I'm going to tell you something that may come as a surprise: I'm a bit boisterous.
I can be loud, certainly, but that's not even the whole of it. I'm vocal and vociferous and verbose. And, okay, loud. Sometimes.
Here's the thing, though: I'm pretty good, usually, at letting people know what I think or what I want. This isn't something that came easily to me. Really, it took me quite a long time to be able to vocalize when I was upset or unhappy or hurt. Or even if there was something I really, deeply wanted but was afraid, for whatever reason, that I would be denied.
It's easy to be open and honest when I'm happy. My flirty, jovial muchness can be contagious and endearing (and, yes, overwhelming at times). Truthfully, I may be too open when I'm in the best frame of mind, because I see very little reason to inhibit my honesty. I'm capable of self-repression, but I think I spent such a long period of my life shoving down the things others didn't like, that in some ways I'm rebelling against it all now.
For years I was crippled by the idea of telling someone how they had hurt me, or that I was truly unhappy about a situation. I had real difficulty expressing that interpersonally. I wonder how much I contributed to global warming by spilling my guts on paper and then burning the letters. (Though that's still much safer than email. Oh, how there needs to be an unsend button!)
At times, I was afraid of the possible rejection. Other times, I was so committed to wallowing in the Sorrow of the Moment that it would've killed my downer buzz to actually confront a difficulty.
Absolem reminded me recently that I have to be willing to go after the things I want, to be forward and make those desires known if I ever want them to come to fruition. He's completely right, of course--He's wise. He's absolute.--but it's still sometimes hard as hell to overcome those nagging fears that I'm undeserving of what I want, or that it's vainglorious or selfish to want things that aren't automatically offered to me in my somewhat-privileged and sometimes-spoiled life. And to expect things seems the height of hubris.
So I spend a lot of time practicing being straightforward about what I do and don't want. There are times when I will absolutely rub other people the wrong way, and I usually don't care. But sometimes, I'll do something that irritates someone whose opinions or feelings do matter to me. Often times I know when I do something that may be off-putting to those people, but that doesn't necessarily stop me from speaking my mind. As I've said many, many times, "If you don't like it, don't look."
It's when I say something, publicly or privately, that's unintentionally hurtful or especially thorny that I want to revert back to the shy, sullen girl in all black who would never, ever have told you how you broke her heart with your harsh tone or unexpected distance. Who would never, under any circumstances, let you see her cry, and maybe not see her laugh, either, because that would involve actually letting someone inside, someone who might be able to break their way out and take part of her with them.
Now, as a semi-adult, I'm actually pretty controlled about what I reveal, though that's counterbalanced by an honesty that can be boggling with its energetic whims. I have things I only share with my Secret Keepers. In return, I'm the Keeper of Secrets for a select few. I will never, ever reveal those things, because they were given to me in the most sacrosanct moments of friendship and intimacy and love.
But if it's something about me--about what I think or feel or dream--and I've decided it's something that I'm willing to share, there's almost always a reason for it. When I have the courage to find my voice, whether written or physical, I will share that with whomever wants to listen. It's probably taken a huge Act of Will for me to be so candid, and I'm probably scared to death, deep beneath the bravado and the booming laugh and the big, heart-shaped smile.
If you've ever been caught in my backlash, I apologize. It likely wasn't intentional; I promise you would know if I were gunning for you. All I ask is that you remember that I'm still battling that scared, sullen girl who would rather run from the sunlight than risk being burned.
I can step out into the sunshine now, but I will almost always be hiding behind a big pair of sunglasses, just to make sure you can't actually see my eyes.
Several years ago, someone forwarded an email to me. It was quotes from young children about love: the nature of love, what it feels like to fall in love, how people act when they're in love. A few of the answers are a little dated now (watching Dinosaurs on TV, which I had completely forgotten ever existed), but they're all really cute and funny in their own way.
My very, very favorite, though, was from a then-9-year-old girl named Camille, on a surefire way to make someone fall in love with you:
"Shake your hips and hope for the best."
It instantly became my life's motto.
I remember dating and hoping to fall in love, and I have to agree with Camille. That is an excellent plan. It's all about being sexy and fun and wishful.
But I think that translates to everything in life. Whether it's sex or love or friends or a new or old adventure of any kind at all, you just gotta go with whatcha got and hope it works.
Certainly there are things in life that demand work and preparation, but even the best laid plans can jump up and bite you in the ass. When things go wrong, and your entire life becomes a Hail Mary moment, sometimes all you can do is cross your finger, shake your money-maker, and pray it turns out okay.
Plus, it's always an excuse to dance!
Thanks for the words of wisdom, Camille--wherever you are!
