GIGI GOES GAGA

29 OF 30: TODAY'S RANT

These days I find myself wishing people would simply stop trying to impose their personal beliefs on others, thinking their way is the only way, that it's the right way. There is a thin line between advocating for one's convictions and shaming someone else for theirs. Besides, if the goal here is to get someone to cross the divide and join your side, condescension and judgment would be your worst strategy. No one wants to hang out with a bully. If you want to entice folks to come over, then throw a party and make it look like you're having so much fun that they can't help but want to play with you.

Because it's election season, it's easy to assume I'm talking about politics. Or even religion, as religious-based groups are using the political to influence what should remain personal. To a certain extent, I am. Now, I'm moored to my political and religious beliefs so there's not much that can sway me to any other side at this point in my life. Still, I continuously strive to understand what I don't believe in; I read, I listen, I ask questions. In the end I usually become even more rooted to what I already believed in, although learning why others think as they do makes me see where commonalities exist and where compromise is possible.

But what I'm talking about here today is just as personal, though not as contentious (at least on the surface). I'm talking about what I choose to do with my own body.

I'm not referring to contraception and abortion rights here, by the way. I do want to make my own health choices, especially in that regard, but today I just really want to know: is it too much to ask that other people don't try to tell me what I should and shouldn't be eating and what my body ought to be doing?

I read, I listen, I ask questions. Anyone who does the same would agree with me that there's a lot of confusion out there. It's not enough to simply eat one's veggies anymore -- now you have folks who think you ought to eat ONLY vegetables and food that is harvested from the earth. Then there are those who will tell you that you MUST eat only those that are locally sourced or organically grown and others who say you should eat them raw, not cooked. I've also seen charts listing fruits and vegetables that are good for you, as well as those that are not. Really? There are bad ones?

Fine. If people decide to eat only certain things and not others, I don't begrudge them that. If their food choices line up with their principles I completely respect that as well. But it's my body and I ought to have a say as to how I choose to nourish it. And if it's that time of the month and I happen to crave fried chicken livers, please don't try to shame me or make me feel bad as a person. Trust me: I know I shouldn't be eating the stuff all the time, so I don't.

Recently, a story about how a television news presenter was scolded via email by a viewer about her size went viral. The man who told her she set a bad example for children everywhere because she wasn't losing any weight was obviously fit and active. His zeal for fitness, unfortunately, was matched by his contempt for those who didn't share it.

We see this everywhere today, not only when nameless, faceless trolls tear down celebrities with cruel words about their weight, their hair, their clothes, or any of the many other choices they've happened to make. We also see this when family, friends, and other well-meaning people judge us for ours.

Now I'm not a skinny person -- not by anyone's standards. But my body can do what I need it to: I can climb stairs without running out of breath, I can walk for miles and carry a conversation without turning blue in the face. I can move furniture when, in the middle of the night, I choose to redecorate my space. I can lift things using my legs, not my back; and I use 10-pound dumbbells to strengthen my arms. I get on a treadmill three to five times a week for 30 minutes and break out a sweat. I'm not superwoman -- but I'm no sissy either.

I don't stuff my face all day with crap, and when I do choose to eat chocolate or chips I have only enough to satisfy my craving -- which is usually the amount of one serving size listed on the package. I prefer not to buy my meals at a fastfood joint, but if it's my only choice late at night or when I'm out on the road in the middle of nowhere, then I'll choose something that looks like it won't kill me. Otherwise, I eat mostly homecooked meals and try to mix it up so there's always a variety of ingredients. If I eat out at a restaurant, there's always a vegetable dish. I don't drink sugary pop or even juice and I don't look for red meat. Overall my food choices are dictated by the weekly budget, a basic knowledge of nutrition, and at times powerful cravings. Dr. Oz may not always approve, but he'd probably say at least I'm trying.

Look -- I read, I listen, I ask questions. I try to balance what makes me happy and what's actually good for me. I just don't want to stress over what I eat or how much exercise I get, and I particularly don't want to hear anyone telling me I'm not doing enough. If I'm not the size others think I should be, I'm not going to worry about it.

But if or when I decide my size is a problem, then I'll know what to do then. Or at least I'll figure it out. I just don't want my figure to be someone else's problem. If they're worrying about mine then obviously they're not dealing with the stuff they should be focusing on instead: their own business.

28 OF 30: HAPPY EVER AFTER

I still remember the first time I heard that fairytales don't come true, that there is no "happily ever after." I misunderstood the lesson then, as I misunderstood it for a long time afterward. At first I thought it meant that no one gets to be happy forever because everyone dies in the end.

When I got older and more cynical I thought it meant that even after boy and girl found, lost, and then found it each other again, their happiness didn't -- couldn't -- last forever. Because, you know, shit happens. Eventually they start fighting over trivial matters, they get sick of each other, they compromise on everything until they forget what they originally wanted for themselves, and then eventually someone dies.

