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When I left Flogging Baby to work for AlphaMom, we knew that at first I'd work for them behind the scenes and then, when we had an idea, we'd work out a more column-ish idea. I bashed my head against a wall until finally we thought, 'Why not work on something made up of all the things you actually liked about working at Flogging Baby?"
And so we did.
(...and Logan finally got to design a masthead for me....)
Remember the sink? Remember how it was free and not made of fiberglass and had nice lines and tons of character? Remember how we left it on the landing by the back stairs. Remember how we're really stupid and put things like our awesome sink right in the middle of a high traffic area by the back door where people are going in and out all day?
If I were you I wouldn't do that.
I left it in the basement for a day because the sight of it, all crumbled to bits, made me physically ill. I couldn't even get a frozen pizza out of the basement freezer for dinner because I couldn't be confronted with the sink.
Then, once I'd numbed myself to the pain of the broken sink, I went into the basement. While trying to ignore the pile of porcelain on my basement floor, I rammed the top of my toe into a shard of the porcelain.
It didn't hurt very badly, until I got upstairs and noticed a long line of blood following me.
Two days later and it still hurts like a motherfucker and keeps bleeding.
My regular Y is closed so I'm driving even further to shower in the morning and I've completely given up on the luxury of using an actual toilet which flushes for, you know, number two.
It's been six days and we don't even have all the tile down yet. Logan goes back to work tomorrow and it looks like it will be at least Saturday before I have a toilet and a shower of my own.
But still, at least there's been progress.
About a couple years ago Sarah Brown wrote about Bershon, which you've heard about at this point because Heather's hair demonstrated Bershon earlier this week. Sarah started a Bershon pool at Flickr and I resisted looking for pictures to contribute because it seems every time I venture into our attic I end up really sad.
This is because even though there are pictures from my childhood in the attic which would lead you to believe my life was pretty normal, I know better.
You think, look at that cute smiling baby! And I think, "She has no idea how totally screwed over by life she's going to be."
You think, 'Look at that little girl with her dad, how sweet.' And I think, "I think he's drunk here."
We both look at this picture and want to pinch my little cheeks. But then I want to grab this little girl and save her from what's coming.
Which is pretty much a totally depressing way to look at your history and not just because you become your very own Debbie Downer. It's also depressing because it would be nice to look back with a little more happiness in your heart.
I looked though because I remembered this one picture of my friend Molly and I, who is also pictured above, when we were 12 and 13-ish. Her parents invited me on a trip down the east coast and her father was really annoying. Not really but it seemed that way.
He seemed so annoying that I actually secretly flipped him off while he took my picture. And in my book, there's nothing more Bershon than that. Also, if you were wondering what Madison will look like when she's all Bershon at 13, here you go:
At the same time, some of the pictures in my attic make me really happy.
When Madison was a baby I started to work out. I mainly worked out so I was guaranteed a hot and uninterrupted shower because, as my ass continues to declare (loudly), "I really don't enjoy working out!"
At some point I realized I could go to the Y, even when I didn't want to work out. I could drop Maddie in the Child Watch, grab my book and read in the lounge. Then, when I was done reading I could take a shower. Did I really go all the way to the gym and then not even work out? How lazy can you be? Pretty lazy as it turns out.
This morning I woke up, went out to my office on the driveway and then drove to the YMCA to shower. I didn't work out, dear God no. I showered and came home.
I've never felt more homeless in my entire life. Well except for the fact that I didn't really feel homeless at all because I have a house and food and a lot more comforts than most of the population of the world. So, honestly, shame on me for even feeling homeless in the first place. (Shame makes the Internet Go Round you know.)
Things are going well in the bathroom. I thought for sure we'd start pulling things out and all sorts of horrible things would reveal themselves. Like roaches and rats behind the walls. But there's been nothing but the sweet, sweet relief of tearing out crap and prepping the area for lightness and good.
Good like this:
(Two funny things about this sink. First: My brother in law, who now loathes me, found it for us about 8 years ago. Second: We've kept this heavy sink in our crowded basement for 8 years and are finally finding a use for it. This is not good for my cause because Logan is a HUGE pack rat and I'm always telling him, "If you don't use it in a season, you don't need it." I'll be amending that rule to include, "...unless it's a sink.")
