DC Celine

The Nike Ad

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Fri, 31 Jul 2020 18:07:00 +0000

The Nike ad. You know the one. The “You can’t stop sports US” one. My eyes and cheeks are still wet from the tears that sprang out from my ugly bawling. And yes, that happens not infrequently nowadays. The pressures and conversations and, and, and, and...they’re all a lot. But that ad, and the power I see behind it, got me back to this keyboard to write for the first time in more than three years.

I won’t kid you. How I approach this missive is swirling in my head. I’m not sure what to include and what not to include, how it’ll be perceived or not perceived. I know, though, that I’m ready to write. So I’m writing. This ad and my tears are a vehicle only.

I birthed two athletes. Longtime readers know that they also write, create, and make music. Their time on fields and courts, though, ties all of those lessons from the other arenas together. We’ve all heard it before. Sports and their competition, whether with oneself or against others, whether as a team or individual, builds character, teaches, and grows humans. So when the World Shut Down in March, and my babies’ sports shut down with it, we all broke a little.

Within a week or so of us teleworking and their virtual school shifting, H picked up and started doing workouts with them. He had them out front in all sorts of weather, running sprints, doing drills. Their respective teams and coaches started sending workouts, trying to find substitutes for the practicing in person they wouldn’t get back until well into the summer. One of their teams even tried to make up for lost camaraderie by Zooming with pros. It was certainly a rush to talk to the Real Deal, but I think that we parents were more excited by it than the kids were.

In the long run, the kids got a break from their sports of choice. They went from 3-4 practices and games weekly to nothing official. Papa Workouts were great, and a blessing of shared time and hard work, but put simply, they just weren’t the same.

That feeling on which the Nike ad played is what was missing. They didn’t have it accessible to them. Training hard is training in the wind if you don’t know when you’ll get back to the pitch, the field, or the court. So when our county opened up enough that small group practices could start again, we struggled, but knew our babies had to get back to it. We worried, because H’s mom lives with us, and at 85, she’s squarely in the vulnerable population, and we still don’t know exactly how risky it is if any of us is out of the house.

And then No.2 was back on the pitch. He loves soccer. He’s been in cleats since he was four. He has never once asked to skip a practice or complained about going. Never. So 2 practices in, I could see the joy in his eyes, in his movement, in his step. He came off of the field excited and happy. It was just one coach and him for an hour, and he relished it. She, too, started a few times a week, working out hard and in a way she hadn’t worked before. She came off of the field talking about what coach told her and how she was supposed to work out in between. She grew, we could see, in strength and motivation in just a few weeks. She was ready.

It was an odd thing, this break. Imposed by global circumstances none of us has ever seen, we had no idea how to handle it. We didn’t know how it would affect any of us, really. We knew nothing, and that was for me one of the most difficult things about it all. So my running theory is twofold. First, when we were safe enough to go back, the Beans got back something they knew. Soccer and lacrosse are theirs, their spaces. They own them, and they thrive in them. That was a glorious gift, to get that back. Secondly, the break itself was a gift. They were granted permission to step away from a routine that was, well, routine. Coming back to their joys in a different light, after time away, reminded them, however subconsciously, how much they love their respective games. That break gave them joy.

Athletes all over are starting back. The pros are in bubbles and playing for virtual fans. Youth sports are figuring out what distanced tournaments look like. Gyms are getting creative and operating at 6’ apart and virtually. People - humans - want and need to move. Athletes need to perform. Competitors need to compete.

I’m not entirely sure my words here capture what my Beans have found again - or maybe what they’ve discovered, truly, about being an athlete. They walk lighter. They tell us about their coaches’ instructions and advice. They are back, and they are better for it.

Both photo and video are from seasons past.

------------------------------------------

On an aside, I am better for having put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. I haven’t written in way too long, and I feel it. So if you’re a longtime reader, thank you for coming back. A new friend? Be patient with me. I have no idea what direction my writing will take me at this point. I certainly miss fashion, but I’m encouraged by some of the shifts the industry is taking. I have lots of thoughts on family, children, and faith. This blog - as demonstrated by its platform - has been around an incredibly long time. I don’t have update plans or migration plans. I don’t know how often I’ll write, but I will.