But even if the fairytale had absolutely nothing to do with love and romance, I figured it meant that whatever made you happy at the conclusion of that one particular story still had to end one day. Nothing lasts forever, after all.

Where I got it all wrong, however, was thinking that only these huge events in our lives have the capability to make us happy; for instance, graduating with honors, getting that promotion with a huge salary increase, finding that one big love and saying "I do" at the altar, buying your first home, having children and witnessing them go through all the same things that brought you so much joy once. Or if none of these things happened for you, then what ultimately made you happy were life-altering or life-defining in some way at the very least.

What I've learned, perhaps even more clearly these past few years, is that while there is no story that ends happily ever after, it's not because we're doomed souls. It's because within each of us are almost infinite stories, one happening at least every day. We find happiness within each one of them only if commit ourselves to finding it. It's not the scenery, it's the view.

How many times have we assumed that a former celebrity's life had gone downhill simply because he or she seemed to have disappeared into thin air? We think that fame was the fairytale and that when it was over then it only meant sadness, even despair, for the once-famous. What we see is a life now ordinary, but for that person, the view could be just the opposite: it could mean a welcome solitude, a private existence, of living for oneself and not for others.

I could look at my own big stories and feel like a failure: a(nother) failed marriage, no children, losing a beloved home, starting over at my age. But I don't. I've grieved, to be sure; I've found myself lying in bed inside a dark room for days, not wanting to get up. But the point is that I got up: that's MY main story. Every day, I choose to find something I can be happy about. A coworker who tells me on her last day at work how much she loves me; a customer who thanks me profusely for my help; a friend who texts out of the blue to say she's thinking of me; a sister who calls to ask for advice; a boyfriend who says I have a cute butt.

But these don't come out of nowhere; we really do make our own stories. Every day as well, I walk into work with a smile on my face and try to make life easier for everyone. I want to help the people I work with, I really do want to help customers. I reach out to friends, even if only through a comment on one of their Facebook posts, and I try to do the same with my sisters even if we all live so far apart. I pinch my boyfriend's butt, tell him how handsome he is, as often as I can.

We get as much as we give; we need to be grateful for whatever we get. I never got the fairytale, but I got better. I learned how to be happy in spite of the constant challenges and the pain. In a way I get to be happy ever after, if only one day at a time.

 

 

 

 

22 of 30: DRESS YOU UP

I'm all for dressing however we please; generally, it's a harmless form of self-expression and it can even be inspiring to others. My personal caveat, however, is not to let my sartorial desires conflict with basic courtesy and respect for others. For instance, I believe in dressing up for weddings to show the new couple that their event was worth getting spiffed up for -- but I always keep in mind never to outshine the bride.

I was once at a wedding where one of the guests wore a dress that left practically nothing to the imagination (her boobs were more pillowy than the actual one the ringbearer carried to the altar); not only was she the center of attention but also the topic of conversation for the entire evening. So even if she was being widely ridiculed, in a way she still was the star of the show -- not the bride.

I think that if we all dressed alike the world would be such a boring place to live in, and so I view "rules" as merely suggestions for those who do care about these things, and not as an absolute. Which is why I generally detest "expert" pronouncements on celebrity fashion faux pas: they're often cruel and indiscriminate and tend to steer us toward playing it safe.

It's just clothing, peeples: have fun with it!

I saw this on FabSugar today and had to nab it. Yes, it's an Edith Head quote from a bygone era -- but it still echoes my personal approach to getting dressed, and so I had to share it. Lately I've been revisiting old photographs of my mother when she was in her 20s and 30s and I loved how stylish she was (she still is). I've fallen in love with dresses all over again, and plan to wear them as often as I can. And when I do I'll remember this:

Here's a photograph of my mother, on the cover of a woman's magazine in 1949. I think Edith Head would have approved.

DRESS YOU DOWN

I knew this gal who used to come to work looking like she had dressed herself with nothing more than Ace bandages wrapped around her torso; on certain days you thought that if she had arrived draped in a bath towel instead she would have been more fully clothed. She worked in Accounting -- not exactly the bastion of fearless self-expression in the workplace -- so it's not surprising she attracted disapproving looks and talk among her co-workers.

Perhaps because I went to fashion school and worked in the apparel industry for years, there's not much that raises my eyebrows, sartorially speaking. It didn't annoy me then that she chose to wear what she did; she didn't deal with clients and vendors and she did her job capably. And yet even if I had her gym-honed body I wouldn't have made the same fashion choices. I know that although we're all told from childhood that we're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, the real world has taught me that people inevitably do.

How we look -- all our outward characteristics whether or not we were born that way -- including how we dress, how we smell, how we carry ourselves -- influence how people perceive us, even if it may not seem fair. Maybe that's why only the youth use their looks to rebel against the establishment; once they become part of it they quickly learn that image can negatively impact their earning power and status.

