhaal. En vandaag wil ik het hebben over wenkbrauwen. En dan niet alleen die van mij, maar die van de gemiddelde Amerikaanse vrouw in het zuiden.
Na ruim drie jaar in dit deel van de wereld, denk ik dat ik de voorzichtige conclusie kan trekken dat Amerikaanse vrouwen (ten minste in dit deel van het land) een hekel hebben aan haar. Niet op hun hoofd. Dat niet. Hun kapsel kan niet groot en dik genoeg zijn. Nee, ik heb het dan voornamelijk over haar dat niet op hun hoofd zit. Op hun benen, armen, en dan voornamelijk de wenkbrauw. Want het is, aldus de vrouwen in het zuiden, natuurlijk uber-duidelijk dat moeder natuur c.q. onze Lieve Heer hier een enorme fout heeft gemaakt. En dus wordt er geschoren, geharst, ge-eplieerd, en ge-electrocuteerd dat het een lieve lust is. Het hele jaar door.
Nu wil ik absoluut niet stellen dat Nederlandse vrouwen als een soort Yeti's door het leven gaan, met hamsters onder hun oksels en bossen op hun benen, maar ik zie toch wel een iets groter pragmatisme in hun aanpak van het haar. Zo heb in meerdere vriendinnen uit Europa, en het noorden van de VS, die, net zoals ik, in de winter echt niet elke dag hun benen scheren. Of die de zachte blonde haren op hun bovenbenen niet als een vloek van boven zien, maar ze gewoon lekker laten zitten (en ik durf het bijna niet te zeggen, maar wederom, net zoals ik). Of die, en laat mijn lokale vriendinnen het maar niet horen, hun wenkbrauwen gewoon laten voor wat ze zijn.
Vooral wat betreft wenkbrauwen lijken de vrouwen hier ware "hair nazi's". Ik ken geen enkele vrouw die hier oorspronkelijk vandaan komt, die niet om de drie weken bij de lokale waxing strip haar wenkbrauwen laat bijwerken. En die niet een noodgeval-pincet in elke handtas heeft voor het geval een haartje het lef heeft om buiten het prachtige geharste model naar boven te komen.
Toegegeven, ik epileer al jaren mijn wenkbrauwen. Ondanks mijn lichte haar, heb ik namelijk prachtige Brooke Shields wenkbrauwen, die binnen de korste tijd uitgroeien tot ware oerwouden met eigen stammen, koloniale wetgeving, en kerkgemeenschappen. En dus pak ik eens in de zoveel tijd een pincet, en werk het bij tot een iets netter boogje. Let wel, ik zei: iets netter. Dus als er eens een haartje besluit een eigen lijn te trekken, dan maak ik me daar meestal niet zo heel druk om.
Let wel, ik zeg meestal. Want soms, terwijl we koffie aan het drinken zijn, of winkelen, of aan het koken, dan vraagt een van mijn vriendinnen soms heel terloops of ik mijn wenkbrauwen hars. En voor diegene van jullie die bekend zijn met het "southern discourse", dit is dus zuidelijk voor "Je wenkbrauwen moeten echt weer eens bijgewerkt worden." Dit wordt dan vaak gevolgd door een gedetailleerde discussie over welke lichaamsdelen de verschillende vriendinnen allemaal laten harsen, en hoe fijn dat wel niet is. Een vriendin heeft met zelfs een keer toevertrouwd dat ze weigerde te bevallen met een "messy bikini line", en dat ze dus twee weken voor de baby zou komen, nog even haar bikini lijn heeft laten harsen.
Juist.
Op zulk soort momenten denk ik altijd aan B, de vriendin die uit het midwesten komt, en die mij ooit toevertrouwde dat zij slechts het minimale met haar wenkbrauwen doet. Haar standaard antwoord als mensen iets vragen over haar wenkbrauwen, benen, of welk lichaamsdeel dan ook is, "If you can see the hairs, you're way too close dude."
En daar hou ik me denk ik ook maar aan. Dus. Back off!
Na ruim drie jaar in dit deel van de wereld, denk ik dat ik de voorzichtige conclusie kan trekken dat Amerikaanse vrouwen (ten minste in dit deel van het land) een hekel hebben aan haar. Niet op hun hoofd. Dat niet. Hun kapsel kan niet groot en dik genoeg zijn. Nee, ik heb het dan voornamelijk over haar dat niet op hun hoofd zit. Op hun benen, armen, en dan voornamelijk de wenkbrauw. Want het is, aldus de vrouwen in het zuiden, natuurlijk uber-duidelijk dat moeder natuur c.q. onze Lieve Heer hier een enorme fout heeft gemaakt. En dus wordt er geschoren, geharst, ge-eplieerd, en ge-electrocuteerd dat het een lieve lust is. Het hele jaar door.