10 Things I Need to Do to Win (As Told to 1st Graders)

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Mon, 06 Feb 2017 22:22:00 +0000

“Mama, Mama! Can you do this?” my first and fourth grader both waved the elementary school career day signup flyer in my face. I glanced over the requirements, saw that the planners would let us know in a few weeks if we’d made the cut (apparently, it’s a sought-after “position”), and filled out the form. Living in the Washington metropolitan area, with cool parents who defend our country, save lives in hospital rooms, do science experiments, and design catchy ad campaigns, I figured I was “safe.” There’s no way those planners, if they had half a brain in their heads, would pick a “federal government contractor,” and one who is in the business of building business and revenue, for that matter. I mean, how boring could you get?

Then, a few weeks later, the email popped into my inbox. “Thank you for agreeing to come and speak [...].” It went on to detail 25 minutes, incorporating 10 for questions, encouraging bringing things to touch, and assigning me to first grade.

First grade.

That translates to 6 and 7 year old kids. What the heck do they want to hear about federal procurement cycles, account management, and creating winning proposals? Even more, how the heck do I explain that all to them in a way that I won’t bore them to tears? I have a difficult enough time explaining my work world to adults - even those who live in the nation’s capital - but KIDS? Little kids?

Fast forward a few weeks, and, in true federal world form, client deadlines piled up, I got super busy, and I hadn’t done a thing to prepare for my 25 minutes on the (very colorful) carpet. I arrived in my office pre-dawn, the day of my presentation, as is my habit most weekdays, plotted out my day, and blocked out an hour to create my presentation for my junior audience.

It took me an hour and a half. I researched. I built graphs. I pulled pictures. I realized, as I got started that I could explain, as both H and I do with adults (he’s also in this “world”), that we help the government do its job better. I realized, too, that kids love money, and understand the jobs of the government folks I’ve helped along the way. The federal government keeps us safe (insert pictures of federal law enforcement and the military), helps sick or hurt people get better (insert picture of an x-ray), does advanced research (insert picture of a microchip), helps US citizens travel to other countries (insert picture of a US passport), and builds Really Cool Stuff like fighter jets (insert picture of said fighter jet). I could explain, I realized, that the Government needs help with these things, and that they pay companies for that help.

Needless to say, they got it. First graders got it. I even got a couple of on the spot job applications. (That might have been because I showed them how much money the US government has spent on companies in the years since they’d been born. They want a piece of those billions. They’re smart cookies.)

"Have you ever seen a number with this many zeros after it? That's how much money the government spends on companies. Don't you want to start a company and have them give you some of this money?"

But what really struck me - struck me so much that I used it again 3 days later, when I facilitated a day of account growth training for a client - that the keys to not only doing business in our space (probably in any space) are so elementary, so foundational. You see, I’d made two lists. The second was “10 things I did (and do) to know how to do my job.” The career day planners had asked us to talk about what we had to study and try and relate it to things our audience would do in school. From knowing how to write clear sentences to understanding how money works in a company to “Be polite and respectful to EVERYONE” (we read that one out loud - VERY - together), that list was a hit. Again, they got it.

The first list, though, is the one that stands out. This is the list that I’m going to put in every training, every presentation, and hang up in every office I have from here until my (early) retirement. Here she is, annotated from what I shared with the first graders. Just try and poke holes in it. Just try.