Perception matters; perhaps that's why companies institute dress codes, although more attention is paid to the way women look. From the time we're in school, we are subjected to these rules more often and much more thoroughly than our male counterparts are. Our body parts are scrutinized: shoulders, cleavage, midriffs, thighs, and legs. Even at my workplace now, a store that joyfully celebrates women's sexuality, we're not allowed to reveal bare shoulders or wear skirts shorter than 4 inches above the knee. We can't wear leggings unless they're worn under a tunic top or dress. We're instructed that we can't wear "excessively tight, short or revealing clothing." Even the length of our fingernails is prescribed.

I've never violated a work dress code because I tend to be more covered up in general (although I don't understand how exposed upper arms interfere with productivity unless it's a safety issue). Even in my personal space I don't show a lot of skin, not because I'm afraid of what people may say or think but because I don't like to fidget with my clothing to make sure I'm not accidentally exposing my lady bits. I believe in dressing and adorning myself to look -- and thus, feel -- attractive, and I'm afraid that showing off my thighs and knees would only achieve the opposite goal. Once in a while, though, I will rock a low neckline and expose deep cleavage at night simply because I still can, and especially because it detracts the beholder's eye from other parts I'm not as proud of, such as my slackened jaw line and gentle muffin top.

And when I do, I'm offended if anyone would declare me as immoral and thus undeserving of basic decency and respect, and worse, claim that I'm "asking for it." There's no excuse for anyone to believe that a woman deserves to be disrespected or should expect to be violated or assaulted simply because of what she's wearing. There's no reason for that kind of behavior -- period. If a man sees a woman at a bar displaying all her goods, he's not a cad for getting turned on. He becomes one, however, if he treats her like a whore.

I read something recently on Inquirer.net, the online portal of a major daily Philippine newspaper. What drew my eye to it was the headline announcing the country as a potential fashion capital in the world, and that it was written by an esteemed economist and business leader. I realized quickly, to my horror, that his article had little to do with the state of the fashion industry in the Philippines; instead, it was a call for women to dress more modestly so as not to commit or encourage sin. He states:

Oftentimes, women who dress immodestly have no bad intentions of arousing males to think of them as sex objects. These women, however, can be accused of ignorance and naiveté. They fail to realize that there is a great difference between the psycho-sexual makeup of males and females. Women are ordinarily not attracted to the sexual characteristics of the opposite sex. What appeal to them are such features as gentleness, affection and a caring attitude. Men are quite different. The physical attributes of the female body are quick to arouse them. Women who dress immodestly should, therefore, realize that they are occasions of sin for the males who look at them. For those who have the Christian faith, they should always remember what Christ said: He who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery.

Therefore, he says, strict dress codes should be implemented in universities and in Church, and also for specific events and ceremonies, including one's own wedding day:

It is ridiculous to see brides and their bridesmaids looking like they were going to the beach with their backs totally bare and breasts unnecessarily exposed. In fact, the concern for the modesty of the bride should be first and foremost a duty of the parents and, not to mention, the bridegroom who should be ashamed that his future wife is showing too much of what he alone has the right to see in the intimacy of the bedroom.

Men like this writer often profess to hold these views in order to protect women, when reality is that they are intimidated of our power and seek to control us. His phrase, "of what [the bridegroom] alone has the right to see in the intimacy of the bedroom" renders us as property of our husbands, instead of independent human beings with our own mind, body, and soul. It subjugates women by asking us to be the weaker sex and capitulate to the whims and weaknesses of men. By saying that we are not "attracted to the sexual characteristics of the opposite sex," he declares us to be asexual creatures, not requiring physical intimacy, of being damaged when we have sexual urges.

His message is also a potentially dangerous one because it insinuates that we are responsible for what sins might occur because of what we choose to wear. For him, men are inherently weak creatures and if we arouse them and they act accordingly -- whether we wish it or not -- then it's our fault completely. Not the men who couldn't take control of their own decisions and actions. Ours. This is the worst kind of misogyny, one that disguises itself under the benevolent cloak of concern and protection.

There's a difference between questioning a woman's common sense in wearing a skimpy outfit to work and declaring that she is immoral and sinful because she does. We know that whenever we squeeze into a snug miniskirt we are attracting attention, favorable or otherwise, from both men and women. What we should never be expected to assume, however, is that when we do it's okay for others to announce open season against us. Even when we may appear practically naked, our bodies are sacred and belong to us alone unless we choose to share it. Anyone who disagrees is the real danger to society -- not the one who decided how she wanted to dress before going out. Even when the size of our clothing is small, we are infinitely better than the one with the small mind.

 

 

MEN AND WOMEN: FRIENDS ONLY?