Love and Marriage:
"If falling in love is anything like learning how to spell, I don't want to do it. It takes too long." -- Glenn, age 7
"Love is like an avalanche where you have to run for your life." -- John, age 9
"I think you're supposed to get shot with an arrow or something, but the rest of it isn't supposed to be so painful." -- Manuel, age 8
"No one is sure why it happens, but I heard it has something to do with how you smell. That's why perfume and deodorant are so popular." -- Mae, age 9
"Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good too." -- Greg, age 8
"Once I'm done with kindergarten, I'm going to find me a wife." -- Tom, age 5
"On the first date, they just tell each other lies, and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date." -- Mike, 10
"I'm in favor of love as long as it doesn't happen when Dinosaurs is on television." -- Jill, age 6
"One of the people has freckles, and so he finds somebody else who has freckles too." -- Andrew, age 6
"My mother says to look for a man who is kind. That's what I'll do. I'll find somebody who's kinda tall and handsome." -- Carolyn, age 8
"It gives me a headache to think about that stuff. I'm just a kid. I don't need that kind of trouble." -- Kenny, age 7
"One of you should know how to write a check. Because, even if you have tons of love, there is still going to be a lot of bills." -- Ava, age 8
"When somebody's been dating for a while, the boy might propose to the girl. He says to her, 'I'll take you for a whole life, or at least until we have kids and get divorced.'" -- Anita, 9
"I'm not rushing into being in love. I'm finding fourth grade hard enough." -- Regina, age 10
"Most men are brainless, so you might have to try more than once to find a live one." -- Angie, age 10
"A man and a woman promise to go through sickness and illness and diseases together." -- Marlon, age 10
"[Being] single is better . . . for the simple reason that I wouldn't want to change no diapers. Of course, if I did get married, I'd figure something out. I'd just phone my mother and have her come over for some coffee and diaper-changing." -- Kirsten, age 10
"Love is foolish...but I still might try it sometime." -- Floyd, age 9
"Love will find you, even if you are trying to hide from it. I been trying to hide from it since I was five, but the girls keep finding me." -- Dave, age 8
Kissing:
"When a person gets kissed for the first time, they fall down, and they don't get up for at least an hour." -- Wendy, age 8
"You should never kiss a girl unless you have enough bucks to buy her a big ring and her own VCR, 'cause she'll want to have videos of the wedding." -- Jim, age 10
"Never kiss in front of other people. It's a big embarrassing thing if anybody sees you. But if nobody sees you, I might be willing to try it with a handsome boy, but just for a few hours." -- Kally, age 9
"You learn [how to kiss] right on the spot when the gooshy feelings get the best of you." -- Doug, age 7
"If it's your mother, you can kiss her anytime. But if it's a new person, you have to ask permission." -- Roger, age 6
"It's never okay to kiss a boy. They always slobber all over you. That's why I stopped doing it." -- Tammy, age 10
"I know one reason kissing was created. It makes you feel warm all over, and they didn't always have electric heat or fireplaces or even stoves in their houses." -- Gina, age 8
"The law says you have to be eighteen, so I wouldn't want to mess with that." -- Curt, age 7
"The rules goes like this: if you kiss someone, then you should marry her and have kids with her. It's the right thing to do." -- Howard, age 8
(on seeing a couple kissing) "He is trying to steal her chewing gum!" -- Boy, age 6
Beauty:
"If you want to be loved by somebody who isn't already in your family, it doesn't hurt to be beautiful." -- Anita, age 8
"Beauty is skin deep. But how rich you are can last a long time." -- Christine, age 9
"It isn't always how you look. Look at me. I'm handsome like anything, and I haven't got anybody to marry me yet." -- Brian, age 7
How People In Love Act:
"Lovers will just be staring at each other and their food will get cold. Other people care more about the food." -- Brad, age 8
"They act mooshy. Like puppy dogs, except puppy dogs don't wag their tails nearly as much." -- Arnold, age 10
"All of a sudden, the people get movies fever so they can sit together in the dark." -- Sherm, age 8
"Romantic adults usually are all dressed up, so if they are just wearing jeans it might mean they used to go out or they just broke up." -- Sarah, age 9
"It's love if they order one of those desserts that are on fire. They like to order those because it's just like how their hearts are -- on fire." -- Christine, age 9
"See if the man picks up the check. That's how you can tell if he's in love." -- John, age 9
"Many daters just eat pork chops and french fries and talk about love." -- Craig, age 9
What Mom and Dad Have In Common:
"Both don't want no more kids." -- Lori, age 8
How To Tell If Two People Are Married:
"Married people usually look happy to talk to other people." -- Eddie, age 6
"You might have to guess based on whether they seem to be yelling at the same kids." -- Derrick, age 8
Deciding Who To Marry:
"You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. Like if you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming." -- Allan, age 10
"No person really decides before they grow up who they're going to marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who you're stuck with." -- Kirsten, age 10
Strategies For Making People Fall In Love With You:
"Tell them that you own a whole bunch of candy stores." -- Del, age 6
"Shake your hips and hope for the best." -- Camille, age 9
"Yell out that you love them at the top of your lungs...and don't worry if their parents are right there." -- Manuel, age 8
"Don't do things like have smelly, green sneakers. You might get attention, but attention ain't the same thing as love." -- Alonzo, age 9
"One way is to take the girl out to eat. Make sure it's something she likes to eat. French fries usually works for me." -- Bart, age 9
The Best Age To Get Married:
"Twenty three is the best age because you know the person forever by then." -- Cam, age 10
"No age is good to get married at. You got to be a fool to get married!" -- Freddie, age 6
Good Advice About Love:
"Spend most of your time loving instead of going to work." -- Dick, age 7
"Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough." -- Lynnette, age 8
"Tell your wife that she looks pretty even if she looks like a truck!" -- Ricky, age 7
"Don't forget your wife's name. That will mess up the love." -- Erin, age 8
"Sensitivity don't hurt." -- Robbie, age 8
"Be a good kisser. It might make your wife forget that you never take out the trash." -- Erin, age 8
"Don't say you love somebody and then change your mind. Love isn't like picking what movie you want to watch." -- Natalie, age 9
What To Do When a First Date Turns Sour:
"I'd run home and play dead. The next day I would call all the newspapers and make sure they wrote about me in all the dead columns." -- Craig, age 9
What Most People Are Thinking When They Say "I Love You":
"The person is thinking: 'Yeah, I really do love him. But I hope he showers at least once a day.'" -- Michelle, age 9
"Some lovers might be real nervous, so they are glad that they finally got it out and said it, and now they can go eat." -- Dick, age 7
Why People In Love Often Hold Hands:
"They want to make sure their rings don't fall off, because they paid good money for them." -- Gavin, age 8
"They are just practicing for when they might have to walk down the aisle someday and do the holy matchimony thing." -- John, age 9
Titles of Love Ballads You Can Sing To Your Loved One:
"'I Love Hamburgers, I Like You!'" -- Eddie, age 6
"'You Are My Darling Even Though You Also Know My Sister.'" -- Larry, age 8
"'I Am In Love With You Most of the Time, But Don't Bother Me When I'm With My Friends.'" -- Bob, age 9
"'How Do I Love Thee When You're Always Picking Your Nose?'" -- Arnold, age 10
"'Honey, I Got Your Curly Hair and Your Nintendo On My Mind.'" -- Sharon, age 9
"'Hey, Baby, I Don't Like Girls, But I'm Willing To Forget You Are One!'" -- Will, age 7
Something really spectacular (to me anyway) has happened.
As of this morning, I've lost 50 pounds. Yes, that's 5-0.
