Driving Fast and Turning Back

The Moth is a locally-held story-telling event. A story-teller has 5 minutes to tell his or her story which must be true and told well from memory (no prompts or notes), Ten are randomly selected each night to share. I have always put my name in, no matter how unprepared I've been, but my name has never been pulled from the hat yet.

I'm not complaining. This could be a blessing. If nothing else, it's forced me to think through a few memories and put them into story form. "On Hugging" was sketched out on the theme of Feelings for The Moth but it never got on stage. This one below was sketched out for the theme of Fast Lane (which only loosely applies since the only thing fast about either story is that it involved driving above the speed limit on the highway) but I won't be able to attend to try and pitch it.

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When I was five or six, the teenaged daughter of a family friend gave me a stuffed bear. It wasn’t particularly cute and it was funny looking. I didn’t love it at first but it looked sad and like it needed a friend so I became attached to it over time and it became my favorite stuffed toy throughout childhood.

On Hugging

I don’t like hugs.

It’s nothing about the hugger, nothing that anyone should take personally. I just don’t like hugging.

I don’t think most people appreciate how much interpersonal skill goes into giving and receiving hugs. What if one of you is sweaty? What if one of you is stinky? How long is a hug supposed to last? What if the hug is misunderstood as a gesture of sexual interest? What if I’m hugging a man and he gets an erection? Am I allowed to notice? Where do the arms go? Do I put them around the neck if someone is taller? Do I wrap them around the back and do a full frontal? Most importantly, consider what I look like. I’m a short woman with larger-than-most boobs. This is really the crux of the situation.

You Think It's Misogyny. Really It's Being Polite.

Every once in a while I skim through my social media feed and see posts shared by well-intentioned, strong, independent women warning us about the misogyny wherever we look. Men opening doors for women! Men being expected to pick up the tab! Men taking up space! Most recently my feed was hit with share after share of “16 Instances of Micro-Misogyny that Prove Patriarchy Is Everywhere!”

Here’s the deal: I don’t think hardly any of these constitute examples of micro-misogyny or hatred of women. Maybe they’re relics of an older time, maybe they’re just efforts at politeness, or maybe they’re examples of individual displays of rudeness but with all the real issues in the world (Iraq War 3, gun control, health care) is this really something that needs to even register on your irritation radar?

Running Your Wallet into the Twilight Zone

Flickr Commons

You're about to run through another dimension -- a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind and endurance. A journey over roads and trails and past trees and parks whose boundaries are that of imagination. There’s a mile marker up ahead that announces you have entered the Twilight Zone…of Running.

Now that you’ve entered the Twilight Zone of Running, allow me to be your pacer in this adventure, particularly its least talked about aspect: the expense. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of a runner’s fears and the summit of his knowledge.

Don't Take Your Guns to Town...Or at Least Not to Chipotle

Flickr Commons / Ghost Soldier

It’s started to happen: Crazy liberals using a social media campaign have forced Chipotle restaurants to discourage guns in their restaurants. This follows less a year after Starbucks made a statement to the same effect.  While those crazy liberals claim that guns have no place in family establishments and this is only good sense, I call it what it is: nonsense.  I shouldn’t have to choose between enjoying my civil rights and enjoying a good cheap dinner. And here's what a lot of people forget: If it becomes illegal for God-fearing citizens to wear their weapons while eating their burritos, then only criminals will eat burritos.

Chipotle is southwestern Mexican style cuisine. What is more southwestern than guns? Have you all forgotten the OK Corral? Tombstone? The Alamo? Guns are an integral part of the southwest’s history, just like trendy, bland, quick-serve Mexican food. You can’t separate one from the other!

Where does it end, I ask you? I tell you, friends, that I fear an avalanche of restaurants will begin the difficult, painful, and unnecessary separation of food and weaponry. Who will be the next to separate weapons from the enjoyment of fine cuisine?

·       Will Benihana keep law-abiding patrons from enjoying sushi while wielding their katanas?

·       Is Red Lobster going to stop customers from exercising their freedom of speech by bringing their tridents to dinner?

·       Will Sizzler prohibit white-hot branding irons under the guise of preventing damage to their naugahyde seats?

·       Is P.F. Chang’s going to pat down hungry guests at the door and remove their daos and halberds before allowing people to have lettuce wraps?