I have a girlfriend who can't name all the men she's slept with. She can remember vividly, however, a handful from early on as well as the few who came along the last couple of years (she's slowed down her pace considerably). But all the others in the middle -- more than 50 men, she reckons, although she's not quite sure of the exact number -- are nameless; some are even faceless to her now.

"How can you forget their names?" I demanded. "Not even a first name?" She shook her head.

"Haven't you ever slept with anyone you didn't know?" It was her turn to ask me a question. I shook my head this time.

"Oh yeah," she muttered. "You only hook up with friends."

I leaned back, eyes widened...and then my shoulders dropped. I had nothing to say. Except.

"I'm afraid of cooties," I said cooly. "And with guys you don't know, well, you just don't know."

After When Harry Met Sally hit the theaters in 1989, it seemed like everyone was asking the same question: can men and women just be friends? Harry didn't think so; he said the sex always got in the way. Sally disagreed -- and then fell in the sack with him during a terribly vulnerable moment. And just when it seemed that the friendship was ruined for good, they got back together when they realized they loved each other, and we all knew that Harry was right after all. At least in the movie.

What screenwriter Nora Ephron didn't get to say is that sometimes, sex doesn't so much get in the way but is along the way between two friends. It doesn't have to be a zero-sum game, where you can be only friends or lovers, and it doesn't always mean that just because a line has been crossed that you can't shuffle your feet backward across the line again. Of course, nothing's ever quite the same as it once was but I say that if the friendship was strong enough in the first place then it will survive the forward-and-back crossing eventually, if both wish it so.

That being said, I still believe that men and women can enjoy close friendships without ever crossing the line. Sure, in my life there were times I've had to hold up a bright red stop sign when a randy friend had tried to send a few signals of his own, but more often than not many of my guyfriends considered me just one of the guys (albeit nicer smelling and with soft towels and better furniture).

The other day I conducted my own (most-unscientific) survey on Facebook: I asked my friends who were online whether or not they thought men and women can remain just friends. All of them said yes; many with the caveat, though, "it depends."

My friend J, who is both a guy's guy and a girl's guy, said succinctly, "Of course men and women can be friends." He added that throughout his life many of his close friends were female and there wasn't any sex involved, only "the pleasure of hanging out together." My girlfriend M concurred, explaining that one of her best friends is a guy she's known since 8th grade: "We tell each other our secrets and troubles and get the opposite sex's point of view. We also have the same humor and tons of inside jokes... tons of history there!"

My sister J, who will never call a spade anything but, said it's possible -- but only if there's no sexual attraction between the two. Which was echoed by my friend A, who explained that once she gets closer to a guyfriend it's difficult not to become attracted to him. Thus, she maintains close friendships with men who are not her type physically or who aren't her ideal in any other way.

I also asked the same question to a couple of guys who had crossed the line from friend to lover in my life at some point. G, who has always had several female friends, had an interesting point of view: he said that once someone gets married, the extent of how close a friendship one can maintain with someone of the opposite sex depends on one's spouse, even when the marital bond is strong. And when you factor in demands of work and home, he added, the friendship invariably grows distant.

Which echoes what one of my best college guyfriends S explained to me more than a decade ago when I asked him why he didn't call me like he used to: "I don't think your husband would like it if I did." And after he himself had gotten married and had children, we never talked on the phone again.

I'm not sure what to make of R's response to my question: "I think so, we were friends first, right? Friendship only makes the love affair sweeter later on." Which is lovely to think about, but doesn't quite address whether men and women can be friends only.

And yet, his reply touches on why I've often chosen to get involved with men I was already friends with -- and sometimes, really good friends -- to begin with. You cut down the time it gets to know each other, there are usually no unpleasant surprises to deal with, and there's a high level of trust established. And what if it doesn't work out?

In my experience, at least, I become the one they talk to when they enter into their next relationship. After all, I can call them out on their shit before their new girlfriend does. Which makes perfect sense if you think of it -- because no one else knows what the women in their lives have to put up with quite like I do. And why waste a perfectly good friendship?

 

 

A HEAVY LOAD

At this moment I'm having an interesting -- quite revealing, actually -- conversation on Facebook. I updated my status with what I thought was an unabashedly romantic statement the librettist and theatrical producer  Oscar Hammerstein II made to then-Dorothy Blanchard Jacobson shortly after he'd met her:

"If I were a little boy in school and you were a little girl in school I'd carry your books home for you."

When they met in the 1920s they were both already in their 30s -- and married to other people, with children. Not the best of circumstances certainly, and even today there would be a lot of tsk-tsk'ing about the way they got together. But even Dorothy's daughter acknowledges that they probably fell for each other instantaneously, and by several accounts they remained in love to the very end.

My niece C -- an intelligent, thoughtful, highly independent young woman I'm quite proud of -- however, disagrees with my romantic take on this story. She thinks that if a boy had offered to carry her books home it would be a reflection on his belief that she's not strong or capable enough to do it herself. Plus, she says, the idea of a grown man thinking of her as a little girl is pretty creepy.