10 Things I Need to Do to Win

Listen, listen, listen - I might just leave this one here, with only a reminder to all of us: read it over and over. And then, do it.
Work hard - As simple as it sounds, even the cushiest job has times when you have to scramble. Even if you work to live, busting your proverbial butt to get a task or project done, or, if you’re in a service industry of any kind, to help the client? People remember that. Not only do you get the job done, but you’ve improved a relationship. Relationships pay off in spades.
Follow instructions carefully - 99.9% of the time, first graders do this better than grownups. Bucking a system or the establishment has its time and place, but sometimes, we need to do exactly what someone else asks us to do. In the federal space, especially with proposals, we have to comply with their instructions. But any business has some set of rules or instructions that apply, whether it’s how to calculate your taxes to complying with licensure. Follow them when it’s important to follow them.
Write answers to the customers’ questions clearly and interestingly enough that they want to read the answers - Again, in my space, we respond to very specific US government requirements in solicitations, and they have to read those responses. But being able to respond to clients and customers, whether external or internal, is non-negotiable. If you can’t communicate - the full cycle - clearly and in a way that is easy for those on the other end to follow - you’ll be up a creek without a paddle (as my 9th & 12th grade English teacher probably still says - thanks, Mrs. Byrne!).
Be patient - no matter how fast-paced your industry, no matter how much you might be in charge of your own destiny, there are times to wait. Knowing how and when to wait is, like No. 1, one of the most difficult things for humans to do. Practice waiting.
Be friendly and make new business friends – customers and other companies - People do business with people they trust. Trust begins because there is a relationship. Relationships start because of the simple things: a kind hello, an offer to help (without a string attached), and because the other person knows you care. In business, that “caring” might be about business outcomes, but if a client or partner knows that you have their best interests in mind and at heart when you interact with them, they will come back to you every time.
Stay very, very, very organized - Some environments require this more than others, I suppose, but whether it’s my space requiring me to follow 157-page sets of instructions or a retail business owner who has to make sure stock is on hand that customers want to buy, we can’t do it without staying organized.
Be creative and look for solutions to things other people think are big problems - Remember that “mountain-molehill” expression? Staying calm and thinking through options and even solutions that might be the craziest often turn out to be the most productive times. It could be finding the right business partner to get into a particular market or customer, or it could be structuring your company in a way that allows you to work around obstacles. Never assume “you can’t.”
Do my work on time - ‘nuf said.
Be honest, tell the truth, and do what I say I’m going to do - This one. Oh, this one. My first graders almost thought I was silly for putting this on here, as it’s still core to their beings. Somewhere, though, as we grow up, we lose honesty, and we learn to promise things we can’t deliver. We learn to commit to things we can’t do. Nope. Stop it. Do what you say you’re going to do. Be honest with yourself and those around you, and you will win.

Oh. And the last one? It might help to write a thank you note once in awhile. I didn’t give my first graders that one, but I’m going to write each class a note right now. Remember? On the other list? “Be polite and respectful to EVERYONE.”

On Costumes and Creativity...and Motherhood

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Wed, 26 Oct 2016 15:13:00 +0000

I’m a working mama. I’m a mother who works outside the home. And while I have no time for Pinterest projects, I’ve said from the very 9-years-ago beginning (before there was Pinterest, thankyouverymuch) that there are two things I’ll do: bake and decorate the birthday cakes from scratch and make their Halloween costumes myself.

Because I want to.

Those that know me know my career field has wonky deadlines and can have long hours. I’ve pulled more all-nighters in one - ahem - active - working year than I ever pulled in college. And yet, I refuse to fall for the store bought cake or costume. It frustrates the bejeezus out of H. Every year, as I stay up too late in the days before Halloween, tacking tulle onto an evil queen skirt out or stitching a Batman symbol onto a black leotard, he laments, “Next year, we’re buying them.”

But we never do. Truth is, and especially as this blog has taken a backseat to life changes, my creative outlets are few and far between. I admit fully and heartily that I’m using the Beans as an excuse to take time to create. I tell myself that it’s because it’s important for them, that they’ll remember when they grow up. They might. I do. I remember that my mommy made our costumes from scratch when we were little, and I know that my baking talents come from her. I know that they love giving me a cake theme “order” and watching it come alive because I made it. I know that they enjoy and deliberate over their costume choice right up to the October 1 deadline I give them - in theory because I’m going to take all month to make it (I’m fairly certain I’ve never really worked on a single costume before the week right up to Halloween).

And then, a few months ago, dear friends gave the Bean a flamenco dress their daughter had gotten from other friends. It even has a big, dramatic hair flower. I offered to make a mantilla, at least. (Please let me make something, child. Let me make anything.) She threw me a bone: “I’ll be a dead flamenco dancer, Mama. You can do a dead face with makeup, right?”