That's since the first of October, though not necessarily October 1st. And, really, I prefer to say that I have abandoned the weight, 'cause I don't intend to go find it again.
So if you haven't seen me in a while, there's a lot less of me to see:
If you saw me around Christmas, I've abandoned the equivalent of about three gallons of milk since you've seen me.
If you saw me in November, there's a five-gallon bucket of water less of me.
If you saw me in October, I abandoned a kindergartener worth of ass.
I've talked before about my body image issues and my lengthy battles with back injuries and metabolic disorders. In a nutshell, I spent last summer enduring two ruptured lumbar discs, and I've spent the last twenty+ years battling PCOS, though I didn't know it for a long time. Hashimoto's Thyroiditis started after my last pregnancy, and it took almost six years to get it under control.
I'm also 5'11 and of true Amazonian build. I will never, ever be rail thin, and I don't want to be. I still have more weight to abandon and more toning to accomplish, but even I was surprised at how great I looked in a new pair of jeans. And there's nothing quite so satisfying as having to buy new panties because your old ones are swallowing you whole.
So I cut out added sugar, except in my coffee. I eat carbs, mostly fruit and whole grains. I'm careful about what I eat and what I do. I've eaten sweets a grand total of seven times since the first of October; two times it triggered crazy binges, once it made me sick, and once just tasted bad. I don't crave it, and it doesn't interest me 99% of the time.
I exercise all the time, though not obsessively. I love my morning walks at the park with my amazingly supportive friends. Five or six miles will fly by before I know it. And my time at the gym with my incredibly motivating trainer, Evan, is like gold to me. It's a couple of hours a week when I can completely unplug every rational thought and just be a physical being. If I miss a day of doing at least thirty minutes of some kind of cardio, I feel... icky.
And, because I can't not include a bit about my music, I need to give a very special thank you to The Gracious Few for making an album that's so damn perfect for working out. It has been my constant companion through miles and miles and miles of walking and riding (and buckets of sweat). It has kept me in an unbelievable headspace when I really couldn't stand the thought of working out again. (Honorable mentions go to Windy City Gentleman and Taddy Porter.)
This is not a blog about weight loss or my struggles with my health; it's a blog about me. My giant (though shrinking) ass is undeniably a part of my muchness. I had some real misgivings about blogging about this again, though. It's one thing to talk publicly about how I dislike my body; it's quite another to start giving specifics about it. It lays bare a lot of old wounds and scars and makes me feel really vulnerable, like I'm thirteen years old again.
But it's something I need to be open about. It's something I'm going through, and I know I'm not alone. Part of this journey of reclaiming my muchness includes facing down some long-standing fears and misconceptions about myself, including what defines me as being "worthwhile".
I'm not thirteen, or twenty-three, or even thirty-three. I'm a very grown-up (kind of) thirty-eight year old woman. I have the strength and fortitude to take all of those things that scared me and hurt me and made me afraid to work at being my true, inner self, and throw them away. They may have led me to this place and time in my life, but they aren't who I am. I won't let those fears control me, or determine the size of my ass.
And that little girl in me who's still afraid of what people will think? I don't need her to tell me who and how to be. She can go stuff a cookie in her face and shut the fuck up.
I'm a bit of a slacker. Some of you will read this and be surprised at that admission, and others will say, "Tell me something I don't know, Stephanie!" But it's true. Historically, I am the Queen of Skating By. I went to a gifted magnet-type high school, where I was required to maintain a 2.5 GPA (on a 4.0 scale) to stay in the program. I graduated with a 2.54 but still had high enough ACT scores to get an academic scholarship to college. (I blew that after the first year because of the aforementioned skating by.)
I go through cycles where I get a lot accomplished and am a powerhouse of productivity. Seriously, I can be a force of nature. I'm resourceful and dogged and smart. I will do my best to prevail and often turn tasks into a game, to see how well or how quickly they can be done. I think that's something most gifted kids learn to do fairly early, if for no other reason than to quiet the boredom of the traditional classroom.
Other times, I will let everything slide. I'll find myself days behind on a project or chores or whatever, and then I'm racing to catch up at the last minute. Unfortunately, I also picked up the great gift of working extremely well under pressure and with limited time. The combination of skills means I tend to leave things to the last damn minute, then exhaust myself in a flourish to get them done. Usually they'll be done well, and I get a rush from the intensity of the challenge. It's kind of an exhilarating game, really.
I'm also a little distractible. (Shocking, I know.) I'm impatient and a little manic at times, which is usually when I get a lot accomplished. I will forge my path and get things done as efficiently as possible, but also as stylishly as possible so it looks good, too. (I can bring home the bacon AND fry it up in a pan!) As I've said before, my mind will flit from thing to thing, like a hummingbird.
There's this other thing, that I like to see how things work, how they fit together, how they connect with everything around them. I'm really, really good at puzzles of all kinds. I always have been. I can see several steps ahead, moving in and out of the process to gauge where the end will be. I am very adept at predicting the End Game. It's a bit savant-ish at times.
So I'll be in a situation, in a process, and be looking ahead to see how it will end. If I consistently see the same end, am confident that I know where it's going, I get bored. I quit. The challenge is gone, so what's the point in continuing? And don't try to tell me that the point is to see it through to completion; I've finished a lot of things in my life and have no sense of lack of accomplishment.
These are the reasons why I didn't graduate from college, why I quit playing MYST after the first two areas of the game were solved, and why there's a stack of books in my house that are half-finished.
Being a slacker doesn't make me a bad person, certainly, or even a poorly-directed person. Unfortunately there are a lot of gifted kids who fall into the category of Perpetual Underachiever. I know several of my lackadaisical cohorts who will be reading this and nodding their heads in emphatic agreement. I also think there's some truth to Gen X'ers being perhaps a bit more prone to slacking, at least from the outside perspective.
When Generation X (Yes, I know it wasn't coined by Douglas Coupland or Billy Idol.) became the collective moniker for my friends and I--essentially kids of the 60's and 70's--it eventually took on a tone of derision. We were described as not caring, not giving a damn about anything, and just down-right lazy. Sure, I have contemporaries like that; I've been all of those things at various points in my life. The reality, as I see it, is that we're picky about what we deem worthy of the effort. We're very careful to choose just the right things that deserve the expenditure of our Energy of Success. If the end result isn't worth the trouble, why go through the process?