I know where she's coming from; at her age I wrestled with my views on old-fashioned chivalry versus my burgeoning feminist ideals. At her age I was living on my own, supporting myself, figuring how to do things that I'd never learned how to do. I was coming to terms with falling in love, getting into relationships, and trying not to lose my identity in the process. Surely a man didn't have to open the door for me or pull out my chair during a dinner date at a restaurant; I could easily do them for myself, thank you very much.

But as I've gotten older I've learned to live with the blurry lines and interpret male-female dynamics in terms other than power and control. But of course I know when I'm being demeaned or underestimated because of my sex -- that's something I can spot instinctively and react accordingly. For instance, if a guy sees me holding a power drill and jokes about what damage I might do with it, I may just show him how I could if I wanted to (like right then and there). Or if it's suggested that I can't replace my car's automatic transmission simply because I'm a girl I might reply that I know quite a few men, including my own father, who can't do so either. Besides, I'm not too thrilled with the idea of the monstrous thing crashing down onto my chest and pinning me under the car, where no one might find me for weeks.

So I do appreciate it when a man offers to carry something heavy for me, the same way I would offer to help anyone else I were with. The way I see it these days, it's about kindness and empathy, regardless of the sex of the person who was trying to help me. Some days I might accept the assistance, other days I may not because I'm good, really -- but I'd never take it against the guy who offered to ease my load.

I've been in relationships with men who were raised to show modern acts of chivalry with the women they're with, and I've been with those who had never met a door they liked. The truth is that I know which breed I prefer -- as long as they didn't make such a huge show of doing something nice for me and expecting something in return. When a man offers to hold my heavy bag of groceries I'd like to think it means he's thinking of me kindly, period. And it's always nice to know you're being thought of in that way.

But going back to Hammerstein's quote, I suppose it knocked me off my feet in the first place because it made me reflect on meeting the right one at the right time, before life got so darn complicated. When you fall in love when you shouldn't, with someone you shouldn't fall for, then the thing you hope for the most is that you can go back in time when everything was as easy as carrying a girl's books home from school.

 

11 of 30: TOO MUCH REALITY, AND NOT NEARLY ENOUGH

I keep wishing reality shows would just go away, that people would lose their appetite for them the way we all wish we could lose our jones for crunchy, fatty food and sugar. Unfortunately, both are guilty pleasures that many refuse to give up, and so they're here for good.

I can't keep track of all the reality shows that come and go. I try so very hard to pretend they don't exist but they keep interrupting my regular viewing pleasure with teaser ads, often showing the latest catfight (question: why is it always the women fighting?) or couples making out in hot tubs while jealous girls in bikinis shoot killer looks their way.

By now we all know there's nothing real about reality shows; we know they're scripted in varying degrees and what we see is a thin version of of these people's lives the producers want us to see. After all, if we all squabbled and argued and fought and brawled and cried and yelled as much as these "actors" do in our own world, we would be too tired, way too exhausted, to get anything productive done.

If reality shows were real I'd lose all faith in humanity. In reality world (as opposed to the real world) the one who causes the most trouble is the de facto hero who gets the most air time; the most narcissistic, manipulative sociopath always wins. This is not the place for people who don't want to cause trouble: here, troublemakers rule. In a very real sense, we're rewarding people for exhibiting behavior that normally they'd be punished for.

I have no idea what kind of long-term effects reality shows will have on society. I would certainly hope that real-life dating is unlike anything in reality-world dating, where a bunch of women fight each other tooth-and-nail over one man they barely know, whose attention and affection they would do anything for. Besides, is this dating or harem survival?

I'm not an expert on reality shows. I've viewed a few episodes here and there along the way, and always felt silly, even guilty, for watching. I couldn't say I was being entertained and I didn't learn anything either. I'd come away not liking anyone on the show enough to want to root for any of them, no matter how evil the others were in comparison. The worst part, however, was that most of these folks make more money than the rest of us simply by being the kind of people we warn our children about.

Aaron Sorkin explains best what I both hate and fear most about reality shows in tonight's episode of Newsroom. Will McAvoy (Jeff Daniels) tells his date, who's a fan of The Real Housewives of New Jersey : "Human cockfighting makes us mean and desensitizes us."

And just like real cockfighting, the human version makes so much money for the winners that we probably won't ever see the end of it. Even if it makes losers out of the rest of us.

THE TALK

Most of my friends are parents; I can count on one hand who among my nearest and dearest are not. This means that for many years my phone was awfully quiet. My girlfriends, who once called me with their relationship problems and would talk my ear off for hours, were now reaching out to their mom-friends instead for bits of advice and lots of child-rearing commiseration.