And this, tile! Which is like my sister in law's but with black! I wish you could see the smile I get when I put my bare foot on this tile. After 8 years of sloppily applied linoleum, you'd smile too:
The money we're spending on John Smith (handyman) is the perfect cross between doing it ourselves/saving our marriage/hiring out all the work. It's more affordable than marital counseling or a divorce, it's way more affordable than hiring out all the work and it's getting things done much faster than if Logan and I were standing in that small room staring at each other with sledgehammers in hand saying, "What do you want to do?" "I don't know, what do you want to do?"
Today when I left for playdate I had silly secret hopes that upon my return, 5 hours later, there would be tile and sinks and toilets which flush and loveliness waiting for me.
I'll admit what awaited me was lovely in it's own way, but this sort of loveliness still requires me to do my <fingers>office work</fingers> from the satellite office on the driveway. I find it difficult to do the normal tasks I do in the home office. If you know what I mean. At the satellite office, I'm finding my <fingers>ideas</finger> are getting stopped up a little and it's making things a little difficult.
Look, here I am peering into a hole which leads to the main drain to our house thinking, "I certainly wish I was looking at a toilet right now."
This new bathroom is going to help fix something in me I think.
"Breaking The Seal" takes an especially unpleasant turn when it's 10pm and you've got to go outside on your driveway to pee.
Also, if your toilet is being torn out in the evening, it's probably unwise to drink more water in the six hours prior than you have in the last seven months. Total.
This bathroom better be amazing.
Also? When we put the bathroom sink in the dumpster last night I really wished I hadn't been so quick to complain about the toilet across the street. How funny would it have been to set up the sink right next to the toilet? And then we could have added the bathtub we threw out last night as well and in the morning our neighbors would be all, "Hey! How did we grow a bathroom out here? Oh well, I guess we'll leave it until the Internet comes and clears it away for our lazy asses."
And? Don't think about snakes or mice when you go to use a port-a-john in the middle of the night because Logan loves you and all but he doesn't want to stand in the port-a-john with you. He also doesn't want to look in it before you go to give you the all clear.
You can ask him if you want but I'm telling you if he won't do it for me and I give him blow jobs, he's definitely not doing it for you. (On the off chance he does, I really want to know what you're giving him.)
Things one person has said to me which have kept me going:
"I thought you were kidding about not wanting to cry anymore but I guess not. To me, the fact that you cry is just a sign that you're full. You need to let things out. I love full people."
"When you say you don't know why you feel on edge I want to slap you silly [I paraphrased here] because you are on the edge. You're on the edge of changing your entire world view."
"I know you're really scared, but I'm really excited because you're on the edge of something great."
"Go, Melissa! Go! You're doing it!"
I love you Internet. I don't know how I ever would have found the cheering section I have without you.
My parents could not buy me a barbie doll.
For four years I asked for a Barbie, just a regular Barbie, not even a special edition, just plain old "Crush-Your-Self-Esteem-With-Impossible-Bodily-Proportions-Barbie". For four years at all gift giving occasions I'd open some freakishly wrong Barbie which caused me grief when trying to play with my friends and their 'normal' Barbies.
The first barbie wasn't a barbie at all but Mabel from the dollar store. Mabel was fine but her head was shaped like a pumpkin and she just didn't fit in and as a child I was mostly about fitting in.
The next attempt was a real Barbie brand Barbie, but this Barbie was nearly three times as big as a normal Barbie and became Barb-Zilla in our games and would ruin Barbie bar-b-ques and Ken was helpless to stop it. When I opened that Barbie at my birthday party, my friend Molly said quietly, "It's okay, you can just keep using my Malibu Barbie."
On my birthday, my parents tried again and gave me a Barbie and it was normal sized and I thought they'd finally pulled their heads from their asses and given me a plain, simple, normal Barbie. I was wrong though, this was 'Model Barbie' and she came with a fake camera and a model walk. Each time her legs moved her head went side to side. Just like a model, I guess. This was fine until you tried to sit her down and her head spun around to face backwards.
My father worked for Michigan Bell for all his life. One year he attended a Michigan Bell conference in Columbus, Ohio. As an aside this is the one and only time my father travelled for work and it was a small taste of what life would be without him. What it would be was: "Awesome!" From that moment on I prayed for my parent's divorce. It only took six years of praying.
After the conference my father came home with a new Barbie doll for me! Only this one was a Lesbian Michigan Bell Repair Woman Barbie. She wore all denim and a tool belt and a hard hat and was also twice as big as a normal Barbie. The normal Barbie I'd been asking for for 3+ years.