“I know what I’m going to be for Halloween. I’m going to be Harper.” My Philly-area heart dropped deeper than my mama heart. Not only is my baby boy a Nats fan through and through, but he’d ditched his Ninjago green/gold ninja (that I would’ve had to Google to copy, but that’s the fun part) in favor of a costume for which we already owned all of the parts. He has multiple Nats hats, white baseball pants, red baseball socks, and, the crowning glory to which I succumbed at the late-season game we saw together, his white Harper jersey. He even has Nats eye black stickers.

I don’t have to make a single thing. I don’t have to sew a stitch. I don’t have to stay up late, trying to follow a pattern that’s more confusing than the worst IKEA directions ever. I can stay up late working on a dayjob deadline with no mama-guilt whatsoever. Zero.

When pajama day and Halloween Week at dance class collide.

And yet, the mama-guilt, though I’m not entirely sure that’s what it is, is strong in this one. That force, the force is strong. I’m itching to open up my sewing kit, but have no purpose. I’d hoped for this day, in a lot of ways, when they get excited about creating their own costumes. I have fond memories of putting my costumes together from things we had in our dressup box. That day is here, but I’m sad. I admit fully, I’m sad. I took pride in their joy and in their glee. I took pride in making their visions come to life.

Those are my feelings, though, and have absolutely nothing to do with their excitement around what is a fun, creative, and silly holiday. My feelings have no part in their experience, and shouldn’t. They’re there, and I’m acknowledging them here. I suppose this is what The Older Parents talk about when they tell us “one day, you’ll wish they weren’t growing up so fast,” when we Younger Parents complain about toddler tantrums or having to tie a shoe for the 10,000th time. They’re growing up. We’re doing our job.

So this year they’ll don their self-designed and self-created costumes. I’ll smear on a little ghoulish makeup; I know that next year, it’s likely she won’t even allow me to do that, that she’ll want to do it herself. I’ll relish this year for what it is. I’ll post pictures. It’s what we do.

And then I’ll go bake a complicated cake. A mama’s gotta have something, after all.

The Beans Do Blues Alley, or A Parenting Decision Done Right

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Sat, 30 Jul 2016 17:06:00 +0000

“Did you get tix for Fri? With kids?”

Crap.

We’d talked with friends about going to see Poncho Sanchez at Blues Alley.

Get online and get tickets tonight, I pushed at H. They’ll love it, I reminded him.

I was in bed, and he was downstairs doing some work. He texted me from the dining room. They weren’t cheap tickets. They weren’t astronomical, but because it’s a supper club, there’s a minimum spend on top of the tickets.

“I’m ok passing on it if you think it’s too much,” I texted back. I paused, then “They won’t have tons more chances to do these things with their grandmother tho. Part of the fun.”

His next text included the confirmation number. “These are the things we must sacrifice for. What will we sacrifice?”

“Lunch out tomorrow. Mine is packed already.” It had been Taco Tuesday, so that was a no-brainer to pack up. “Sprite the next 537 times No.2 asks for it.” Our little one has a Sprite obsession we’ve indulged a tad too much over this summer of summers.

“A waffle maker [winky emoji.]” I’ve been threatening - or rather promising - to look into getting a waffle iron to facilitate homemade Waffle Wednesdays. We can buy frozen.

The next ten texts were H checking out the rest of the Blues Alley’s schedule. Taj Mahal Trio at the end of September. Jody Watney mid-October.

“We need some samba for our boy,” I wrote. No.2 loves the beat. H kept going. Arturo Sandoval, the Cuban-American genius we saw at the Blue Note on our Manhattan honeymoon, then again, not 2 weeks later, when the tour swung through for a stop at Blues Alley. He’ll be there again in December.

H reported back: there’s a samba-bossa nova group playing on a Monday night in September. I got all responsible parent at that point. A Monday night is a school night, so no dice.

The next morning, we told our friend all five of us would see him Friday night at the club - with kids.