But now that their children are older I'm being brought back to the fold of girlfriendom. The topic? Sex. Yes, theirs too (and this topic for another day), but mainly that of their teenage children. What do we all think about sex education in schools? What about condom distribution? How do we talk to our children about sexual responsibility and safety?

(Hello girls, I'm baaaack...!)

I'll cut to the chase here: I support sex education in school. Many of those who disagree with me argue that if you talk to kids about sex, then they're going to start thinking about sex -- and then have sex. Preposterous. Trust me: your children are already thinking about sex. They've been thinking about it earlier than we did, even.

They are surrounded -- besieged -- by sexual imagery. There's sex in their television shows, movies, books and magazines, billboards, music videos, and in song lyrics. Their teen idols are sexier than ours ever were. Stores sell our children junior versions of very adult-looking clothes, even sexy underwear. No one can stop this, and there's no going back now.

Today children have access to online porn. At the lingerie store where I work, young female teens and even preteens pick out some of the sexiest little things we offer, walk into the fitting rooms, and take pictures of themselves (yes, we can hear their camera phones clicking away). I can only hope they're not sending them off to boys at their schools, but statistics suggest they probably are.

Your children are probably confused about everything they see and hear and feel, just as we were at their age. If you find it difficult to relate to this now, think about all the information you're bombarded with regarding weight loss -- all the different diet plans, exercise theories and regimes, whether a calorie really is just a calorie -- and ask yourself if you're not the slightest bit confused or unsure about the best way to drop those last 15 pounds. Until you talk to your doctor or nutritionist or certified trainer, you may find yourself falling simply for the latest trend and not what's necessarily good for you.

My friends all know that I started having sex earlier than the average age, at 15, which is about the age their children are now. Thus they hope I have unique personal insight that can help them get into their kids' heads and prevent them from doing the same thing. So what made me do it, they ask?

Mad love for my boyfriend and raging hormones, I answer. I knew nothing about sex; by the time we discussed it in school (it was a short lesson in our "Family Life and Planning" class, where we discussed the lucky sperm finding the egg) I was already buying condoms in the drugstore. In religion classes we learned that premarital sex was a sin, but that just didn't cut it for me. I had no fear of God, or at least a literal kind of fear where I believed I'd go to Hell if I did. By then I'd already had more than 10 years of catechism and Sunday sermons, so it's not like I didn't know the Church's position on this. "No" just wasn't good enough of an answer for me.

I hadn't yet watched a "dirty movie" by then, and I didn't have The Talk with my parents (I don't think they knew how to). By the time I knew I'd have to make a decision as to whether or not to have sex with my boyfriend for the first time I couldn't find any information and I had no one to talk to. The first time I saw his penis was the first time I'd ever seen one; the first time he touched me "down there" I cried.

Fortunately he was planning to become a doctor and didn't want his future derailed by early fatherhood, so we were careful. And even if we were, there were so many things I didn't know -- things I probably should have known. Things that should be discussed in age-appropriate sex education classes in school and conversations at home.

I know for a fact that ignorance will not keep your children innocent. And whether or not you can bear the thought of it, what they're learning about sex now is probably not what you want them to know. I know preteens who have seen images of anal sex, fisting, double penetration, and other things some of my own friends have never seen.

I don't know if The Talk was ever a simple matter, but I know it's more complicated now. It's an ongoing discussion, encompassing not only issues of pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases, but of responsibility, empowerment, respect and self-respect, understanding one's own body and what happens physically and emotionally during sexual activity (which includes kissing), of love, relationships, maturity, social realities, and if applicable, religious teachings and beliefs. This is certainly not a complete list.

You may believe you're the best person to talk to your children about the topic -- and you are. But with the glut of uncontrolled sexual messages they're exposed to, wouldn't it be a good thing if other responsible, educated, and trained adults helped your children navigate their thoughts and feelings in order to make smart decisions and develop self-confidence?

Some people think instilling fear is the best strategy here. I say, however, that your children are better off not fearing what's inside their hearts and heads, but of trusting they know what's right for themselves. Because they've already sifted through information and found truth, or at least the answers they needed to find.

 

 

 

9 OF 30: WHAT'S WRONG WITH "LOVE"?

Call me old-fashioned but I don't get why anyone would spell "luv" instead of "love." For heaven's sake it's only one more letter, one more keystroke. One.

I'm not referring to it in the sense of how the English say, "Can I get you a drink, luv?" but to how it's often used as a verb these days. I suspect it functions as a light version of love -- like when a good friend signs off on a chat or text message with "luv ya!" Which translates to: I don't really love you in any kind of profound way, but you're really neat so...luv ya!

Yep, the "ya" makes me wince, too. But it doesn't bother me nearly as much as "luv." In fact, I even use it once in a while -- "See ya!" or "Ya know?" -- when I want to sound pretentiously casual or breezy. Kinda like when I say "yep" or "yeah" for "yes." Or when I say "kinda."