Nu wil ik absoluut niet stellen dat Nederlandse vrouwen als een soort Yeti's door het leven gaan, met hamsters onder hun oksels en bossen op hun benen, maar ik zie toch wel een iets groter pragmatisme in hun aanpak van het haar. Zo heb in meerdere vriendinnen uit Europa, en het noorden van de VS, die, net zoals ik, in de winter echt niet elke dag hun benen scheren. Of die de zachte blonde haren op hun bovenbenen niet als een vloek van boven zien, maar ze gewoon lekker laten zitten (en ik durf het bijna niet te zeggen, maar wederom, net zoals ik). Of die, en laat mijn lokale vriendinnen het maar niet horen, hun wenkbrauwen gewoon laten voor wat ze zijn.
Vooral wat betreft wenkbrauwen lijken de vrouwen hier ware "hair nazi's". Ik ken geen enkele vrouw die hier oorspronkelijk vandaan komt, die niet om de drie weken bij de lokale waxing strip haar wenkbrauwen laat bijwerken. En die niet een noodgeval-pincet in elke handtas heeft voor het geval een haartje het lef heeft om buiten het prachtige geharste model naar boven te komen.
Toegegeven, ik epileer al jaren mijn wenkbrauwen. Ondanks mijn lichte haar, heb ik namelijk prachtige Brooke Shields wenkbrauwen, die binnen de korste tijd uitgroeien tot ware oerwouden met eigen stammen, koloniale wetgeving, en kerkgemeenschappen. En dus pak ik eens in de zoveel tijd een pincet, en werk het bij tot een iets netter boogje. Let wel, ik zei: iets netter. Dus als er eens een haartje besluit een eigen lijn te trekken, dan maak ik me daar meestal niet zo heel druk om.
Let wel, ik zeg meestal. Want soms, terwijl we koffie aan het drinken zijn, of winkelen, of aan het koken, dan vraagt een van mijn vriendinnen soms heel terloops of ik mijn wenkbrauwen hars. En voor diegene van jullie die bekend zijn met het "southern discourse", dit is dus zuidelijk voor "Je wenkbrauwen moeten echt weer eens bijgewerkt worden." Dit wordt dan vaak gevolgd door een gedetailleerde discussie over welke lichaamsdelen de verschillende vriendinnen allemaal laten harsen, en hoe fijn dat wel niet is. Een vriendin heeft met zelfs een keer toevertrouwd dat ze weigerde te bevallen met een "messy bikini line", en dat ze dus twee weken voor de baby zou komen, nog even haar bikini lijn heeft laten harsen.
Juist.
Op zulk soort momenten denk ik altijd aan B, de vriendin die uit het midwesten komt, en die mij ooit toevertrouwde dat zij slechts het minimale met haar wenkbrauwen doet. Haar standaard antwoord als mensen iets vragen over haar wenkbrauwen, benen, of welk lichaamsdeel dan ook is, "If you can see the hairs, you're way too close dude."
En daar hou ik me denk ik ook maar aan. Dus. Back off!
Monday, August 2, 2010
Dressbarns and clotheshorses
The other day I got really excited about clothes. As my recent shopping experiences have been nothing short of nightmares, this is definitely something worth noting. Granted, the excitement lasted for about ten minutes, but still. It's worth mentioning. Allow me to explain.
You see, as I was walking towards to my all-time favorite shoestore, I noticed that a Dressbarn had opened next door. A recent forage through my closet made it painfully clear that I was in desperate need for some up to date clothes. You know, cute, yet appropriate business wear, nice summer dresses, and tops and pants that did not try to make me look as though I was born after the Berlin wall came down. I mean, it's possible that I'm spoiled, but none of the stores around here seem to be able to help me in that respect. Sears, JCPenny's, Belk's, and Macy's seem to cater to women born during the prohibition, Walmart seems to be meant for people who really don't care if their clothes fall apart after two spin cycles while most other stores down here insist on having me look like a 17-year old cheerleader gone seedy. I used to be able to stop in at The Limited, Ann Taylor Loft and The Gap, and be done for an entire year, but after those stores all closed (and the nearest ones are now 100 miles away thankyouverymuch), my clothing situation had become slightly dire.
Through the grapevine that is our town, I had heard that the Dressbarn was a nice store, with decent clothes that were fun, fashionable, and affordable. What more could a woman want? So I smiled all the way into the store, and immediately saw at least four things I liked. I picked the smallest size they had (a 4), and went to the fitting room, only to step out completely disillusioned a few moments later. The size four was too big. And I mean fall-off-your-hips too big.
"Yes, " the saleslady commiserated, "I didn't think a size four was going to fit you. When you first came in, I had you pegged at a two."
"A two?!" I exclaimed.
"Oh yes dear, maybe even a zero."
"Well, do you carry a two?"
"Oh no, our smallest size is a four." The lady appeared almost as distraught as I was.
Before everyone starts telling me I'm too skinny, I would like to vehemently state that I am not. I am 5'4", and my weight falls perfectly within the healthy BMI range. I am also very happy to inform you that I am the proud owner of a real behind, one that for years has made it impossible for me to even look at a Levi's 501. I, for one, think something is up with the sizing.
When I told the lady about my sizing theory, she just smiled at my mother (who happened to be there), and said, "If only we could be as skinny as she is."
Yeah. And not be able to buy clothes you like.
