Unspoken Rules for Commuter Train Riders

I've been riding my local commuter train for over five years now. I've come to the conclusion that SOME people need to be handed a written list of the heretofore unspoken rules of the commuter train that make the ride more pleasant for everyone.

1. If it is before 9 a.m. the train is generally quiet. This is because people are sleeping, or trying to. If you hold a conversation loud enough for all to hear, you are an asshat. You don't want to sleep, fine. You want to hold a conversation, that's fine too, but let's keep it respectfully quiet, ok?

2. Speaking of conversations, here are some guidelines:

• Recognize that there is a time and place for sensitive discussions. If you want to express your political opinions, however dumb they may be, fine. But be aware that if you are speaking loudly and angrily enough that others can hear you and you work in Washington, DC, it is highly likely that you will not only offend someone (not that you care, obviously, or you wouldn't need this list) but also that someone nearby is personally acquainted with the individual you are bashing. Or works for them. Or is them. And they may fight you, or tell your boss unflattering things about you. You just never know.

• For the love of cake please keep your cell phone conversations to a minimum. Yes, we all have times when we need to let someone know we're on our way or to pull the chicken out of the fridge. But why, why do I have to listen to you run through the list of things in your fridge and then dictate how to make grilled cheese all the way home? No one on the train needs to know how your doctor's appointment went. This is a perfect time to bust out the text message.

3. No touching! I can't tell you how many times I've been minding my own business in my seat when I feel a thigh press up against mine. And stay there. Clearly, the person next to me doesn't mind our flesh pressed together. But I do. These people are either have no respect for personal space or, what's worse, know that it's likely that I will scooch further into my already cramped seat to avoid feeling their warm leg, thus giving them more space than they are allotted. Nefarious.

4. You paid for one seat. You use one seat. Now, if it is the middle of the day and the train car is practically empty, sprawl all you want. But when it is rush hour and you are happily sitting next to your backpack while the rest of us are jammed so tightly together we create heat, I'm going to ask you to move your bag so I (or someone, at least) can sit. Don't give me that look. Unless your bag is full of something so precious it can't be jostled, in which case you probably shouldn't have it on public transportation, you can put it on your lap or the floor like the rest of us. Heck, on my train people even put their kids on their laps to make room for others. And they're a lot more precious (not to mention hot and wiggly) than your bag.

5. Please, please stop tempting me with your delicious-smelling McDonald's food. If you must eat on the train, couldn't you choose something that doesn't have a scent? Especially a greasy, fried, delicious scent? I think we all know the pain of sitting next to someone having crispy golden French fries while we have nothing. The scent, which is enviable. The sound of them masticating near your ear, which is disgusting. Please no. How about a nice banana instead?

These are only a few of my many complaints re: the commuter train. Still, it (usually) gets me into the city reliably, relatively cheaply, without my adding driving my car to my environmental imprint for the day. So for that, I am thankful, and will continue to patronize the train despite the behavior of the other passengers.

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Let me tell you something

I enjoy J. Crew. Mostly for their perfect fit tee shirts, as I consider a tee shirt, jeans, a scarf and ballet flats the perfect outfit for any and all occasions. I generally am only willing to purchase them on sale, however, so when I get a J. Crew sale e-mail, I generally check it out, as I did this morning. When I did, I came across this little gem:



From J. Crew

Your standard slim fitting gray sweatshirt reading "darling!," an object of clothing I would personally never wear and especially never purchase. Good thing too, because it was on sale for $199.99. Two hundred dollars people. On sale. The retail price was $398.00. Four hundred dollars. Now, it is made of cashmere, which I've never been willing to spend enough to own but I hear is very nice. But still. Where the hell would you even wear that? I'm fairly certain the only time I've ever spent over $100.00 for any single item of clothing was for a formal event dress. Somehow I can't reconcile the fact that the same store where I get tee shirts for less than 20 bucks is selling a four hundred dollar sweater. That's ugly to boot. This is what is wrong with us people. No one needs a four hundred dollar sweater. No one.

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Quote: Tiny Delights

Via C. Style

Yesterday's tiny delight: a Tesla kitten making biscuits on my tummy.