It's clear to me as a 32 year old, my parents were mentally challenged and could not find their way to the fucking Mattel aisle of the toy store.
So, I thanked my father for my Michigan Bell Lesbian Mammoth Barbie (and silently prayed my mother enjoyed his time away as much as I did so she'd leave him finally) and promptly put it on a shelf in my room where it stayed for months without being played with.
One weekend after my father had been drinking all day he came to my room and noticed Michigan Bell Lesbian Mammoth Barbie sitting on my shelf. He stumbled over to it, picked it up and threw it across my bedroom at my head.
Michigan Bell Lesbian Mammoth Barbie happened to be African American as well as an oversized butch lesbian.
After he threw the doll at me he called me a racist because I was too God damned good for a black doll. Who did I think I was? Maybe I'll just give all your toys to someone who isn't a God Damned Racist.
It's funny though, I didn't care that the doll was black. I didn't play with it because, as a 9-year-old, I clearly had a problem with oversized lesbian phone repair workers.
In my inbox this morning (amongst many other sunny things)(thank you) from my girlfriend to everyone in our little playgroup.
"Hey, thanks for hanging out on Wednesday. I caught your period. Thanks."
We're going to Exposure Detroit tonight featuring the photography of Bobby Alcott. If you're in Detroit you should come by Karas Bros. tavern.
I hope you don't catch my period.
Yesterday I hosted my last playgroup of the summer. School starts in a couple of weeks and I could not be happier about it. I've done better this summer and haven't wanted to dip the children in chocolate and eat them but August is dragging terribly.
We had playgroup, then some of the dads came and ate pizza and then we headed to the zoo to see the Candy Band play. And it was fun. Then, I collapsed into bed, read your emails and cried. Even better.
Me: "I just feel sad and I can't even tell you why. I just always feel this sadness inside of me. I want to cry all the time, even when I'm happy...if it was quiet the tears would start. This feeling like I never fit wherever I am, even when I clearly fit. Even when I'm surrounded by people who love me."
"Even when I'm celebrating a birthday with my husband and all our friends and there's a God Damn Flamenco dancer prancing about in front of my face rubbing her silk shawl over the back of my head, I want to cry. And I don't know how to make that not be the way I'm feeling. I don't want to feel this way and still I keep feeling this way. I keep waking up and looking around wondering why it never gets better, even though everything is better."
Therapist: "Well, you just need to change how you think about it. You are fine. You are good. You're okay. Even if you never get better from here, you're still perfect and are one of the most brave people I've ever known. Nothing is wrong with you." (I've paraphrased.)
Me: "...."
(Still Me): "Uhm, Logan says this kind of thing all the time for free. It's not helping."
If nothing is wrong with me, then why do I feel wrong with me?
50 Cent reads my blog.*
If we were to buy the house one of my best friends would live just a few houses away. Also living a few houses away would be other nice families, as I've mentioned before. A lot of times. One of these houses is the home of a sound/production/studio (???) person for Eminem.
This person, who could be my neighbor if the Gods align themselves behind my massive vision (I have furniture laid out in each of the rooms and am choosing paint colors), was called to the studio to work late the other night with 50 Cent. 50 Cent, which I say, "Fifty Cent" or "Mr. Cent" and Logan says, "Please, it's Fitty." and I say, "I'm white, I can't do that." I think Mr Cent would understand and appreciate my thoughtfulness. We can't all be Gucci wearing muthafukahs. (I just gave myself a hernia.)
So, during some downtime at the studio my neighbor (positive thinking!) pulled up my website (perhaps checking to see if my family would be bringing down property values in his neighborhood).
Mr. Cent came up, looked over his shoulder and asked what he was reading.
Then he said, "You know, I can't really read this. This woman curses a lot and everyone knows only the uncreative swear so much. Small minds, man. Small minds. I mean right here where she writes, 'fucking', why not 'flipping' or 'freaking'? See? Way more creative. Plus it's totally uncool to be talking trash about the Presbyterians. Hoes and Niggas, fine but leave the Presbyterians out of it."**
To sum up, Alice might have Arianna Huffington in love with her clever use of puncuation. But I have 50 Cent offended by my use of foul language.(See: ** )
*By 'reads' I mean he looked over the shoulder of someone who was reading my website and said, "What are you reading, brutha'?" (Damn writing that makes me feel extraordinarily white.)
**He didn't say any of this, but I wish he did.
P.S. The kids went to a playdate off 8 Mile yesterday. We're gritty people.