"Luv" bugs me most when written by folks who are in their 40s and up. Really, for most of your life the word "love" worked perfectly fine and then suddenly now it's simply too long and/or too emotionally invested? Besides, "luv" is cutesy -- which middle-aged people should perhaps try to steer away from. So if a man wrote me something like "I luv you, sweetheart" I might suspect that he was being cutesy or suspiciously noncommittal. Or maybe he's an atrocious speller -- which is almost as icky in my book.

But what irks me even more than "luv" is "heart" used as a verb -- as in "I heart you" or worse, "I heart ya." It's one letter MORE than "love" so it's obviously not an expedient substitute. It makes absolutely no sense to me, though I suppose its use might have originated from trying to pronounce something like I ♥ Huckabees (a movie which, by the way, was just as perplexing to me as all this other nonsense.

If pressed I'd admit -- grudgingly -- that in the scheme of things, of what's essential to the survival of civilization as we know it, adults expressing their love as "luv" or "heart" is a nonissue. That as long as we're all loving the world and everything and everyone in it then who cares how we say it, right?

[Pause.]

But as for nonwords like fambam and chillax (okay, I know this one made it to Merriam-Webster, but) -- well, I have to draw the line here now.  Simply put, they make my skin crawl. So if you want me to luv ya, don't ever use either with me, please. Unless you're thirteen years old, that is, and it's practically expected for you to be a bit annoying.

 

 

 

ABOUT BEING SINGLE

I remember a time when I thought it was awful to be single. I was 14 years old and my bestfriend and I had made a pact to send each other roses for Valentine's Day so we wouldn't feel like losers. Before the day came, however, a cute boy came calling for my friend, they fell in love, and she received a beautiful bouquet of flowers that February 14th. But not from me. And I suppose since her new attachment threw a wrench into our youthful pact, there were none from her, too.

Being single sucked. Big time.

Since then I've never thought being single was a negative. I got to live on my own, do my own thing, hang around with whomever I wanted to, and do all the weird things I like to do with no apologies to anyone.

The truth is, however, that perhaps I really wouldn't know much about being single, at least for any extended period of time. For the roughly 30 years that have transpired between my first and last relationships, there have been narrow windows, few and far between, when I was wholly unattached. I've even suspected that all the times I thought being single was the best thing ever was when I was not.

I've always admired single independent women. For those of you who are currently in relationships, think of all the things that are more difficult to do when you're a party of one. Like bringing your car to get serviced, for instance. If you're married we can safely assume that your spouse would simply drive to the shop separately and then bring you to wherever you need to be after you've dropped your car off. If you're single you'd need to call in a favor from a friend who's not too busy, hail a cab, or take public transportation to get around.

Nothing's impossible, of course, even when you're alone. I have a group of girlfriends, all single, who gather every weekend at someone's house on a rotating basis to help out with chores that would be too difficult for only one person to accomplish. Their system works out so much better than that of a few married couples I know, where neither one does much to help the other out. These people make me wonder what the point is in being married at all.

I just read this post today, which is making me examine how I really think and feel about being single. When I am, do I see myself as being merely between relationships? Do I let it affect my relationships with my (usually married, with children) friends? Or how does it affect others interacting with me?

The author, Thomas Rogers, wonders.

I don’t think we even know what being single is. We live in such a couples-obsessed society that there really are no “singles” out there — everyone is pre- or post-coupled. They’re either in the wings waiting or they’re past their prime and are no longer allowed to be part of this central way people not only organize their intimate lives but attain social legitimacy. People use relationships to bind themselves to social, political and cultural realities.

So many questions, and yet this is probably the best time in history for single people everywhere, especially for women. When I was a child the stereotype of a single woman in her 30s was the "old maid" in dowdy clothes, her hair tightly wound in a bun, peering through her glasses with pursed lips, with a cat waiting for her at home. No longer. Usually the only tight thing we think of about her are her buns (yoga-perfected, of course). Whether you loved or hated Sex and the City when it first aired, you have to admit that it changed many of the pictures in our heads.

One thing I have to set straight before I go, though. Despite all the relationships I've been in, I've never stayed because I couldn't find the strength to go. Whenever being with someone made me feel more alone than I do when I'm the only person in the room, it was a signal that something had to change. Something had to be tweaked, mended, fixed, or overhauled -- and if nothing worked, ended. Perhaps in a way, there is a single gal inside me always, one who chooses to be with someone for reasons other than being afraid of being single, of being alone.

 

 

BURNIN' LOVE

Whenever the first sweltering day of summer arrives, I inevitably think of my friend J. She once said she feels sexiest this time of year -- beads of warm sweat on bronzed skin shimmering through tiny bits of clothing, shared heat simmering between bodies, summer music that makes you want to shake your hips with your arms high in the air.