These are dark days, my law-abiding, Constitutional fundamentalist friends. Eleven score and eighteen years ago, our Founding Fathers foresaw the need for every private citizen to have the right to own their own assault rifle and semi-automatic pistol in order to fight the tyranny of government intent on giving its citizens roads, schools, and healthcare. We are so close to losing the rights that great leaders like Donald Trump, the Nuge, and Cliven Bundy have fought for us to have throughout the years.

This is an issue that should concern every citizen. Remember the poem:

First they mandated emissions and pollution control standards, and I did not stop them
because my vehicle was grandfathered in.

Then they forced people to buy healthcare, and I did not stop them
because I was already covered and wasn’t forced to buy it.

Then they Then they came for the rightfully-owned guns, and I did not speak out
because I was not a gun-owner.

Then they came to take away all my other Constitutional rights, and no one could defend me
because they took our guns.

Now, I’m going to go exercise my God-given Second Amendment rights and take my sharpened hunting boomerang to Outback Steakhouse for dinner tonight. You can never be too careful.

9 Literature Classics Rebooted as Memes

Forget judging a book by its cover, most prospective readers won’t get beyond a title. Publishers know this which is why Random House, Penguin Books, Harper Collins, Barnes & Noble are engaging in an effort to reboot once-famous classics with titles that share the spirit of the most popular internet memes. 

 

1.   This Old Lady Taught a Young Man a Lesson about Love He’ll Never Forget – Great Expectations

People went crazy for the teenager who took his grandmother to prom. You don’t need to tell them that this story is about the soul-crushing experience one young man had after falling in love with someone too broken to return his affections. Let them find out on their own.

2.    How I Met Our Mother – Oedipus Rex

With a little less hilarity but just as great a story, Penguin Books will release the re-titled Oedipus Red at the same time that 20^th Century Fox releases the collectors’ edition of all nine seasons of that semi-popular TV show of a similar name.

3.   8 Words That’ll Change How You Feel about Relationships – Gone with the Wind

Frankly, my dear, I don’t…want to spoil the ending. You’ll just have to read the book.

4.   Middle Schoolers Need a Dictionary to Read this Book…Do You? – A Series of Unfortunate Events

Some adults turn up their noses at children’s fiction but those same noses love the challenge of seeing who’s smarter than a 5^th grader. Are you?

 

5.   123 Times You Saw the Hand of God but May Not Have Realized It - The Bible

This tagline makes The Bible into a spiritual seek-and-find. Can you find the 123 miraculous manifestations of the Almighty in the world’s most popular book? Rumor has it that in addition to including a special insert of the Ten Commandments in replica stone, Barnes & Noble is also partnering with Parker Brothers to include a bingo card so that locating the miracles can be an entertaining party game!

6.   20 Shockingly Honest Confessions – Madame Bovary

With stories ripped straight from TMZ, this novel is Lindsey Lohan, the Kardashians, and Juan Pablo all in one.

7.   What This Adonis Has in His Closet Will Surprise You – The Picture of Dorian Grey

This gorgeous young man has more in his closet than attire.

8.   Home Decorating Drove This Woman Crazy! – The Yellow Wallpaper

Crazy home decorating isn’t a surprise to anyone who’s left HGTV on for too long, but home decorating that makes you crazy? That’s the exclusive province of Charlotte Gilman.

9.   This Little Girl Fell Down a Hole – Open Here to See What Happens Next! – Alice in Wonderland

We could tell you what happens next, but that would just be…mad, wouldn’t it?

  

Why I Hope My Kids Are Gay...And You Should, Too

Photo: Purple Sherbet Photography/
Flickr Commons

Earlier today I was at the tire store getting a new set of four nearby a couple toddlers role playing a scene from Disney’s Frozen while their mother and granddad watched. I smiled at the mom.

“My kids love Frozen, too.”

“Yeah, my girls are crazy for it. They pretend to be princesses all the time.”

“That’s sweet. My boys are all about the songs. I swear they have the entire soundtrack memorized.”

“How old are your boys?”

“They’ll be 8 and 10 this summer.”

The granddad, a leathery guy from Malta, bustled in. “Boys? Watching a girly movie?”

“Eh, my kids like the music and sidekicks. They think the princesses are pretty.”

Granddad brushed his whiskers and shook his head. “You’re gonna make those boys gay. You don’t think it now. You think it’s okay but this is how it starts. My sister, she has a gay son and it started this way.”