I pick and choose regularly, and I'm becoming more adept at turning things away before I delve into them too deeply. Honestly, it takes a lot for anything to make an impression on my hummingbird-wing-buzzing brain. But when I find something that does grab my attention, I will spend an extraordinary amount of energy in understanding it fully. I will be completely engrossed in it to see what makes it work, and where it's going, and how it impacts its own minute or enormous world.
I am most likely to be fascinated by why it attracts and impacts me and the process by which I come to fully understand it. It could be a book, a song, a person; if it can stop me in my tracks and turn me completely around to face it, it's worth my time and energy to explore it further. I will do everything in my power to see it through to the end, to immerse myself in it until I fully understand it. There's a beauty and a sensuality in that immersion. Both emotionally and cerebrally, it can be captivating and rapturous.
Other people crave travel and seeing as many different places and things as possible. Some collect things, objects to remind them of what they love and what they've done. I know a couple of people who collect knowledge, as that's what's most valued in their personal, psychic worlds. For me, it's the understanding of the experience, the complete appreciation for a complex, non-temporal moment of time and thought.
Sometimes it can make me seem a little obsessive. If something external distracts me, pushes me off course from being able to see, or get, to the end of the process of experiential enlightenment, it makes me irritable and defensive and reactive. I've learned over time to inhibit the constant bombardment of external stimuli that rails at me. When I find something so exquisite that it deserves my undivided attention, it's almost insulting when I'm asked to put it away or leave it alone. God help the person who tries to forcibly take it from me.
Eventually I will work through my fixation and find a balance between obsession and discard. An equilibrium, if you will. I do actually have a happy medium; it just takes me a bit longer than most to find it. Sometimes my own muchness gets in my way, but it's a great ride if I can just hold on to the very end.
If you've been down the rabbit hole with me before, you know I love Alice. Quite often I will go back to the Lewis Carroll stories, because that is, of course, the origin of all things Alice. But it's the Tim Burton Alice in Wonderland (2010) that is my true Alice inspiration. I know Carroll fans probably hate that, but I think it's a really spectacular film and an equally wonderful story. Burton and screenwriter Linda Woolverton did a masterful job of combining the two Carroll works,Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, and finding the best parts to bring forward in an updated journey.
One of my favorite relationships in this version is between Alice and the Hatter, played by Mia Wasikowska and Johnny Depp. Alice is a burgeoning woman, and Hatter has been waiting for her to return to Underland for years. He recognizes her as the right Alice upon first sight, almost instinctively, when no one else seems to believe it, including Alice herself.
Adventure begins immediately for Alice and Hatter at the tea party. Stayne the Knave of Hearts shows up looking for the Alice rumored to have returned to Underland. Hatter does his best to protect her--hiding her shrunkenness in a teapot, making her a new dress, and transporting her in his beloved hat. Early in their travels together, Hatter reveals to Alice the reason he hates the Red Queen so much, how she destroyed his village and murdered his entire family. When he's captured and taken to the Red Queen's fortress, Alice is determined to rescue her friend.
Alice infiltrates the castle, posing as the overgrown, large girl Um from Umbridge, and comes face-to-face with a maddened Hatter, bruised and beaten and shackled and without his own hat. He begins to spiral into a bit of madness while talking to the Queen and is risking his own head. Alice sees the difficulty and is able to snap him back to reality with the drop of a word. (Okay, so it's a fake sneeze of "HATTER!")
Hatter is taken away to a work room, to begin creating hats for the Red Queen's enormous head, and Alice returns to the castle garden to find his beloved lost hat. Whatever it took to save the Hatter, she'd have his hat waiting for him at the end. She finds Hatter and returns the bedraggled top hat to its rightful head. Again, he has a moment of madness and Alice snaps him back to reality before leaving to execute her plan of rescue:
"We'll go to the White Queen together," she said, taking his other hand. They looked into each other's eyes for a long moment, and Alice found herself wishing she weren't quite so absurdly large.
The Hatter grinned ruefully, evidently having the same thought. "Why is it you're always too small or too tall?" he asked.
Eventually Hatter escapes captivity and meets up with Alice again at the castle of the White Queen:
Alice's eyes went straight to the Hatter. His clothes were bright and happy, reflecting the delight on his face. She ran up and threw her arms around him. "I'm so happy to see you!" she cried. "I thought they were going to--"
"So did I!" he interrupted her enthusiastically. "But they didn't." His voice started to speed up again, and he clutched her hands as if he might never let go. "And no, here I am...still in one piece...and I'm rather glad about that now that I'm seeing you again...I would have regretted not seeing you again...especially now that you're you and the proper size...and it's a good size...it's a great size...it's a right-proper Alice size..."
"Hatter," Alice said kindly. He snapped back into the moment.
"Size, Fez...I'm fine," he said, blinking strange eyes at her. And it was true, he was fine, even though Alice had been afraid she'd never seen him again. She felt too full of happiness to say what she really wanted to.
"Where's your hat?" she asked. She curiously touched his curly red hair.
[The Cheshire Cat returns the hat.]
As the Hatter replaced it in its rightful place on his head, he glanced at Alice again, and they shared a smile that said more than any words could have.
Of course Alice goes on to slay the Jabberwocky--you know, the metaphor for her own insecurities and self-achievement. The Red Queen is defeated and banished to the desert with Stayne. Hatter is ecstatic and breaks into song and dance. By this time, Alice remembers her original journeys to Underland/Wonderland, and recognizes that she has really been in this amazing place, not dreaming at all. She is given a vial of Jabberwocky blood, what she would need to return home.
Alice lifted the vial, but stopped as the Hatter put his hand on hers.
"You could stay," he said, his gaze warm and full of promise.
"What an idea," Alice said softly. "A crazy, mad, wonderful idea." She looked around at all the strange and wonderful beings she'd met in this wonderfully strange place. She imagined what it would be like to stay--to talk to animals every day, to ride the Bandersnatch and explore Underland, to dance the Futterwacken with the Hatter whenever she chose.