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The Curse of the Sexually Active Female

There comes a time in most women's lives where they are concurrently sexually active and desperately trying not to get pregnant. Married, single, swinging, what have you, we all go through it. During that period of time, you generally think you are pregnant at least once a day.

 

Logic goes out the window. Ok, rationally, I KNOW I need to have had sex within the last few weeks, at least, but what if, some how, some, like, SUPER sperm was just holed up in there waiting for ovulation day?

 

Feel a little nauseous today? Pregnant.

 

Warmer than normal? Pregnant.

 

Right foot itchy? DEFINITELY PREGNANT.

 

It doesn't matter if pregnancy is, in fact, the least likely cause of your minor ailment (see: too many burritos, effing summer and poison ivy for above). If you are desperately trying not to be pregnant (say, oh, you're still 25 and poor-ish and getting married in 3 months and living in a shitty one bedroom apartment like myself), then every abnormal thing can and will be taken by your brain to baby land.

 

Shows such as "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" only encourage this neurosis. I don't want to be one of those clueless women! I must be ever vigilant, you say to yourself. And God help you if you Google your symptom with the words "sign of pregnancy" because there is for sure one woman out there for whom the first sign of pregnancy was a runny nose and she will be happy to tell you all about it on some message board.

 

I like to think I'm not stupid. I went to graduate school and all that. I know the most common legitimate signs of pregnancy, what conditions you need to get pregnant and how to best prevent pregnancy. And yet, I have absolutely purchased pregnancy tests I knew I did not really need just to stop that little voice in my head from asking me just where I expect to put a crib in this tiny apartment.

 

Perhaps the most annoying thing about all of this is that I can't expect it to stop until I'm menopausal, because I know that it will be just as bad when I WANT to be pregnant and am looking for reasons to pee on the stick. Then, having had a baby, it will go back to "deargoodnesspleasenoIcanthandlemorerightnow". So heads up politicos-you don't need to be worried about the contents of my uterus. I do plenty of worrying for all of us.

 

Side note, I told my fiancé I was going to write this post and he responded that I should not because karma will ensure that I become actually pregnant any minute now. Here's hoping karma isn't that much of a bitch.

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There is Nothing Wrong With Me.

The other night I slept in my old room at my parents' house. I didn't have any books with me and I was looking for something to read before bed, so I pulled out a stack of old diaries (periodically I would get the bug to journal, start one, keep it for 3 months, and then get bored/realize I had nothing of importance to write. Much the path this blog has taken. But I digress.)

 

Firstly, I don't recommend reading things you wrote in middle school. I was deeply embarrassed for my 13 year old bespectacled and be-braced self who actually took the time to encircle her crush's name in hearts every time she wrote it. Gag me with a spoon. I put those down in favor of a journal I started in college, thinking it might reveal a more enlightened and less painful version of myself, but as it was written before I started taking social anxiety medication, it was mostly about how much I hated living at college and wouldn't have minded getting hit by a car (see, I wasn't depressed in the sense that I wanted to kill myself, just apathetic enough that I wouldn't have minded if someone else had. Thank God for paroxetine, amirite? My journey to acceptance of pharmaceutical help may be another post in the future.) Finally, I found one, count 'em, one, entry that I was not ashamed of, reading as follows:

 

"My mom tells me I 'know where I fall' on the looks spectrum. My grandmother says how unfortunate my pimples are. My advisor 'advises' me to get a boyfriend.

 

THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME."

 

You go college self. This was a particularly appropriate find as I have been really wrestling with body image lately (probably a combo of summer "beach season body are you good enough to be seen half naked" promos, reading Kjerstin Gruys' tale of her reflection-less year in Mirror, Mirror Off the Wall and my upcoming wedding). I find myself constantly vacillating between wanting to lose 10 lbs. and finally have "perfect" skin and wanting to be a model of body positivity, content to live in a healthy body and finding beauty in the experiences I have in said body. I don't want to want to change. I want to be happy with myself right now. When I tell B "I'm feeling fat today," (as if fat is a feeling) I want not to stop BEING fat, because I know that I am at a healthy weight, but to stop FEELING fat, but since the FEELING part is in my brain, it's a lot more difficult to change. I don't want to lose physical weight. I want to lose metaphorical weight made up of self-doubt and self-hate.