When I talked about our trip to Indianapolis I mentioned how my sister in law is wiser about drinking, is bronzed and svelte and is also fond of the Bush family.
I didn't go into how my sister in law's house is like a piece of apple pie with a big glass of milk. Or a Country Living Magazine. I didn't mention how every time I go for a visit, I spend most of the weekend squealing at all the little things there are to look at.
I also didn't mention how I leave thinking, "That's it! I'm redoing the house! I'm going to buy things I love and then find a place for them." (Which is the advice Jenn gave to me.)
Then I get home and realize the kids like to eat and have clothes (every season!) and we like to go out to eat with friends more than a lot of people like to go out to eat. Depression glass is just no match for Camarones Enchilados.
Also, Logan fancies himself a tasteful kind of guy and he likes a lot (some might say an oppressive amount) of input into the decorating of the house. Thus the ice cream colored breakfast nook wouldn't fly.
My favorite story of my sister in law and brother coming together to decorate is this:
She: "What do you think we should do with the dining room?"
He: "I don't know....anything but yellow."
Guess what color the dining room is? And he doesn't really care because he's never picked up a paintbrush in his life.
Conversely here's a conversation Logan and I had in the bedding department of Hudsons (now Marshall Fields)(woops! Now Macy's) while we registered for our wedding. We've been through a lot with my in laws and you'd think those traumas were the closest we came to relationship implosion. But you'd be wrong, the closest we came to implosion was the bedding department while we registered.
Him: "I don't care what we get but NO florals."
Me: [spinning in a circle surrounded by floral bedding.] "But what about these, they're a subtle floral?"
Him: "No, no floral. I can't sleep with that crap all over the place."
So I caved and we ended up with bedding similar to this, which is more suited to a teenage boy's room than a newlywed couple's. Seven years later Logan says, "Well maybe a subtle floral wouldn't be that bad."
So we're getting divorced and remarried so we can re-register.
What the hell was I writing about anyway?
Oh right my sister in law's place and how cute it is and how it brought into glaring focus (once again) how much I hate this stupid fucking house.
So today I spent time looking into mortgages and how much more it would be to buy a house in the dream neighborhood. You remember the dream neighborhood don't you?
I'm currently coveting The House on the corner. The House which has taken up residence in my brain and will not release me from it's devastating hold, until I'm unpacking my (carefully weeded through) possessions in the master bedroom.
The other day Logan and my friend Andrea were running together and as they ran up to her house, they passed by The House on the corner. Logan said, "It's neat that you'll run with me....you know Melissa wishes I'd break my ankle and stop running all together*. Also....when do you think this house will be bought so Melissa will stop obsessing over it?"
Andrea said, "I don't think it will stop until you guys buy it. Also...I think running is awesome!*"
*I may have made up these sentences for comedic effect but they might have said that, because it's true.
In an effort to stop obsessing over the house I drove past it twice today. And changed my desktop image to the house. And then made an appointment to go see the house on Saturday. This all didn't seem to help stop the obsession, I can't imagine why.
I think the best we can hope for is that The House is actually a piece of crap inside and my fantasies about it will die. Conversely we can hope Logan suddenly inherits a large sum of money and we can buy that other house we've wanted for a few months now and still eat all the Queso de Cabra we want without worrying about paying the mortgage.
I'm worried neither of these are reasonably viable options.
Today Logan turns 38 years old.
Thirty Eight sounds remarkably old to me, probably because I just turned 23.
A few months ago Logan said, "I should really buy logansummers.com before it becomes a porn site like MadisonSummers.com is."
I secretly bought him the domain and look! Logan made a site all his own. I've always thought he was an amazing and talented designer but he's seriously out done himself this time.
But don't take my word for it, go wish him a happy birthday yourself. Well...except there are no comments there....but you know he'll feel your love.
My brother and his wife joined a swim club this year. They'd always thought it would be too expensive to join a swim club but once they looked into The Riviera Club they realized what I realized long ago: everything in Indiana is free.
Not really free but cheap enough that you'll overlook the fact that there's a church (or three) on every street corner in the entire state and they don't let children accompany you into the liquor store and your kids can't eat at restaurants which don't have a wall between your table and the bar and you can't purchase liquor on Sundays.
Who do they think they are? Utah?
On Saturday we went to The Riviera Club and I'm not sure I can put into words the joy that is 'Rivi'.
Let's put it this way, the way Logan put it as we sat around the pool as the old ladies nearby put their 'tomato juice' in their 'cocktail shaker'.