She explains that she has to return to her home, that she has things to do. She promises to never forget Hatter and to return. She drinks from the vial and is back in the meadow outside the garden party she originally fled.
That's all sweet and wonderful. But then she approaches the garden party to decline everyone's offers of how her life should be. Her adventures in Underland were gone from her memory, but the self-confidence remained.
WTF?! Seriously?
The thing about this Alice and Hatter story is that they could love each other. Personally, I think Hatter does love Alice, just a little bit, and that Alice knows she could probably love him, too, if her circumstances were different. It's something that happens quickly because they interact in these intensely intimate situations. It's something that happens because they just click and find an unexpected connection with each other.
I get why Alice would choose to go back to her real life. Living in Underland would make just about anyone a little nuts from time to time. And, okay, she has her family and her aspirations to attend to. It's the promise of returning, of remembering, that makes it okay that she leaves Hatter.
And then the bitch forgets anyway? Come on!
I know, at the end, she's sailing and Absolem appears to her. She recognizes him, and she's this amazing, confident thing who's off to conquer the world with the full support of her family and business associates. But what about Hatter?
We don't know if Alice goes back to Underland. I'm sure there will likely be a sequel at some point, so maybe we'll know how this plays out. Alice will be a little more wizened, and maybe Hatter will be a little less mad, now that he's had time to get his head on straight.
But what if Alice did go back and forth, regularly, between her world and Underland? What would that do to Hatter?
It would have to be incredibly difficult to try to go about your dailiness and constantly have the tease of that potential love weaving its way in and out of the fabric of your life. Maybe Hatter goes back to making beautiful, exquisite, ornamental hats--expressing himself through his art--and then suddenly Alice appears, in all of her muchness. I imagine it would be a bit upending to have her constantly coming and going, a distraction no matter how enjoyable at the time. Would he stop everything to give her his full attention? Probably. But then what, when she goes back to her real life?
You know what? He'd probably go a little mad. And she probably doesn't even realize it, because apparently she's forgetting everything about her time in Underland, except that it makes her feel strong and confident.
I don't know that I like this, the more I think about it. I want Alice to remember, to fully recognize the bittersweetness of the choice she made. It's okay that she goes on to explore her world and herself, really, but I'd like to know that she's cognizant of the fact that her decision had this impact on Hatter. That way, if she goes back to Underland and sees him again, she does so fully aware of how that will affect him and act accordingly. She doesn't need to turn his word upside down before she leaves again. They should be perfectly capable of sharing a cup of tea and a walk through the hedge maze without her having to snap him back to reality. They should be able to Futterwacken wildly together and smile and be done when the music ends.
So I hope that, with a little time apart, Alice will drop back into Underland and seek out her friend. And I hope Hatter will have had some rest and spent some time finishing his hats. I bet he'll have made a few just for Alice, and I hope she takes the time to try them on and enjoy them. Because, after all, they were made out of love.
I'm in a weird limbo. I'm in a great headspace for writing, and I have a ton of unexpected material to delve into and work through for my characters. The trusted inner circle has the first draft of the manuscript and is reviewing and commenting. I can't move forward on this project until I get those revisions worked out, and I don't want to blow my wad on something new that distracts me from the bigger project.
I'm kind of spinning my wheels.
There's actually a lot of writing going on, whether it be the blog or some bad poetry. (That comes way too easily, I'm afraid.) Unfortunately, a few friends have been the recipients of some unnecessarily verbose emails this week. It's amazing how I can take ten sentences to say, "Call me."
Yesterday I was on the search for a small, purple notebook. It's a spiral-bound journal, really, that I knew had some bits of writing I wanted to see and possibly tap into. I knew I hadn't seen it in at least two years but that it had to be here, somewhere safe. I would never have thrown it away. I tore the house upside down and did a little dance of joy when I found said notebook, plus a second black journal I'd forgotten even existed.
There's some great stuff and some total crap. I have everything from inspiring quotes from Tropic of Cancer, to handwritten notes from lengthy sessions in front of the refrigerator door with Magnetic Poetry. I even have the original outlines and sketches and a chapter or two for the aforementioned manuscript. (Wow, a lot changed as I got into the story.)
While I was on the search for the Purple Notebook, though, I also found all of my journals from Creative Writing in high school. Oh. My. God. I was an angry, tempestuous girl, wasn't I? Just as wordy then as now, but I only wrote when I felt like it, regardless of what my teacher's assignments were. (Apparently I was arrogant, too. I know it surprises you to learn that.)
It was so strange to open those notebooks--almost always yellow a là Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook--and try to look through that girl's eyes again. Some of it was okay, if nothing but flowery teen angst. But there was a lot of badness. Just horrible, as I see it now.
Then I would catch a little glimmer, the proverbial diamond, and be right back in that place the day I wrote the piece. This is something that most often happens to me when I listen to music, but it will occasionally happen when I read a certain book or watch a movie. It's usually tied to my teens, which I guess is reflective of the intensity of emotion in young adulthood.
Oh, I could see the day my ex-boyfriend and I had a fight, or the day I was wasted after school, absolutely certain I'd just discovered the Secrets of the Universe and had to write about them. I was mad at friends, at my parents, at school, at the fucking world apparently. It was funny but a little gut-wrenching, to relive that post-pubescent uncertainty and turmoil.
I think I was most surprised to find that something I wrote could be so self-impacting years later, that the emotionality of it was palpable to the (kind-of) grown-up me.
There are days when I read my own words and really question what the hell I was thinking when I got it in my head that I could be a writer. But then I'll see something I've written and be blown away by how good I think it is. I don't know if anyone else thinks it's worth the read until I share it, and that sharing is difficult and disconcerting at times. As I said to someone last night, "It's taking the burgeoning words and laying them all out for everyone to see and judge. It feels sometimes like putting your hideous baby in the nursery and hoping no one tells you it really is ugly."
So I'll face my fears and let people see what I'm writing. I have to remember that not everyone will like it. Sometimes no one will like it. But I will keep doing it, because it's as natural and automatic to me as breathing and dreaming: I can stop it and hold it in for a little while, but it will eventually billow forth explosively because it just has to.