But anyway, I wasn't convinced by her "you're just skinny" attitude, because I distinctly remember being a four, not too long ago. And once again, for the record, no, I have not been losing weight. So when I came home, I dove into my dresser, and triumphantly pulled out a pair of shorts that are about ten years old (I told you I needed a wardrobe update!) and which very clearly had the number "4" on its label. To drive my point home, I pulled the shorts on, and they fit. One could even argue they were just a little snug in my waist.
When I went shopping with husband-dear over the weekend, I once again tried on some dressy skirts (at Penny's this time - these looked as though they were meant for the movie 9 to 5, and with the current penchant for things vintage, I actually thought they were pretty cute). The skirts were all a size 4, and again, they fell right off my butt. Ridiculous, I tell you. Another store, believe it or not, had minus sizes, while another store had introduced half sizes or something equally mathematically challenging.
My point is that I think that American stores have been slowly making sizes bigger, in an attempt to make women feel better about themselves; "Hey! Wow! I'm only a size eight, while I used to be a size twelve! Cool! I'm coming back here!". While I don't mean to underestimate the importance of a positive body image, I would also like to point at the notion that this puts people like me at a distinct disadvantage? What are we to do? Stop exercising? Put on twenty pounds? Or more realistically: Order everything online from The Limited? Make friends with our local tailor?
Anyway, I'll deal, I'm sure. But in the meantime, it sure is frustrating. And to take away the edge of once again not finding one piece of clothing that actually fit, husband-dear and I stopped at Steak 'n' Shake to get me a small banana shake. And guess what? They don't carry smalls anymore. Correlation anyone?
You see, as I was walking towards to my all-time favorite shoestore, I noticed that a Dressbarn had opened next door. A recent forage through my closet made it painfully clear that I was in desperate need for some up to date clothes. You know, cute, yet appropriate business wear, nice summer dresses, and tops and pants that did not try to make me look as though I was born after the Berlin wall came down. I mean, it's possible that I'm spoiled, but none of the stores around here seem to be able to help me in that respect. Sears, JCPenny's, Belk's, and Macy's seem to cater to women born during the prohibition, Walmart seems to be meant for people who really don't care if their clothes fall apart after two spin cycles while most other stores down here insist on having me look like a 17-year old cheerleader gone seedy. I used to be able to stop in at The Limited, Ann Taylor Loft and The Gap, and be done for an entire year, but after those stores all closed (and the nearest ones are now 100 miles away thankyouverymuch), my clothing situation had become slightly dire.
Through the grapevine that is our town, I had heard that the Dressbarn was a nice store, with decent clothes that were fun, fashionable, and affordable. What more could a woman want? So I smiled all the way into the store, and immediately saw at least four things I liked. I picked the smallest size they had (a 4), and went to the fitting room, only to step out completely disillusioned a few moments later. The size four was too big. And I mean fall-off-your-hips too big.
"Yes, " the saleslady commiserated, "I didn't think a size four was going to fit you. When you first came in, I had you pegged at a two."
"A two?!" I exclaimed.
"Oh yes dear, maybe even a zero."
"Well, do you carry a two?"
"Oh no, our smallest size is a four." The lady appeared almost as distraught as I was.
Before everyone starts telling me I'm too skinny, I would like to vehemently state that I am not. I am 5'4", and my weight falls perfectly within the healthy BMI range. I am also very happy to inform you that I am the proud owner of a real behind, one that for years has made it impossible for me to even look at a Levi's 501. I, for one, think something is up with the sizing.
When I told the lady about my sizing theory, she just smiled at my mother (who happened to be there), and said, "If only we could be as skinny as she is."
Yeah. And not be able to buy clothes you like.
But anyway, I wasn't convinced by her "you're just skinny" attitude, because I distinctly remember being a four, not too long ago. And once again, for the record, no, I have not been losing weight. So when I came home, I dove into my dresser, and triumphantly pulled out a pair of shorts that are about ten years old (I told you I needed a wardrobe update!) and which very clearly had the number "4" on its label. To drive my point home, I pulled the shorts on, and they fit. One could even argue they were just a little snug in my waist.
When I went shopping with husband-dear over the weekend, I once again tried on some dressy skirts (at Penny's this time - these looked as though they were meant for the movie 9 to 5, and with the current penchant for things vintage, I actually thought they were pretty cute). The skirts were all a size 4, and again, they fell right off my butt. Ridiculous, I tell you. Another store, believe it or not, had minus sizes, while another store had introduced half sizes or something equally mathematically challenging.
My point is that I think that American stores have been slowly making sizes bigger, in an attempt to make women feel better about themselves; "Hey! Wow! I'm only a size eight, while I used to be a size twelve! Cool! I'm coming back here!". While I don't mean to underestimate the importance of a positive body image, I would also like to point at the notion that this puts people like me at a distinct disadvantage? What are we to do? Stop exercising? Put on twenty pounds? Or more realistically: Order everything online from The Limited? Make friends with our local tailor?
Anyway, I'll deal, I'm sure. But in the meantime, it sure is frustrating. And to take away the edge of once again not finding one piece of clothing that actually fit, husband-dear and I stopped at Steak 'n' Shake to get me a small banana shake. And guess what? They don't carry smalls anymore. Correlation anyone?
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