"Rivi: Built When Fun Was More Important Than Safety"
In the 1930's, kids got hurt sometimes and when they got hurt they realized what they'd done was a really bad idea and they didn't do it again.
They have a high dive, NO pools around me have a high dive, they took them out in the 80's when people started to realize you could sue people when accidents happened. (You'll break your neck!) They have metal slides, big metal slides, like the kind you'd find on a totally outdated playground in Detroit. (SHARP EDGES! You'll kill yourself!) These deadly slides are in the water for children to slide down into the pool. Well, for children or Logan and my brother.
(Overheard: Logan starts climbing the ladder to the big slide, my brother comes up behind him. One kid to another: "Look out everyone! Here comes another adult." Look out, indeed.)
Let's not even talk about the playground. Okay, just for one second, there's this crazy ass contraption on the playground I've never even seen in my life because I think you could get whip lash with it.
I'd like another tagline: "Rivi: Where Everyone Knows That Kids Get Hurt And What The Fuck? Why don't you put your kid in a plastic bubble if you're so worried about it."
We had a wonderful time at Rivi and I even wore a (borrowed) bathing suit and didn't die from it either.
"Rivi: Where you can wear a bathing suit and forget for a moment what a self concious freak you are."
Also, please note: No one was maimed or killed by the dangerous slide or the death trap high dive while we were at Rivi.
Every time I go visit my brother and his wife I come home with a new saying, like "Just so you know..." (Which I might finish with "....those sunglasses make my clothes fly off.") My sister in law has a knack for coming up with little sayings which grab hold of my brain and for the next 2-3 weeks I walk around sounding exactly like her, only less funny.
I sound exactly like her, except I never find myself saying, "Let's send a check to George Bush and hang his picture on the fridge." I will also never suggest you don't need a housekeeper twice a month because once the kids go to school you'll be bathing in free time so why not clean house? (Answer: I have cocktails to consume! I don't live in Indiana.) I also never say (and never will say), "Well I could have ordered a cocktail, but I don't need the calories."
The cocktail thing though explains a lot about the current condition of my body and the comparable (svelte and bronzed) condition of my sister in law's. But still? No cocktail because of the calories? Who do you think I am? Indiana?
Mostly I come back from visiting my brother and his wife thinking how awesome a husband and person my brother is. And sometimes, when we're sitting on their (tastefully decorated) screened porch playing cards and my sister in law is making me laugh until I can't breathe and my brother is doing the same, I look at him and I wonder what my parents actually did right.
Because he's a kind and loving person and he chose an amazing woman to spend his life with who fits him perfectly and, just so you know, our lives could have easily turned out a lot different.
I wore....a bathing suit today. For several hours. At a private swim club with lots of other people who, when they dared to look upon my white flesh (3 years suit and shorts free), were blinded.
I'm sorry Indianapolis. I'm sorry you had to see that.
When I got in the water and started to swim, dunking under the water, Madison yelled out, "Mommy! You went under water! Good for you!" As if I were a 5 year old.
Then she turned Logan and my sister in law and said, "I didn't know Mommy could even swim!"
Me: "Won't it be fun to see Uncle Scott and Aunt Jenn this weekend? Aunt Jenn loves kids, I think it's going to be fun."
Madison: "I think Uncle Scott likes kids too....well actually he's like a little kid. Did you know girls are more mature than boys. Just like you and Daddy."
Me; "Well that's definitely true."
Madison: "I think that's why Uncle Scott and Daddy like each other so much. They're both like kids. And they're both funny. It's like a funny explosion when they get together. Like Funny Robots."
Me: "Right. They're exactly like funny robots. Who like to fart sometimes."
Madison: "I forgot about the farting. You are so right."
I arrived in San Francisco on Wednesday and met Alice in baggage claim for the third time since we've taken a liking to each other. This time I wasn't enraged with Canada or sleep deprived or even nervous. In fact, seeing all 'The Ladies' (Max's name for anyone who is my friend) this time was so comfortable it felt a lot like Tuesday Playgroup if Tuesday Playgroup only happened once a year and was without all the butt wiping, diaper changes and fights breaking out.
On Wednesday night I also did something I've never done before. I watched Project Runway. I didn't just watch it, I watched it with experts. A style expert and a reality tv expert. I then felt stunned at all the things my life is missing: style, reality tv and most of all, Tivo.
