The Nerve of That Customer To Wear Cute Shoes

I’m in line with my husband while our four hooligans are seated at a table in the chipotle dining room wreaking noise havoc on all the innocent eaters nearby. Pointing to the shoes of the gentleman standing in front of me, I say to Scott, “I love those, I could see you wearing those.” Scott nods and then says about the shoes worn by two people ahead in line he’s been admiring, “I like those! They’re cute, right?”

I did not like this woman. 

I did not like this woman at all.

(“This woman” was wearing the “cute shoes.”)

Here were her two offenses: She was tan. She was athletic.

I, on the other hand, had surgery recently to remove an irregular mole and wear 50 spf from head to toe even on days I stay inside; I am the hue of loose leaf paper (not recycled).

Additionally, in an effort to lighten the pressures on myself this summer, I begrudgingly freed myself from one of my favorite hobbies: running. I haven’t worn a sports bra or sweated beyond what it takes to wheel the trash out in 5.5 weeks.

PS. My husband has a high regard for all people - any gender will do - who improve their bodies through fitness. 

My insecurity, as you can well see, on this chipotle evening was at an all-time high. 

All he said was that her bubbly little set of bright orange-and-pink sneakers were cute. 

I didn’t care. 

I didn’t like her.

Wait: there was a third strike; she appeared to be alone. As I glanced back at my offspring and saw them engaged in a game of makeshift bowling on the table surface with Campbell’s plastic princesses as the pins, I became further dignified in my ridiculous inner criticism of this athletic, tan, ALONE woman.

But she sorta redeemed herself, for when Scott and I were confusing the hell out of the 17 yr old tortilla dude by trying to order our 6 meals by both shouting out incoherent contributions (really, families ought to have just one chief fast food orderer), I decided to save our marriage and scoot on away to let him take over and as I passed her while slinking forward through the line, she gave me a knowing smile. It said all at once, “Why can’t it just be a tad easier?”

So, I returned to our table to break up the idiot bowling game feeling a bit sheepish about my lively and immature head dialogue about someone who is likely rather nice. 

AND THEN I see her cute little neon shoes saunter to a nearby table WITH HER DATE. 

#1) she’s, after all, not alone.

#2) her date is an autistic teenaged boy.

I proceed to observe her caringly spoon the contents of their shared burrito bowl into his mouth between bouts of his hand flapping, the two working in synch - a sign they’ve done this a million times before and will a million times more. 

And I eat. Every. Single. Word. 

I eat all the words my mind conjured up moments before in line.

And I eat all the ones this whole ragged-edged summer has brought up in me the past couple months.

The ones that paint me as a victim and the ones that are jealous of others’ simpler lives. The ones that repeat, “It’s too much. It’s just too much.” when I’m deep in an overwhelmed pit. The ones that wonder how everyone else is doing it. The ones that dismally lament, too concerned with self-involved junk to look up. The ones that shake me off my seat as the hero writer of my own story and instead leave me feeling helplessly trampled under offenders’ feet. (Cute shoe wearing feet, no less)

I got a good laugh last night. 

At myself, mainly.

Laugh at yourself, too. With kindness, if possible.

For our minds sometimes lure us unwittingly into ridiculously pathetic spaces and then feeds us good reasons to be there. 

Don’t listen. Leave it. 

And sachet back to your actual life, pale and mushy and perfect just the way it is.*

*note to reader: pale and mushy interchangeable. try filling in the blank.

Five Things I Learned The Hard Way This Summer

#5
Those little make-your-own popsicle plastic handles should each have a tracking device.

I was all pumped about our koolaid popsicles. EVERYBODY remembers the nostalgia of this wholesome summer activity... pouring the sugary yumminess into the molds, awaiting their full freeze, the sense of accomplishment at licking one’s one homegrown icepop. But the lickers of said popsicles walk. Like around. Outside, to their rooms, to the neighbors’... We first made a six-sicle batch, the quantity it was designed to make. Next: a four-sicle batch. Now I have two handles. And that includes the one gnarled by the disposal once (ok twice). I APOLOGIZE TO ANYONE IN A 5 MILE RADIUS IF YOUR LAWN MOWER BLADE TAKES A BEATING; I cannot be responsible for the whereabouts of the 4 missing ones.

#4

When I wish upon stars all year long that one of my kids will become a Top Chef so I can be spared the orchestration of a meal or two per week, I am STUPID.

One of them DID pick up an interest in the kitchen this summer. And turns out “leave the kitchen as you found it” means NOTHING to a tween boy. I can’t find my honey. I have no idea where our oatmeal is. The 8X8 baking dish has had at least 12 homes in as many days. He tries, dear child, but fails, to return things where they belong, much less use a sponge properly (I didn’t think you’d have to teach WRINGING. IT. OUT!!). Next summer I’m investigating not kid cooking classes for him, rather cooking clean-up classes. I’ll pay anything. Bet he’ll be biting at the bit.