As the week progressed, we played You Tube videos for the Beans so they’d know the music a little. Hearing the rhythm, H and I got excited to see Poncho and his band play some true latin jazz - and jazz overall - standards. The Beans were excited about a night out. Because they hadn’t been to a supper club before, and had never heard jazz live, we tried to explain a little:

“It’s small, with tiny tables, and dark. They used to smoke in a club back in the day.”

“Eeew, that stinks!”

“Yeah, it did, but the clouds kind of added to the ambience - to the mystique.”

Even on the way there, driving the back roads through the suburbs and down into the city, I got all “mama’s teaching us again,” and played on their growing musical knowledge, asking them about improvisation, harmony, and - after a good 5 minutes of trying to remember the word - dissonance.

“I don’t know exactly what you’ll hear and see,” I tried to prepare them, “but I know you’ll like it. Pay attention to what you can observe.”

H and I have been going to Blues Alley shows together for close to 2 decades. We have an informal policy of not saying no to any “legendary” performer. H is still kicking himself for not going to a James Brown concert when he had the chance. He won’t even let us talk about it. So we go to concerts every chance we get: jazz, rock, classical, you name it. Our second date was to see the Roy Hargrove Sextet at Blues Alley. He took me as a surprise, telling me, when I asked what to wear, only that I needed to “look cool.” We’ve since seen the trumpeter again there, and countless others: Chucho Valdez, Maynard Ferguson, and the Ahmad Jamal Trio as they performed year after year on New Year’s Eve. We’d go just the two of us, or we’d take his mom with us. For those post-midnight NYE shows, we’d gather a group and go after a massive dinner.

When it got to the point that friends had expected years before, and 6 years into our relationship, he asked me to marry him, writing “Marry me?” on my back with his finger while we sat at one of those teeny Blues Alley tables right up against the brick wall. He pushed a little box across the table at me, and as the Caribbean Jazz Project played, he put a ring on my finger.

2 years later, we married, and another year after that, the Bean joined us. She grew into a dancing baby (Miss Joyce at the Amercian City Diner would play music just to get her to bop around in her high chair), and occasionally we’d leave her and later her brother to go for a show. All we could do as we enjoyed whichever concert it was - from jazz to KISS - was think, “We can’t wait to bring the Beans, they’d love this so much.” It was years, though, before we messed with our long-super-early bedtimes enough and venture taking them.

Finally, last night, the time was right. H held two tables against the back stairs for our two families as I parked and our friends made their way in. The Beans balked as I snapped them walking down the historic alley, and they rolled their eyes at their mama as I made them stand for a picture under the iconic marquee. Then they walked into the club with the confidence and maturity we’ve tried to give them. To the club’s and the other patron’s credit, they didn’t bat an eyelash at four kids under 10 (there was one other smart mama with her daughter).

The seven musicians came down the rickety stairs and waited right next to us to pile onto the also teeny stage. The little people turned, wide-eyed, and gaped as they realized Pancho was RIGHT THERE!, and jumped gleefully when they got a couple of high fives as the band passed.

If you don’t know “One Mint Julep,” you’re missing out. You’re missing out on a composition that, when you hear it, you have no choice but to sing along, despite its only lyric being a long “Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!” Little eyes went big, and shoulders and toes started to move. The music caught and held them, completely absorbed, until the raucous applause after the opening number.

Eventually, they found a place on the stairs above our heads, hands on the rails and faces peeking through the banister. Staff and other patrons went up and down next to them, and not a one said a word about kids not being safe or being in the way. That other mom found a spot on the landing with her younger-than-ours daughter on her lap. We heard solo after solo, and standards like Herbie Hancock’s “Watermelon Man,” later made famous by Mongo Santamaria. There was an as-yet-unrecorded new piece, and the saxophone player (a local DC guy) turned out to be a wind player, pulling out a flute for “Guaripumpe,” a salsa that, if you can sit still during it, you’re probably dead. Our budding flutist finally believed my year of telling her that jazz flute is some of the best flute.

It was late. It was loud. It was tight. It was chilly, then hot. Everyone had to pee at least twice, and no one really ate their dinner. No.2 curled up in my lap during that new piece, a gorgeous slow cha-cha. “I’m tired, Mama,” he said, and I put his blazer over his head, rocking him to the jazz lullaby. And then I turned to H, across that tiny table in the dark, tapped his shoulder, and gave him a huge smile.