Then we drove to San Jose and the world opened up and swirled me around for a few days. I met a lot of people and talked a lot and listened a lot and by Sunday I felt hollow inside. Which my therapist tells me is okay and 'normal'. Or maybe he told me I'm insane and I just don't remember because the power went out in the office and it's 100 degrees here.
So many people. So much small talk. So much guilt for not getting to know more people in a more meaningful way. So little ability to pay the stupid hotel for a drink. (Am I the only one fuming about the hotel?)
On Sunday we drove back up to San Francisco and were dropped with the Juniper family and there were just 5 people and I wanted to cuddle with them all because there weren't 750 people all over the place. 750 people who might think that since I wanted to be at a table with those women I wanted to spend time with or in a small hotel room with just a portion of those people I am a monumental bitch.
750 people who may or may not be looking at my double chins and thinking, "Yes, yes she married above her." 750 people who might be nice but who are also women and who also create drama everywhere and wear me out with it all.
I've never done well with large groups of women (*see MOMS Club) and I think that's why my experience last year was so overwhelming. I'd gone to a women's conference and I'd met women I'd had a connection with before arriving and it turned out I really did like other women. Er...well, not in that way (except Alice). But I always thought I wasn't good at having female friends and here I am a year later with a core group of female friends who are making this latest round of therapy seem conquerable.
Blogher factored into the way my life works right now, but it wasn't a magic potion. It's also risking yourself enough to be out there and that started the year before Blogher when I met and then connected with my amazing preschool mom friends and continued when I kept reaching out to the people inside the computer and continued even further when I met people I didn't even know would end up being so incredibly important to me.
Doing that has been a perfect potion of my own vulnerability and the ability of others to see through my double chins and quiet exterior to see who I want to be. To see who I'm working very hard at becoming.
After arriving at the Juniper's and getting coffee at a cute little place (just so you know, San Francisco's nice if you like personal little coffee shops....but in Detroit we like impersonal little coffee shops) we drove to Stefania's house for a brunch she hosted for us. The brunch was so nice I wanted to cry.
Alice tried to make me cry, everyone waited for me to cry this weekend but my emotions have become more complex in the last year.
To make me cry now you have to a) get a large group of people I don't know to look at me b) ask me about therapy c) say good bye d) be someone I admire greatly and send me an email telling me how you're rooting for me or e) serve me lox and capers.
And Stefania did that (and the Grey Goose Bloody Mary didn't hurt either) and we ('we' being Dutch and Wood, Laid Off Dad, JenB and Stefania and her husband) sat at the table on her (amazing) deck and just seven adults got to talk and is it too much to ask that Blogher happens in shifts? Because I had a much easier time talking with 7 people than I had talking to 750 people.
It was a low key gathering and involved the real estate section (hey, let's add a letter to the list of things which make me weep: f) California's real estate market) and the Target circular which is one of my favorite things about Sundays even when I'm not in San Francisco. After brunch we walked around the city and as I promised Dutch and Wood I did not tell them San Francisco was so much better than Detroit. It's not really better, unless you like having a million things to do and zero humidity.
If you like your housing in the realm of affordable and are easily overstimulated, Detroit might very well be a good fit.
Logan told me tonight that perhaps it's time to stop writing posts about what I'm actually doing and go a little deeper into what I'm thinking. There are a few problems with this: I'm actually thinking a lot about therapy and the things I'm thinking about are resulting from therapy and they're not things I want to talk about with the world.
I nearly had a breakdown when I told two nice souls what I'm thinking about on the drive to San Jose, it's unwise to tell the entire world about the same things.
However, on the way to the airport with Dutch and Laid Off Dad (aren't they cute with their 'nicknames'?) one of them (and I won't say who) mentioned the rather large personalities he'd encountered at our little gathering of women.
Large personalities which suffocated me and made me want to become a cabbage rose on a piece of Laura Ashley wallpaper.
And this is something that's been on my mind ever since. I met several women who are blessed with talent and ease in their own skin and amazing plans and the balls to make those plans a reality. And those women inspired me to go to therapy on Tuesday and take a big chunk out of the weary Melissa who keeps throwing her hands up and saying, "Why bother?"
There were other women who at first glance appear comfortable in their own skin and who seem to have great plans and want to tell you about their talent and their plans and their amazing abilities....and I wondered in the car, ironically (after a women's conference) with a couple of guys, what the difference was between them and the women who can just 'be' (and not so much need to tell you who they 'are')?
I just want to 'be'.