True Tips for Women about Running

A little less than three years ago I started running “by accident.” A membership to a runner’s group was included in something I purchased. I didn’t want to use it so I tried to resell it – and no one else wanted it either. Being the cheap bastard I am, I decided to join the runner’s group. Ten half marathons and thirteen full marathons later, I’m still running. It’s not because I love it, exactly, and it’s certainly not because I’m good at it (whatever that means). It’s mainly because everyone needs something to “do” and right now, this is what I do.

At 36 I’m a little south still of middle-age (mainly because I plan to live to 100 although I reserve the right to push that date around a bit). I feel I’m somewhat representative of a certain group of women: a little south of middle-aged, professional, enjoys physical activity, some discretionary income. Consequently, there is a ton of advice that is sent to me and my running sisters: what to wear, what to expect, how to act, how to look. That’s all great but I’m here to tell you not a lot of that matters. If you’re going to run, here’s the God’s honest truth about what you need to know.

Timberly’s Totally Transparent Top Ten Tplaylist [The T Is Silent]

Yesterday I ran a marathon which really means that I stumbled through it at my typically glacial pace. The bad news about being a slow runner is I’m on the course forever: it’s cold, it’s exhausting, and it’s occasionally a smidgeon demoralizing. The good news is I get plenty of time to make it through a good chunk of my iPod library. Coming in at a couple thousand tunes, my running playlist has plenty of variety: Beatles, Alabama Shakes, Flipron, AC/DC, ZZ Top, Metallica, Johnny Cash, Mika, and, yes, even a little (very little) Pitbull.

It’s this variety that made it surprising that in the five hours I was out on the course that I discovered that I have six songs about cellophane. Who knew that this transparent product was so popular? No longer merely the stuff of leftover dinners or frustrated horny housewives who have shrink-wrapped themselves trying to surprise their disinterested husbands, cellophane is practically de rigueur.

The Dating Profile That Should Never Be

First, a disclosure. I have never been in the dating market.  When I was 16 and again at 19 I was asked out on dates and both felt so awkward and weird that I turned the (two) guys down flat. (Sorry, guys.) I met my husband at 18 (through a chat room) and we dated long distance for a couple years before moving in with each other. Questions of who pays, what to wear, and whether it's tacky to have condoms available (just in case!) have never occurred to me. Fun fact: Outside of baseball, I have no idea what second and third base are.

So when I got the idea to write a little piece for fun, I had to do some research which meant creating accounts on dating sites. (“No, really, honey! Those accounts are for research!”)

Erotica for a Real Woman

It was a dark and stormy evening. Jennifer watched the drops of water hit the window in an apparently random array. She blew a puff of warm air against the glass and attempted to draw shapes, constellations, letters, anything between the drops but nothing appeared. Jennifer wiped the glass clean with her folded napkin, inhaled deeply, and settled into the center of her seat. It was 6:28.

She liked 6:30. It was the perfect time for a first date, the hands of her watch aligning perfectly. Noon was also a good time but lunch dates were difficult to accommodate and other times such as 3:15 or 7:45 were too oddly timed and they didn’t quite line up the same way. No, 6:30 was best.

Why We'll Survive the Zombie Apocalypse

Recently, I took my boys out for exercise in the neighborhood. They rode their bicycles, I ran next to them. They're 5 and 7 years old, so for now my legs and their wheels go about the same pace. I enjoy it while I can.

We bicycled home, twilight impending and the dew starting to settle on fields around us. My younger son, irritated with his bicycle as he tried to ride without training wheels, uttered a mewl of frustration as he came to a sudden stop. "Ugh!" he cried. "If I don't go faster on my bike, the zombies will get me!"

How to Get Small Children Awake, Fed, Dressed, and Out the Door for School in Less than 20 Minutes without Yelling or Freaking Out

I have no flipping idea.

To My Sister on the Eve of Her 29th Birthday

I don't specifically remember bringing my newborn sister home from the hospital. But, I remember how life was different afterward.

My dad took me to the local drug store the night she was born. "Pick any toy you want," he said, "as long as it's under five dollars." I picked up a Barbie, the first brand new one I'd ever touched before. Her legs didn't bend at the knees and she was shoeless, but her hair was nylon fiber smooth and her pink dress was simple and lovely. "Can I have this one?" I asked. Dad nodded. This was the only Barbie I'd ever own and it was all thanks to her being born.