DH (Dear Hubby, for anyone who doesn't know) told me a few nights ago that my mother-in-law had really enjoyed my most-recent blog post, the Cycle of Life moment one.
"Wow," I said. "I hope she didn't read the one before it." You know, the superhero power one.
"I'm sure she did," he replied.
Uh-oh. But really more for her than for me. By that same token, uh-oh for my mom, or even my dad, if they read something that might surprise them.
In fact, I recently sent my mom a message to not read something I'd written. I wasn't embarrassed by it or ashamed of it. Most of the things I talked about, she already knew, though I certainly addressed them in very frank terms. Mostly I was concerned that it would make her uncomfortable. Same for my MIL, my dad, my brother, or anyone else who may be less forthcoming about personal issues than I am.
This is the same problem I had (and a lot of my friends have had) when I got the dreaded Friend Request on Facebook from the parental units. Egad! Do I really want them to see all of that?
My parents aren't clueless about what a wild child I was. I had a very colorful youth, mostly during a ten-year span from the ages of fourteen to twenty-four. Generally, my friends and I were very careful to 1) not get caught, and 2) not get into trouble. It didn't always work out that way, but we survived a lot of craziness with hardly a scratch. The parents know some of what transpired, and perhaps more than I think they do, but I know damn well they would be mortified if they knew the whole truth--the kinds of things that would make my grandmothers die just so they could roll over in their graves.
Recently my dad became privy to a few details, unexpectedly, when my friend Mo and I were having a grown-up sleepover. Good friends, Jack Daniels, and a chat with your dad are probably not the best combination, even after you've grown as fully into adulthood as you'll ever get. There was perhaps a little too much honesty, but it's nothing I was ashamed to have him know.
But what to do when you're writing publicly about your journey from Point A to Point Me?
I thought long and hard about this when I started the blog, and even before that when I started the book. There are a lot of things that would have to come to the forefront, would have to be openly discussed, if I were to really step out on this path. The Truthiness of Me couldn't be full of half-truths and slant rhymes; it had to be exactingly veracious.
And if the elder adults in my life read these confessions, would it change how they thought of me? Ultimately I decided that it didn't matter. My life is no more about pleasing others now than it was when I was fifteen and petulant and dressed defiantly all in black. (Says the girl whose Emily the Strange t-shirt is in the dryer as she types.)
So, Mom, Dad, Mom-in-Law, Brother--whomever you may be--be aware that you're likely to see a lot of things you don't know and might now want to know. But these are things that make me Stephanie. Good or bad, they're part of my history and my journey and my story.
I also recognize that you may not want to know those details, and that's okay, too. It doesn't hurt my feelings (and might even make me a little relieved) if you choose not to read my stuff sometimes. You didn't always like my hair or my music (and sometimes you still don't), but they are my choices and I stand by them fully. I'm no sweeter or easier now than I was when I was a little girl.
All I'm asking is that you remember that I grew up. I get to make these choices and decisions myself, and I accept the responsibility for those choices.
Ultimately, I did accept the friend requests from family members, and I'm pretty sure at least a couple of them have hidden me from their Facebook News Feed. That's okay. (I've hidden a couple of them, too.) Just because I may not like some things they say or do or think, that doesn't mean I love them any less. They're adults who've been on their own journeys and have made their own choices. We all get to turn a blind eye when we need to.
Sometimes it's just best to close your eyes, put your fingers in your ears, and la-la-la-la-la! at the top of your lungs.
I was told today that I'm a bit overwhelming at times.
Honestly, the thought of that doesn't surprise me, though I'll admit it hit me in a not-so-comfortable way. I'm not delusional about who I am:
I am loud and stubborn and demanding and spiteful.
I can hold a grudge for years.
I am verbose and impetuous.
I am moody and overly sensitive sometimes.
I can be obsessive and dogged and downright annoying.
I am boisterous and love to laugh. I have a laugh that is huge and joyful and impossible to miss.
I have learned slowly, and by overcoming some pretty substantial fears, to ask for the things I want. I'm still practicing how to reign in my approach and to be a bit more reserved when and where it's warranted.
I am intelligent and precocious. I have a large vocabulary coupled with a love of words and the way they sound, both in my quick Southern accent and in my mind's vocality.
I often make quick decisions, though not usually without merit. I'm capable of rapid thought processes, spinning so quickly from one thing to the next that there's a constant hum in my head like a hummingbird's wings. I do flit from flower to flower all too often, but that's because there are so many wonderful nectars out there to explore.
I am emotionally sensitive. No matter how stolid and easy-going I may seem, I get my feelings hurt, sometimes too easily. I would rather cut my own head off than let you see me cry, though. If I'm ever openly teary, you should know that I'm really, really hurt. I learned early on that sometimes it was better just to keep my mouth shut. If I'm not talking or if I seem distant, chances are I'm angry and am choosing not to engage it and escalate the problem. And much in the same way that I jump from thought to thought, I've been known to waffle between emotions, almost like trying them on for size to see what suits my mood.
I am immersive in the things and people that I love. I love figuring out what makes people tick, what brought them to this place in time and why they do the things they do. I love the details, of getting into something on a truly granular level. There's a pure, aesthetic joy in discovering how music and books and people are connected to the things around them, and to themselves and to me.
I am determined and will do what I need to do for a desired end result. I go after what I want, certainly, but I also work hard for those who matter to me. If I believe in you, I will support you exhaustively. I don't like to give up once I've taken on a task, often challenging myself and turning it into a personal game to win. If that means I have to bother someone or get in their face, there's a damn good reason, whether or not they know it.
A lot of these traits are ingrained, intuitive threads in the fabric of Stephanie. Some are learned behaviors that came about as coping mechanisms for any number of emotional trauma, both significant and seemingly inconsequential. I am always willing to examine the why and how of myself. It's the obsessive/immersive thing.
I accepted these truths about myself long, long ago. I do what I can to embrace them, though I fully recognize that there are flaws to be diminished and perfected. I'll work to make that happen, but only after I step out onto the emotionally slippery slope of self-examination. Sometimes that's quick and relatively painless; sometimes it takes a while to edge my way out there. There's a strong probability that I will spend a lot of time talking or writing about it, with startling verbosity. And my words may come out of anywhere at any time, just because I happened to think of them while I was in the middle of something else entirely.