“We did it,” I said. Knowing exactly what I meant, he raised his hand to mine. High five. The band finished that salsa number and walked back past us up the stairs. Our newly minted latin jazz fans got a bunch of high fives from the musicians. Then, as we filed out through the bar on our way to get ice cream, the bearded man in the black baseball cap gave stopped us. “High five,” he said, raising his hand to the three little palms. “You did great,” he said. “I’m so proud of you.” They grinned as if they’d been going to jazz shows their entire little lives.

On Libraries and Thought

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Wed, 27 Jan 2016 13:29:00 +0000

The most priceless gift we have as humans is thought. (Perhaps it's love, I know, given what I wrote last, but bear with me.)

My library home, via

From the first moments I was blessed to spend in Bayard Taylor Memorial Library to the hours I spent waiting for our "late bus" in Mrs. McKay's domain, I was in love. I can still feel the rounded corners of the well-loved card catalog on the first floor, and remember the moment when I graduated from the children's space downstairs to the grownup volumes upstairs. I learned flower arranging. I was allowed to play mini flute concerts with my best friend. I poured over the stacks at my parents' alma mater for high school research papers, gleefully going down the rabbit hole of connecting ideas, tracking down the next book from a reference in the one on my carrel.

I stacked them all up on my private shelves, marking them with the index cards I used for notetaking. I lost track of time. I found topic upon topic I wanted to pursue - I wanted to consider. Those low walls were a safe, welcoming cave where I felt at home, every bit the college student I wasn't yet.

The University of Delaware's Morris Library, via

That my college dorm rooms overlooked the library was comforting. Rolling back the shelves to find their secrets, then photocopy their pages to take them back to my room felt almost scandalous. I couldn't throw out my pieces of the library. I have some of them, still.

Libraries are our own gift to us. Maria Popova's ode to them and the space they grant us to think provoked me this morning. I chuckled with ken at the verses she shared. Joseph Mills, lover of free libraries, paid homage to the institutional gift reader and thinker Mr. Franklin gave us when he founded the first free library.

"IF LIBRARIANS WERE HONEST

“…a book indeed sometimes debauched me from my work…”

–Benjamin Franklin

If librarians were honest,

they wouldn’t smile, or act

welcoming. They would say,

You need to be careful. Here

be monsters. They would say,

These rooms house heathens

and heretics, murderers and

maniacs, the deluded, desperate,

and dissolute. They would say,

These books contain knowledge

of death, desire, and decay,

betrayal, blood, and more blood;

each is a Pandora’s box, so why

would you want to open one.

They would post danger

signs warning that contact

might result in mood swings,

severe changes in vision,

and mind-altering effects.

If librarians were honest

they would admit the stacks

can be more seductive and

shocking than porn. After all,

once you’ve seen a few

breasts, vaginas, and penises,

more is simply more,

a comforting banality,

but the shelves of a library

contain sensational novelties,

a scandalous, permissive mingling

of Malcolm X, Marx, Melville,

Merwin, Millay, Milton, Morrison,

and anyone can check them out,

taking them home or to some corner

where they can be debauched

and impregnated with ideas.

If librarians were honest,

they would say, No one

spends time here without being

changed. Maybe you should

go home. While you still can."

The Power of Love

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Mon, 25 Jan 2016 15:14:00 +0000

Thank you to Kathleen Flemming of Majestic Unicorn, for sharing her story and inspiring me to put fingers to keyboard, long overdue, to share mine.

About 2 weeks before the end of last school year, our baby boy started lashing out uncontrollably. Massive fits of anger over tiny little things, unpredictable, but nearly daily. I was the one at home after school with them, so by the time H came home, I was done. I'd try and give him time outs, but he wouldn't sit. I'd try and give him consequences (taking away toys or screen time), but there was no effect.