I remember loving this mewling, wrinkly thing bundled in cotton onesies who came home some slightly chilled Phoenix autumn evening. I loved her not because she was oh-so-adorably like my dolls but because she needed me. Mother was in college, Dad slept all day and burned the midnight oil. I gave her bottles of glucose water when Mother was gone, I changed her diapers. When Mother vacuumed it made my sister scream because it hurt her fragile eardrums so I rocked her and sang "Stille Nacht" until she calmed down.

Her needing me when we were little is what made being around her possible even when she got more of our mother's time, when she was preferred by our grandmother, when she so clearly was a prettier chid. During countless roadtrips, I would entertain her in the backseat of the car, manufacturing an invisible friend named "Middle" who would make her laugh. When she'd get spanked for crying (which was often), I would plead with our father on her behalf, furious at the injustice of punishing a child for crying because she was being punished. And I needed her, too. I authored many a stage play that needed pint-sized actors. Without her, I would've had to be content with only dolls.

When we were younger and I would try to emphasize the difference between us and my greater maturity, I would say that we're 'almost five years apart.' She would correct me with, 'no, we're almost four years apart.' Now that she's on the cusp of 29, our positions are reversed as I try to point out close I am to her age. She's still quick to correct me, this time pointing out that we're almost five years apart, making her that much younger. Such are the competitive vanities of sisters.

About 12 years ago, she wrote me a letter when she was 17 and had just been initiated into the same sorority. I was too embarrassed to read it all the way through then and I am now, too. Not because any part of it is inappropriate but because my then-17-year-old sister reveals her effusive, bare emotions with her "Anne of Green Gables" melodramatic style. Her letter reminds me too much of my 17-year-old self and how much I used to care (or let people see that I cared) before I wrapped myself in my own little shell.

The 20s are a rough time. It's when the childhood rubber hits the road of adulthood, when you have to actually put into action all those things you dreamed about doing and hope they yield the expected results. Sometimes they don't. Turning 29 is when a person may reasonably look back on their 'youth' and reflect on what one has or has not accomplished. It can be sobering. Competitiveness aside, I feel like I can relate, a few years ago having written about going through a little taste of something similar when I turned 30.

The last few years have been hard on my sister for reasons we share, the last 12 months particularly so. My guess is that this makes turning 29 into a certain indignity for her, insult added to injury. But, I refuse to offer her pity (it's beneath both her dignity and mine) and compassion makes it sound like I'm giving her my blessing to compromise on her goals, which is the last thing I would want for her. Getting older doesn't require compromise, but it does demand acceptance.

Over the years, I've seen my little sister become very much like me -- or at least the me I might've been except for a couple key differences in our life paths. There's nothing wrong with that and I defend all of her choices. But just like parents hope for their children to have better lives than they had, I wish I could help give her a more uplifting outlook. After all, depending on how you reckon the passage of time, I'm either almost five or just over four years older than she is and I have a certain perspective to offer.

So here's what I've learned in the last few years since I turned 29:

You don't stop feeling lonely or out of place. You just realize that it's how life will be for you and you become okay with that.

Right now at this moment you are the best looking you will ever be. Delight in that.

The only ones with you from the very beginning who will be able to relate to you in the end are your siblings, for better or for worse. Keep in touch with all of them.

Smile more. It's the only sure-fire way to look younger.

Worry less. Whatever it is you're going through now, next year it will matter less. Five years from now, it won't matter at all.

Call home. They need you, even if they don't say it. You need them, even if you won't admit it. I promise you that someday you'll wish you'd connected with them more.

Let it go (whatever 'it' is for you at any given moment).

I won't promise your 30s will be easy. But I do think they will be easier. Trust your big sister on this one.

Also, don't forget to call me in 10 years. I'll give you a preview of your 40s.

An Etiquette Lesson [Writing Exercise]

Prompt: Describe a recently renewed friendship.

She could see him in the periphery. They had been circling the room all evening, delighting the guests at the cocktail party in their subtle but distinct ways yet never in the same place at the same time. First with one person, then another, she added sparkle with her pale presence. He made the rounds as well, sometimes preceding her, generally following while adding his own slightly sharper perspective. He was not appreciated by some whereas she was liked by almost all.