But boiling me down to overwhelming.... That's like being told my muchness is too much.
Maybe it is, but it's who I am. It's a good with the bad, fantastic with the imperfect, kind of deal. I won't change who I am to suit someone else and their mood. If I find that you're worth the effort, I'll make adjustments and do what I can to make it work. Ultimately, though, I will always and unapologetically be me--not "maybe Stephanie" or "almost Stephanie". Just Stephanie.
I have some friends who are expecting a baby. They haven't found out yet if it's a boy or a girl, though they'll know in a few weeks if the baby's cooperative during the ultrasound. They've been back and forth about what to name the baby. Mom is convinced is a girl. (They have a boy name as a contingency plan.)
Mom wants something beautiful and unique. Dad wants to call her Yoshimi, regardless of her given name. I suggested Alice, but I don't think it's happening. Children of the 70's have both the Brady Bunch and Linda Lavin to thank for screwing that one up.
My name, Stephanie, is from the Greek Stephen and means something like "crown" or "crowned with glory". It's a reference to the Biblical Stephen, who is considered to be the first martyr of the Christian Church. (Wow, now that I think about it, that whole martyrdom thing could explain a lot about me....)
I wasn't named after Stephen, though. My mom always told me I was named after Stefanie Powers, though note the spelling difference. I was excited when I was about eight to learn that Stevie Nicks was also a Stephanie, seeing as how I'd been spoon-fed Fleetwood Mac since birth. (Later I would throw her over entirely for Lindsay Buckingham, but that's another blog post.) I didn't know any other Stephanies while I was growing up, just like I didn't know anyone else with a last name beginning with 'Q' until I was in junior high, and I was back to being the only Q in the school records, ever, when I got to high school.
I will answer to 'Steph' or 'Stephanie', though 'Stessie' was acceptable from my cousins when they were little. I've been known to respond to 'hey you', 'bitch, 'girlie, 'baby, 'honey', 'sweetie', or even 'dollface'-- but only if you're the one person in the world who is allowed to call me that. (If you're unsure, it's not you. Don't even try, because I will kick you.) If you're so brave as to try to call me 'Stephie', you'd better be able to run. Many have tried, but only two have succeeded. In a good mood, I'll ignore your attempts to use the uppity moniker. If I'm in a less-than-gracious headspace, expect to have your block knocked off.
There's an attitude of Stephie that just infuriates me. It's a spoiled, rotten, ungrateful, bitchy girl who expects everything to be handed to her. Yes, I realize how I'm opening myself up to the snide comments and maybe-not-so-facetious egging. I can be her, certainly, and sometimes I pride myself on having that ability. It's a persona I can step into when needed, much like my stupid blonde. It's not really who I am at all, but I recognize that there are times in life when being that girl can be beneficial.
Then there's the issue of the middle name. Until I was married, my middle name was 'Karen'. It was my godmother's middle name, though I can only remember having ever seen her once in my life. Like all Southern children, I could gauge the trouble I was in by how much of my name was yelled across the house: "Stephanie!" meant I the waters were getting warm; "Stephanie Karen!" meant I was in some pretty hot water indeed; and "Stephanie Karen Quinn!" meant it was boiling and I should probably start thinking up an excuse before they found me.
In part of my hometown, it's common practice for the daughters of the wealthy Catholic and (high) Episcopal families to be named Mary Moms-Maiden-Name. There were so many Mary Catherines, Mary Graces, and Mary Margarets, that someone thought they'd get creative. I knew a Mary Thomas, Mary Carver, Mary Tolbert, Mary James, and a Mary Smith. It totally fit each of those girls.
When I got married, I had to decide whether to keep Karen or use my maiden name for the new middle. I wasn't hyphenating, and I didn't intend to keep Quinn as my last name. So I opted for the 'Q' for the middle initial. It had become such an integral part of my identity that I couldn't just abandon it. 'Karen' didn't hold a substantial amount of significance for me. It was a pretty easy call.
Alice wonders about her name after she tumbles down the rabbit hole in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. She has already been shrinking and growing, and the crisis of identity is well underway:
"Who in the world am I? Ah, that's the great puzzle!" And she began thinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them.
"I'm sure I'm not Ada," she said, "for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all; and I'm sure I can't be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a very little! Besides, she's she, and I'm I, and--oh dear, how puzzling it all is!"
She tries to remember the things she knows of math and geography. She tries for the first time in the story to recite a well-known poem, but she is flummoxed when she can't recall the words correctly, a commonly recurring theme in Alice:
"I'm sure those are not the right words," said poor Alice, and her eyes filled with tears again as she went on, "I must be Mabel after all, and I shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! No, I've made up my mind about it; if I'm Mabel, I'll stay down here! It'll be no use their putting their heads down and saying 'Come up again, dear!' I shall only look up and say 'Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I'll come up: if not, I'll stay down here till I'm somebody else'--but, oh dear!" cried Alice, with a sudden burst of tears, "I do wish they would put their heads down! I am so very tired of being all alone here!"
There's certainly an emotional connotation to a person's name, both from within and without. All of our acquired knowledge of a name--everyone we've ever known, or not known, with that name and how we recall that person--is intimately entwined with the name itself, even if the person changes. I have refused to date or get to know people because they happened to have the same name as someone else I didn't like. We also expect other people with our same name to behave in similar ways, as if they have applied the same emotional knowledge to the name itself. I fully expect other Stephanies to be strong-willed and obstinate, but also generous and loyal. We're also curious and smart and generally likable, though we have some substantial self-esteem issues that sometimes rear their ugly heads in our gilded mirrors. We also like cats and princesses, though nothing too froufrou or fussy.
I know nothing of the Stefanies and the Stephanias of the world. Those are wholly different names. Stevie isn't really a Stephanie, and I bet she'd back me up on this. And don't get me started on the Stepfanies. UGH.