I've always had a nagging suspicion that my friend J mentally transports herself to an island paradise once it's bathing suit season again, no matter where she happens to be. As for me, summer fills me with dread. It gives me horrific visions of being drenched in my work clothes during my daily commute, sweat and city soot intermingling into a kind of urban mud. In the summer I am as still as the trees in the absence of a breeze, the only way I've learned to expend the least amount of energy possible. When I feel hot I don't want anyone remotely near me  -- I don't need more steam emanating from another overheated body.

I do understand that we've all got to sweat, but I happen to think there's appropriate clothing for that. If I were wrong then would Lululemon be the bazillion-dollar company it is? Would we spend 90 bucks on yoga pants if it didn't wick away moisture, allow our skin to breathe, and prevent chafing? We buy overpriced tanks and tees so we can sweat comfortably (an oxymoron if there ever was, if you ask me).

I do not like heat. I moved to Seattle for the weather, after all. But today it's 80 degrees and I'm already mildly cranky. I want to hit every person who tells me, happily, to enjoy the warm sun.

I happen to like it cold. Even in the winter, when it's 30 degrees outside, I sleep with a fan to circulate the frigid air around the room. If I could will the weather, it would be 68 degrees every day, give or take a few degrees in either direction.

This means, of course, that I am unable to share space with anyone who likes it warm all the time, especially indoors. It's my non-negotiable; I refuse to budge on this -- for anyone at all. I tell anyone who complains or argues that one can layer on clothes endlessly but I can only take so many off until both of us are at ease.

But my friend G, now his love for his wife C apparently knows no bounds. I've known the guy for a long time, and we've actually agreed that a thermostat setting of 70 degrees is both reasonable and comfortable for most people. But C is not one of these people -- she starts getting chilly when it's below 75 degrees. So when she moved into his house after they got married, he fired up the floor furnace to a toasty low 80s, where it's remained ever since. In the car the temperature is automatically set to 77. I'm certain he has suffered greatly, especially as he was acclimating, but he has never complained, not once, says C.

Clearly, his love for her burns -- literally. But I say if you want to love me then you've simply got to chill.

CRAZY BUSY

The last time I said I was "crazy busy" was in January last year. I was getting ready to move from Los Angeles back to Manila, and I had only three weeks to pack up everything I owned and get them into storage. This was also when I realized just how much I'd accumulated; in all my 28 years of moving from one place to another, it had never taken me three weeks to pack up. One week, maybe two -- max -- and only if I were moving really slowly.

So for three weeks I packed, I sold, I donated, I gave away. I didn't sleep. The only friends I saw were those who generously gave up their time to come over and help me wrap things in newspaper and label storage boxes. I was grateful for Facebook because it provided a way I could say goodbye and thank you to those I didn't have time to see or talk to. No farewell dinners, no teary-eyed get-togethers, nothing. I was crazy busy.

I was also exhausted.

There was another time in my life when I was this crazed; it lasted for about a couple of years (could have been more, but it was all a blur). I was a full-time college student working a full-time newspaper job and another part-time gig to help pay the bills. I was also active in school and in my community, and spent whatever time I should have had left for sleep doing both. So I gave up sleep. I refueled by taking naps in my car or wherever I could close my eyes for 20 minutes without being mugged or arrested. And then I fell for the most wonderful guy who said he loved me, and in the end I told him I was too busy and much too tired to love him back.

When you're so busy and tired that you choose to give up sleep and love, then you've gone crazy. Not just crazy busy, but actually bat-shit crazy.

I read this marvelous piece in The New York Times yesterday about people being so busy these days. About their self-imposed busyness, created so they don't have to face what happens when they're suddenly still. Tim Kreider writes:

Busyness serves as a kind of existential reassurance, a hedge against emptiness; obviously your life cannot possibly be silly or trivial or meaningless if you are so busy, completely booked, in demand every hour of the day.

There may be a lot of things I need to do, but you won't hear me saying "I'm too busy" these days. I'm just not that important. Some days I don't do more than wake up late, let the ol' dog out, watch The Chew while I heat up leftovers for lunch, read a lot, write a little, think about going to the gym, putz around on Facebook, do laundry, and wonder what I'd like to eat for dinner before heading out to the grocery.  And I try not to feel guilty about doing so little (though it's still hard not to).

On days like this I can also hear my thoughts clearly, and even debate with myself. I can remember a favorite movie I haven't seen in years -- and then watch it On Demand. I can hop in front of my computer and start writing when words start to flow in my head, and I can pick up the phone when a friend or sister calls. I can clean my makeup brushes, organize my paperwork, or research the recipe of a dish I've been craving for days. On days like this I'm not too busy to sleep or love.

And when I no longer have days like this, I may not get as much sleep as I need but I'll never give up anything (or anyone) I love. Never again. Or you can call me crazy.