It was understood that they were a package deal, although there was always the occasional thoughtless person who forgot to keep them together in spite of all good manners to the contrary. They made a wonderful couple - everyone said so - albeit an unequal one. She was more popular, passing from person to person lightly, casually, freely. Often he was left behind, stoic in a corner, perhaps resting nearby a pile of dirty dishes or smudged wine glasses while she continued to make the rounds. It was just such an experience that had divided them this last time.

Yet in spite of their many separations, they always gravitated toward each other. They had too much in common, too many shared experiences. Both were global travelers with expensive tastes. They were of a similar age, amazingly ageless yet with old souls that made it seem like they had existed for hundreds, if not thousands of years. They were occasionally misunderstood, villianized. Most amazingly, they had been blamed for causing ill-health by some and yet bringing good health to others. They had both been used, in their own ways. Occasionally they were threatened by outsiders who attempted to capture their popularity by traveling in the same circles, hopping on their coattails. Those outsiders never lasted though. He and she were a forever couple, at times near lookalikes, her stark paleness complemented by his subtle grey and black.

She rested on the edge of a buffet, surveying the room with detachment. A brush of warmth from someone's hand grazed her sculpted shoulder. It was just as quickly gone - yet she knew he was now there.

She sighed, softly glittering in the room's muted light.

He shuddered slightly, struggling to be level at seeing her once more.

She felt transparent, like he could see her half-emptiness - the feeling she always had near the end of an event like this. Yet with him nearby she knew she could be more than she'd been before. He was her complement, her perfect help-mate. She sidled closer, her smooth sides barely touching his sharp angles.

Warily, he looked at her from under his low-placed silver-tinted cap. Would she be taken away by yet another guest, abandoning him to his solitude again?

Her lip curled slightly in a semi-smile as she tilted closer to him, bobbing encouragingly, trying to show with her smooth chill body how she liked his black and grey prickliness.

A guest grabbed them both around their necks, using a single hand to do so. Both she and he felt the slight rise of panic as their insides shifted with fear they would be separated again, quite against their will. They were lifted, their bases leaving the ground, higher, higher, thrust into a shallow space together, the door closed behind them. A thin sliver of light remaining, no more.

They shook themselves slightly, becoming calm, then content, now happy. At peace. Salt and Pepper kept together.

What I Like about Running [Random Nothing]

This has the potential to be a very brief post. I don't love running. I've been known to mutter expletives under my breath at passing mile markers. I enjoy running about as much as I enjoy boiled Brussels sprouts and medical examinations: I tolerate it because I don't know of any other way to achieve the same healthy result.

But this isn't about the many reasons I don't care for running (however therapeutic such a post may be). This is my attempt to leverage cognitive dissonance: if I tell myself often enough that there are things I like about running, perhaps I will indeed like it. So what do I like about running?

1. Health: The obvious reason is still the best reason. Every time my sneakers come in contact with the ground and my body is jarred, I'm reminded that every run will hopefully stave off the onset of osteoporosis or some other condition. This doesn't make me like running really, but it does make me feel pretty virtuous for doing it.

2. You See Cool Things on the Ground. During one run (okay, it was today), there was a tube of uncapped lip gloss on the ground. In a last-minute change in navigation fitting of Magellan, I steered myself over such that my foot would come down on the bottom part of the tube, making hot pink glittery lip gloss squirt out on the springtime weeds poking through the concrete. The 5-yr-old in me that still finds gross things cool thought this whole episode was pretty darn awesome.

3. Old-Fashioned Pleasures. My current running route takes me by a chain-link and several wood slatted fences over creeks and wetlands. With a stick or key fob in hand, I enjoy striking it against the fences and hearing the rhythmic "slap slap slap" syncopated against my breathing and the pulse of my feet against the ground. What's good enough for Tom Sawyer is good enough for me, too.

4. You Never Know Who You'll Meet. Recently, a stray cat crossed my path (it wasn't black so it was okay) and ran next to me for most of a block, stretching its furry haunches and going at a good clip. Now, I don't enjoy much running with others but having that grey-and-cream tabby keep me company was good for a mile's worth of spiritual buoyancy. (Given my running pace, a mile's worth of smiles is a goodly amount of time.)

5. Imagined Endings. I don't often run when it's dark out but when I do, I like peering into the homes of others (from a safe distance on the sidewalk, running with a very non-stalker-like pace) and seeing what other families are doing. Most of the time, they're watching TV which makes me feel smug and self-righteous. Occasionally they're doing something interesting and I can make a story around it. The people who are painting, the woman who was throwing laundry on the floor, the child wielding a guitar like a light-saber, the man doing woodworking in his garage building a cradle or crib. They all have stories. I don't know what they are but I enjoy making up my own sub-titles.