 

Sometimes I do have spurts of self-love, where I feel happy and healthy and beautiful. That feeling that your beauty is radiating from the inside to the point where it eclipses any physical "flaws". And then the doubt creeps in. Sometimes it comes from catching a glimpse of oneself in the bathroom mirror and realizing your mental image is not matching what you're actually seeing. Sometimes it comes from seeing an ad or some conventionally beautiful person and thinking, oh who am I kidding, my inner beauty can't possibly compete with that rack. And sometimes, and this, I think, is worst of all, sometimes it comes from a comment from those around us who think they are being kind.

 

None of the people I wrote about in my diary meant to hurt my feelings. My mother meant to imply that we should accept the "looks" we are given and learn to be content with them. My grandmother thought that, since acne can be treated, she should perhaps point out how much more conventionally beautiful I would seem if I did just that. My (college) advisor thought that I was lonely and that I needed to "get a life" (um, that one was still mean though and not really appropriate. Just tell me what classes I need, thanks). Still, they hurt, because they all seemed to imply that I was falling short of some standard. I'm glad I had the strength of self then to take that momentary sting, brush it off and remind myself "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME" and I'm glad I came across it again in a time where the balance between self-hate and self-love seems so fickle. Because it's the truth. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me if I don't meet a conventional beauty standard. Or if I do. Or if I lose 10 lbs or if I don't. If I have pimples sometimes. Those things just...are. They simply exist, without being good or bad.

 

THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME. And there is nothing wrong with you.

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People up in my space.

B and I moved to another apartment that still doesn't have a washer and dryer because we enjoy the college student ritual of hauling our dirty clothing back to our parents' houses every week to save 3 dollars. Now, however, three months after moving, we are getting our very own laundry-doing machines in our bedroom closet! My dirty clothes won't even have to leave the room in which I take them off, much less travel an hour and a half by car every week. The downside of this is that there was an entire week's worth of installation work to be done in my apartment. By strangers. I don't generally like strangers. I don't generally like anyone in my apartment other than myself, my cats and sometimes B. AND I was going to be home for all of it, because like the undeservedly blessed person I am, I got a whole month off before starting a new, better job.

Day One of work I was gone, and we had to put the boys in the den all day so they wouldn't dart out the door on the workmen. I was so grieved at having to lock them in one room all day (albeit a room with floor to ceiling window, kitty litter, food and toys) that when I got home I ran to let them out shouting "Mommy's here! I'm here babies!" after which they blase-ly sauntered out for a nap.

Over the next three days, I got to make new friends as they wandered in and out of my personal space like they owned it. At the risk of playing into stereotypes, though in this case in pure truth, all the workmen were Latino and spoke varying mixes of Spanish and English. I took French in high school and can't speak it anyway, so for most of us our single commonality was that we liked the cats. "Bonitas Gatitos!" they would say, gesturing to my boys, and I would agree. And then they would say it again a half an hour later when they  returned. Two of the workmen, however, M and E, offered olive branches of friendship that are either exceedingly creepy or incredibly sweet. I still can't decide which.

E, upon viewing the amount of Disney paraphernalia in the apartment, opened up with "You like Mickey Mouse?" Turned out he goes every year with his three kids because they love it. Great! Hey, we all love the mouse. I could talk to you about Disney World for days. The line of possible creep was crossed when he brought me a present the next morning-a Mickey Mouse key chain from his last trip. I put it on my keys because I thought it was the right thing to do, then removed it after they finished work for the week. I am somewhat uncomfortable when I receive gifts from loved ones; gifts from strangers are territory I care not to venture into.

M, an older gentleman who was missing several of his front teeth, engaged me in conversation early in the week, which was mostly uncomfortable because I couldn't understand most of what he said but kept nodding and interjecting politely hoping I wasn't agreeing to something awful. He did manage to tell me, out of the blue, that the reason he was missing his front teeth was because he was jumped by "Negros" one night after work, and I was uncomfortable because a) that sucks and b) I couldn't decide if the use of "Negro" was descriptive or racist (having been raised with a middle class white background of extreme political correctness). There's also something distinctly off-setting about talking to someone over twice your age and realizing, as he describes his life, just how many more advantages you have already had than he has or ever will. Confronting ones privilege is always uncomfortable.