But what if I'd been named something else entirely? What if I'd been Julia or Tiffany or Samantha? Would any other names have fit me as well as Stephanie? I've tried to imagine myself with some other name, but it's hard. Heather was an option for a while in my early teens, but then there was that whole movie. Natalie might have worked, but it's my grandmother's name.
If I had to choose a new name now, it would likely be Ardala, 'cause it would bring me one step closer to my dream job of intergalactic princess.
I don't know what my friends will name their baby, and it's completely up to them. I fully believe that the babies whisper their names to their parents when ithey're ready. Mom and Dad will know when they've found the right name for their child, and no amount of input from anyone else will change that.
Having had two children, I also know that it won't really matter for a while. They'll end up calling it "the baby" for a few weeks, and pretty quickly they'll christen it with some ridiculous inner-family-circle-only nickname that sticks with them until they rebel against it in their early teens. I like to think of it as their jellicle name. I fully expect to have my ass handed to me the first time I call my eldest "Binky Butt" in front of his friends, and I'm positive "Tricky" for the youngest will come back to haunt me.
I don't have the ringlets of an Ada, and I know too much to be a Mabel. Today, at least, I'm too sure of who I am to be an Alice. But I have the purple-streaked strawberry-blonde hair and too-loud-laugh of Stephanie Quinn Jackson, so I guess I'm sticking with that. It seems to suit me just fine.
I love shoes. I kind of always have. Not necessarily wearing them, mind you, just having them and seeing them. I mean, I love to get dressed up (or not) and wear the perfect shoe for that moment, but as soon as I get home, the shoes are off. The boys have picked up this habit, unfortunately, so there's a constant pile of shoes by the front door, much to DH's chagrin. I know the argument that it's better for your family's health not to track the dirt and residue from your shoes through your home, but we mostly do it because we're lazy and want to free our piggies as soon as we cross the threshold.
And the thing is, I don't have to have expensive shoes. I won't buy super cheap shoes, either, but I'm not a Manolo Whore. Those are stunning shoes, don't get me wrong!, but I'm too practical to own a $600 (+/-) pair of shoes. I need comfort, certainly, because I'm unlikely to wear a pair of shoes again if they hurt my feet or are ill-fitting. I'm not like the Grimm Brothers' ugly stepsisters, cutting off bits of my feet to make a shoe fit. I'm also partial to my bare feet enough that I won't shove them into shoes that will make them misshapen or hideous. Nothing grosses me out quite like gnarled old lady feet, with hammer toes and bunions, especially when they're on someone under the age of 40. If your shoes make your toes point at 45 degrees from their genetic position, please hide your feet from public view. Seriously. That's just disgusting.
Because I'm on my foot soap box, I'm going to continue this digression for just a moment. I'm a big Amazon girl at 5'11, and I have appropriately-sized feet. Guess what? Any woman over the height of 5'9 is almost certain to wear a size 9 or larger. Angeline Jolie wears a 9 or 10, depending on the shoe. Paris Hilton wears an 11. Sometimes I've been forced to fight a drag queen for the perfect pair of shoes. I've even been known to loan my shoes to guys who either lost a bet or just wanted to get their girly on.
Summer will be here soon, which means sandal season. I love sandal season! If nothing else, it's the perfect excuse for a regular pedicure. And there's not much that makes me happier than a good pedicure. I'm partial to bright, bold colors on my toes, usually metallic hot pink or purple, or the occasional red or blue. I'll do designs sometimes, but I don't usually go for the French or American look. (I'm not opposed to it on principal or anything. It just doesn't suit me personally.)
But sandal season opens up a whole new can of potentially-disgusting worms. First of all, trim your damn nails. Those women whose toenails stick out way past the ends of their toes, like creepy long fingernails that have been glued to their feet--UGH! It makes me want to gag. They'll have been stylishly painted, in a multi-colored French pedi with some design on it, which is at least $20 more than the regular pedicure price. Seriously? Any nail tech who doesn't suggest you cut that shit needs to have their license revoked.
And, ladies, if your toes hang off the ends of your shoes, they don't fucking fit! If you're unsure of the size of your feet, have them professionally measured. It's not that hard and just takes a moment. Any woman who's ever had a baby knows there's a chance your feet will change size during pregnancy. If they do, they don't shrink back; it's a permanent change. (Thank God mine didn't change, or I'd be wearing skis everywhere I went.)
Okay, I think I'm done bitching. I feel much better, by the way.
DH and I go back and forth about my love of shoes. He was once appalled to learn that I bought a pair of shoes to wear with one specific outfit. "You don't have anything else to wear them with, except that outfit?" Well, duh. That's how it works sometimes. You start with a great accessory and build the look around it. I can always find a fabulous outfit to wear with shoes I already have. It's much, much more difficult to find an amazing shoe.
Shoes are often like a perfect little emotional accessory. If you see a pair across the room and they whisper to you of their adorableness, it's like shoe kismet. You just gotta try 'em. If you do and you love them like they say you will, they can completely change your whole outlook on life when you wear them. It's like the feeling of new shoes (Don't even get me started!), but it happens every time you wear them. If you ignore the pleadings of the adorable shoes and leave the store without at least trying them on, it will haunt you for the rest of your life. Any time you see a similar shoe, or you're in that store again, you'll remember how you almost held the perfect shoe in the palm of your hand. The one that got away, and all that jazz.
Thankfully, my feet have stopped growing. Shoes I buy now will still fit me in ten years. In fact, one of my favorite pairs of shoes are these black wedges with buttons that I've had for twelve years. They still look new and fit beautifully. And if the shoe is special enough, it will never, ever go out of your own personal style, regardless of trending in fashion.
I cleaned out my closet last weekend and got rid of some shoes I didn't love anymore. I wasn't ever going to wear them again, so they've been banished from my princessdom. I had to make room for the fancy new ones I recently bought. I've also requested a very specific pair of shoes for Valentine's Day, but I don't want to jinx it. I'll share them when the time is right.
My vices could be a lot worse, honestly, so DH will just have to deal with it. He has his love of computers and guns, and I have mine of music and shoes. Maybe we'll find a way to combine them. Pink glittery, strappy sandals are okay for the range, right? Good! He can borrow them any time he wants.