6. School Zones. School zones are a drag. Being a "pedal to the metal" kind of person, I resent having my Adretti-like automotive groove interrupted by school zones. The great thing about running is that I run by the "you are going this speed" signs in school zones, in quasi Michael Scott fashion, never worrying that I'm exceeding the legal speed limit. That's partially because I tend to run on Saturdays when the speed limit doesn't apply. Perhaps on a weekday I'd be more concerned. (Likely not.)

7. Mind Games. I get bored when running - so very bored. Some have told me they run listening to audio-books (irritating), radio (super irritating), or their favorite tunes (fine until you hit a song with a beat that doesn't match the stride). I listen to bland synthpop (normally by FitPod) that at least gets me through but it doesn't quite cut it. So I create games to entertain my wandering mind: I repeat the alphabet or count to a hundred in German, French, or Spanish (about as much of those languages as I remember). I say my times-tables (normally in 4s, 6s, or 7s, my weakest numbers). Most recently, I've started trying to create anagrams from the letters in street signs (good practice for Scrabble). Never underestimate the bored mind's ability to find ridiculous ways to entertain itself.

8. Dryer Sheets. Well, not dryer sheets per se. But about one house per mile will be running its dryer when I jog by and the dryer vent will be facing the street. That puff of dryer sheet fragrance and brief burst of heat is an unexpected delight on a cold wet day with only dog excrement and grass clippings to smell for the rest of the run.

Eight things I like about running. That's more I thought I'd have when I started this, and we still haven't gotten to my favorite reason which is...

9. The Past Participle. My favorite thing about running? Being able to say "I already ran today."

Resistance Is Not Futile

Although October 1 isn't an official holiday (that I know), for me it marks the unofficial start of what I call 'the baking season.' It's when even the most pedestrian of cooks grabs their boxes of Betty Crocker or buy-in-the-dairy-section cookie dough and the more daring light a candle to their favorite celebrity patron baking saint on Food Network and begin combing obscure baking blogs for recipes they can "whip up" and share.

The season continues at least through the end of the year, although has been known to persist through February with its flourless chocolate dome cakes and caramel ganache. The flow of carbohydrates and calories is never-ending, merely shape-shifting -- whether that shape-shifting be from Halloween caramel-covered apples to Thanksgiving Dutch apple pies or the less-desirable shape-sifting from a size 6 to a size 10.

As a mildly capable cook and baker myself, I understand the desire to bake, as well as the need to share the wealth (one four-person home can only consume so much sugary goodness). But I also realize that stretchy pants should only be worn a certain number of times in a week. Once that threshold is exceeded, it's time to stop eating.

But how to stop eating when you are beseiged on every front with temptations? Perhaps this is what it feels like to be Tiger Woods at a Barbie-lookalike convention. (Ooh, was that too soon?) No doubt about it, whether going to the local shipping depot, the family holiday party, or the workplace, the calories flow abundantly. It requires one to be on their most vigilant guard.

When I try to resist treats, I find it helpful to understand the (sometimes underhanded or subconscious) motivation of the person who brought them in. This helps me identify the appropriate avoidance technique.

Baker's Motivation: “I really enjoy baking but my family can’t possibly eat everything I make so I’m sharing some of the bounty with you. Please enjoy.”

Avoidance Technique: Righteous indignation. (Think: "I AM NOT A GARBAGE DISPOSAL!")

Baker's Motivation: “My weight loss efforts have been unsuccessful so by making you gain weight through the treats I bring in, I feel less bad and more successful/validated.”

Avoidance Technique: Competitive zeal! (Think: “You’re not going to use me! And I’m going to feel so good being thinner than you!”)

Baker's Motivation: “I received these treats from a good-intentioned parent/sibling/distant relative and I can’t deal with the guilt of throwing them away myself. Please enjoy them so I don’t feel guilty.”

Avoidance Technique: Compassion. (Think: “Here, let me help you put them in the garbage.”)

Baker's Motivation: “I rely on your public pronouncement that you enjoy these homemade treats for my own self-worth. If you don’t try them, I’ll feel like I’m not a good enough cook and possibly be deeply insulted. Please enjoy.”