#3

I can’t kid myself that I am fully severed from my children’s bathroom management.

With Campbell’s potty training successfully mastered between last summer and this one, I was so elated to become richer and saner. No diapers! No changing poos!

But EVEN THE OLDER ONES shimmy and shake around in their shorts, their pjs bottoms, their swim trunks trying to add one more second to the activity of avoiding relieving themselves. They dig squirmily down into the surface upon which they sit like a drill, determined to have it stay up there as long as possible. Seriously?! When will this end? When will I stop having to declare: “GO TO THE BATHROOM, YOU ARE DAMAGING YOUR BLADDER!!” I’m going to start threatening to put them BACK in diapers. That’ll do the trick.

#2

When you spend thousands of dollars on a treehouse and then allow a hornet nest perched upon it to grow to exponential proportions, nobody uses said treehouse.

By my calculations, this summer we are providing an estimated 700 bucks per month in rent free living for our hundreds of little tenants.

And our kids stay grounded.

So basically, we paid all that money for a science exhibit.

#1

No two summers are the same.

Last summer was the bomb!!! It felt like a break! All light and fluffy and not-perfect-but-easier-in-so-many-ways. I honestly thought this one was gonna be even more of a freakin blast. Kids older. More independent. More fun. More simple to take places and do things.

More self-entertaining.

But while some of this was true, new things popped up (tween moodiness, demanding preschooler who gave up naps, major space cadet tendencies in another, rivalry between siblings putting a competitive edge on my attention, later bed times WHILE STILL GETTING UP AT SAME TIME meaning less adult quiet time...). Basically there just isn’t enough me.

And the scrawny little leftovers of me aren’t even enough for me.

You were expecting humor, a grand slam #1 to laugh your way off the internet.

Sorry folks, sometimes it just is what it is.

My hope is that if you are having a fantastic summer, you will read this and spend a moment in empathy with the mammas and papas who are eagerly ripping pages off of count down calendars. Moreso, my hope is to encourage the sisterhood who fall in my pathetic little boat, the ones who are barely hanging on, who are salivating over the stack of novels they never pick up, the ones who watch a movie about a woman gone mad, quarantined to a padded space in the manor, and think, “at least she’s got her own room,” the ones who crave alcohol at 11am. Power in numbers, girls. You’re not alone. You got this. And it’s ok to not be having the time of your life this Summer. It is. Remember: No two are alike, so there’s always next year!!!!!!!!!! (Do the exclamation marks translate my desperation?) Claim Summer 2018 is shitty. Own it. And then eat one of two popsicles in your freezer.

Preferably, with a bonus ingredient the 11-yr-old chef in the House didn’t think of: VODKA.

Of course, after 11am.

Hell, before even.

For more playful #1s, see Five Things I learned the Hard Way This Summer 2017 Here

And

Five Things I Learned The Hard Way This Summer 2016 Here

The Cute Curse

Older population: "Cute as a button!"

My husband when we were first dating: "Cutie-patootee!"

Women peers: "You are just the cutest thing!"

I'm annoyed.

I got my maternal grandmother's hopelessly short genes, the ceiling of her ancestry height maxing out at a tad over 5 ft. I definitely fudge on all formal paperwork that I am a proper 5'1'' and convince myself that rounding up is mathematically correct. I'm pretty sure at 5 and a third of an inch, math would argue I'm 5 ft flat.

My paternal grandparents are from where the round cheeks and button nose descend. My dad's nickname in college was "Babyface," and I could order off of the kids menu well after I started shaving my legs.

I'm not annoyed that I look young. I'll take it.

I'm annoyed that I get treated differently as a result. That at times I am seen as a mini person with mini ideas and mini offerings and a mini presence. "Cute" feels incompatible with the work of purposeful living, a death wish for the me who seeks Bigness . Cute = light, playful, carefree - all of which I am. But Cute also = for show, powerless, childlike, not to be taken seriously, sometimes fully foolish.

Here's the reason, though, I have no case to be annoyed:

I've exploited it.

The very descriptor I detest is one whose shoes I've so masterfully filled. For years - many, many years - I've been experiencing the cognitive dissension of bad mouthing the outer world's response to me as "cute" while playing up its edges like a pro, always cunningly looking for how it can work to my advantage.

Cute wins me things. Cute wins me compliments, cute wins me favors. Cute strategically played up wins quick forgiveness and a turned head to flaws.

Cute also works for men. Cute is not the same as flirting, but the line is dang thin. Isn't it cute that I argue there is a distinction?

The truth: I might like to victimize what "cute" does to me, but I'm winning, laughing all the cotton-picking way to the bank of favor.

The question: Am I willing to stop playing the cute role at the risk of losing a little more?

The quandary: Am I the one selling myself short? (Yes, DAMN IT: pun intended)