M also told me I should have at least two "bebes".

M crossed over into misguided older gentleman/creeper territory on the last day I was around with them, when he told me I was beautiful, then returned to say it was such a pleasure to meet me and take my hand in his and kiss it, pressing his lips and whiskers full on into my skin. I'm not even embarrassed to admit that I got up immediately after he left and scrubbed my hand, and that it had nothing to do with his age, race, or class, but the fact that HE WAS A STRANGER WHOSE LIPS MADE CONTACT WITH MY SKIN. I would've done the same, in fact, if many of my family members had made such a gesture (great uncles especially). B immediately decided that M was probably a rapist. Now, I believe no such thing. I believe that both E and M were genuinely being nice in the ways they knew how. However, I also have to admit that I was very glad to see them complete their work and go so that I could walk around shirtless and watch trashy t.v. without fear of judgment, as ones vacation should be spent.

The bad news? We still don't have a washer and dryer. But we do have a hole in the wall where one would go.

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But then I had to pee.

Sometime between 1:30 and 3 a.m. I usually wake up to find Truman snuggled in the crook of my right arm and Tesla purring away on my chest. It is, needless to say, adorable. I don't mind being woken up to pet my boys, because for the ten minutes before they get tired of it and jump off the bed, all is right with the world. Except last night. Because last night I had to pee. Really badly. But I didn't want to disturb the kittens. So I waited, in agony, until they moved on, then immediately sprung out of bed and raced for the bathroom. Where they followed me so I could pet them while on the toilet because they like to listen to me pee, apparently. They come running every time. It's nice to have company.



Truman sleeping in my t-shirt drawer because he can.





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In THIS body

(Note-none of these photos are of me) Via

Truth: my body is healthy

Truth: sometimes I hate it.

Some days I feel extra puffy, too curvy, overweight, disgusted with myself. Some days I feel healthy, strong, fit and happy. There's no constant to how I feel about my body, really, and I know a lot of others who feel the same way. I don't know how to relate to my physical being. If I tell my boyfriend I'm unhappy with my body, he offers suggestions of how I can make changes to become happy. This is not a flaw on his part. I present a problem, he presents a solution. The disconnect is that the real problem, as I see it, is not my body itself. I could work out more, eat less, lose weight, sure I could, I have. But that's not a solution, because my body isn't the problem.

No, the real problem is that I know that even if I did those things, my thoughts wouldn't change. There will always be things to dislike. I am too short, curvy by nature, while I enjoy the tall and lithe. I have stretch marks on my thighs-never mind that they come from the growth of muscle I experienced as a competitive figure skater, something arguably healthy and nothing to be ashamed of. My nose will always have a bump, my hair won't lay right. There will always be days where I can't stand to see myself in the mirror and days where I think dang, I look hot this morning. 

The problem isn't physical. So how can I fix it?

I don't know if I ever will "fix" it. But I am trying to wake up every day and learn to find contentment in THIS body. THIS body that I have right this minute. Whether I wake up feeling ugly or wake up feeling beautiful, my actual body is the same, and my ability to live in it and live a worthwhile day is not affected.

Via

And you know what?

In THIS body I earned three university degrees.

In THIS body I met and fell in love with my fiance.

In THIS body I have traveled the U.S. THIS body has climbed mountains, swam in oceans, hiked trails, camped out, skied, skated.

In THIS body I have loved, hated, given, taken, helped, harmed, learned, read, hoped, dreamed and been...happy.

In THIS body I have lived and like it or not in THIS body I will die. I wouldn't trade the body I have for a different one if it meant living a different life. 

No. In THIS body I will be content. In THIS body I will be happy. I won't always wake up loving myself, but whether I feel ugly or beautiful, I will remind myself each morning to be happy in THIS body and to love THIS body that enables me to live the life I love. I will treat my body with care, and if it is healthy, then that will be enough.

Via

*All of the above images are from the "Beautiful Body" project by Jade Beall. I encourage you to check our her website for essays and images of people finding beauty in their bodies just the way they already are.

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