Avoidance Technique: Craftiness. (Think: “These look to. Die. For. Delicious! But I’m allergic to gluten/dairy/air and am on a strict medically-enforced abstinence diet from my doctor.”)

Don't get me wrong - I am not above any of these motivations myself. It is through using them, though, that I am able to better understand it in others and navigate the battlefield of balance versus indulgence.

Coming of Age

Shortly, I will experience a day dreaded by many women from the day after they turn 21: I will celebrate my 30th birthday.

Because I mastered counting by ones many, many years ago, I've been preparing for 30 for...well...29 years. It's not been a surprise that it's coming up (although I did spend a brief angst-inspired period of my teenage years believing that I'd die before I ever got to be "this" old). But, truth be told, I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about this coming of age. Anne Boleyn had already given birth to a future queen, been queen herself, and was instrumental in England adopting the reformed Christian religion by 29. Anne Frank was an proficient diarist by half this age. By their standard, I'm an under-accomplished old husk (although note that I am an alive husk with my head attached).

On the other hand, Harper Lee didn't write her most definitive work until she was 33 and I have approximately 92 years to go before rivalling the supercenetarian record held by Jeanne Calment. Grandma Moses didn't really hit her stride until she was a spry woman of her 70s. Throwing my name in with these great women, it is clear to me that I have plenty of time to carpe that diem.

But it is unavoidable that the prospect of turning 30 has affected to some extent the way I perceive my relationships with others: family, colleagues, my children, women, men.

Colleagues: As someone who has always been the youngest amongst my peers (going through school young will do that to you), it's a bit of a shock to learn that some of my colleagues are now two or three years younger than I am, and I'm expected to treat them as my equals. (In other words, the respect I expect from those who are older, I shy away from extending to those who are younger. But no where is it said that with age comes consistency!)

Family: By turning 30, I feel a slightly renewed sense of confidence in dealing with my family. No longer am I the irresponsible teenager nor the starting-out-in-life 20-something. I am fully an adult, empowered, unique, and independent (albeit never free) of the self-limiting impressions of childhood.

My Children: As a 20-something mom, it's always felt a little bit like playing house. My children mean much to me, but sometimes when I look at them, I see playthings, like they're really my little brothers or nephews and I'm just babysitting for a bit while the adults are out. With 30 approaching, I know that I am a mom and I now feel like the appropriate age to be one. (Maybe turning 30 and living in middle-class suburbia is just what Britney needs?)

Women: Fortunately, almost all the women I know are at least 2-3 years older. Phew. But there is a growing number of women I know who are, sadly, younger. Yes, there's a sharp twang of competitiveness and jealousy when I see them. But, what's interesting is that I always felt that, except before it was when looking at women who are older and more accomplished. So the difference here is simply perspective. I hope that some day I'll be mature (or resigned) enough to look at the younger, slimmer, prettier women without a twinge of envy or regret that I never looked like that. Until then, at least I know that age is helping me be humble.

Men: There was a time, not too long ago, when I'd look at another man and muse to myself, "now, that's a handsome specimen!" only to find out that he was (gasp) in his mid- to late-30s. Ewwww. Mentally calculating, I would quickly deduce that he could, at least in theory, be my dad. (Forget for a moment that my own dad is 40 years older than I and let's assume this other handsome Mr. X could've spawned me at 13-ish). Now, however, when I see interesting gents "of a certain age," I need to stop my recoil and realize that they're really not "that" old. Were I in the dating market (I'm not), they would be well within my range. (That takes me down another path of introspection as I realize that some of the men I notice now are actually older than my dad was when I was born. Again I say....ewwww.)

So this brings me to wonder, what will my 30s hold? If there has been a unifying theme to my 20s, it's just been to get to some place (I don't know where) and to get there as quickly as possible. A friend predicted that in my 30s, I'd derive even more pleasure from my children and find some way to wear Mardi Gras beads and a caftan together with style. Those are noble goals, although I think all I'd need to do is throw in a bad dye job, a hair cap, and some cloth grocery bags, and I could be mistaken for the portly senile lady pushing the shopping cart around down by the river.

Instead, for my 30s, I hope for direction and selfless resolve. I hope that I'll be able to make decisions based on what is best for me and my immediate family, regardless of where that takes us. I hope with that will come the confidence and determination to make any decisions successful ones.

And I hope that all those younger, skinnier, prettier women get fat with terrible acne. Quickly.