I couldn’t figure it out. While he could - ahem - make better choices at times, and he’s 100 percent a rough-and-tumble kid, he’d never shown what felt like violence. He is sweet to the core, loving, and affectionate. The kind of Mama’s-working-hard-behind-a-closed-door-but-I-interrupted-her-to-give-her-a-kiss-and-say-I-love-you affectionate a mama dreams of (and yet, it’s still the most lovely surprise when it happens).

Pounding fists upset wasn’t my baby.

Then one day, out of the blue, and at my wit’s end, I uncrossed my arms and lowered my voice. Instead of walking away from his outburst, I walked into it. I walked towards him, calmer than I’d been in ages. I scooped him up, plopped down on the floor right there, and, as he fought me, held him tight.

“I love you, baby. You’re safe, and I love you. I know you’re hurting, baby, and I love you.” Over and over again.

It didn’t feel like he heard me. I was glad for my healthyme journey and the residual strength I had in my arms. I had a tiger cub I was wrangling, trying to keep him safe while he fought hard against the feelings he couldn’t name.

He couldn’t name his feelings, I realized. At 5, he had no words for them. As he started to let up, I started to offer him words, “Are you angry, baby? It’s ok if you are.” He wriggled and fought. I kept it up. “I love you.”

I felt a little silly. I felt a little crunchy granola permissive parent. And I listened hard to my instinct telling me to make sure he knew how loved he is. Eventually, it subsided, and my tired, emotional boy went on with his evening and off to bed.

I was spent, nightly, but as I kept it up, the frequency abated. In the opening, I finally had the courage to mention it to his teacher. As teachers of very young children are wont to do, she reminded me that his left arm had left school early for a family trip. The person my baby loved with all his heart and soul, the person he told me repeatedly he was going to marry, and insisted regularly was family, was gone for the summer. They’d been inseparable since they met the year before in preschool.

His best friend was on vacation. His safe place, his pre-K classroom, was wrapping up for the year. We were starting to talk about The Big Move to the suburbs.

My instincts had been right. My baby was confused and angry, lost because his world as he knew it was crumbling. I kept up the hugs, and my patience grew. I understood. Things settled, we went off to his happy place Down Tha (Jersey) Shore for a week, and he healed. Some.

Then we packed up and moved to our new home. We’d talked about his new (own) room and its secret hiding place (seriously, neighborhood legend has it that a CIA operative was the original owner of our 1960-built manse). We’d gotten excited about running out the backdoor and playing soccer whenever we wanted, about watering the garden that was just ours and we didn’t share with anyone, and about catching lightning bugs without having to descend 6 floors in an elevator. We celebrated his sister’s 8th birthday with a huge party, replete with water gun battles, every meat you could imagine on the grill, and running lap after lap around Our House. We were happy.

He took his new job VERY seriously.

Before we moved in fully, we brought over a few of their favorite things.

Relishing our newfound backyard

And then, once we’d spent about a week in our new home, it started again. The moments were long. They were brutal. He’d grown, it felt like, in those weeks since the last outburst, and was stronger. There were also stairs and a long hallway and a front door and his very own bedroom door to slam. Day after day, it repeated during the witching hour. Day after day, I tried my patience and my love. Some days it worked better than others. Some days I lost it and yelled back. One day, I let my guard down and his angry punch, which I could usually block, connected with my nose.

And then, one day, we were in a restaurant, eating peacefully, laughing about something. He turned to me, looked up, and said, “Mama, I didn’t know what moving was like.”

In that moment, I remembered that there was no way a 5 year old who’d lived in one place his whole little life, who felt things sometimes excruciatingly deeply, and had all of his connections ripped away from him, understood what “let’s pack up all of our things and move them somewhere else and stay there forever” meant. It’s absurd, really.

It took a while, but with a few extra trips to the old neighborhood, some happy camp time (art, music, “regular,” and tae kwon do, since you asked), countless nights falling asleep with his sister or us (he’d never slept alone, another thing we never realized), and a visit from a favorite 15 year old cousin willing to have epic slipper battles at the end of every day on our front walk, and he settled in. We settled in.

Almost too big for the swings he was first in as an infant

That they have these moments...

Craft cocktails two blocks away for weekend brunch? Yes, please.

Little things, like the library carpet in the new school being identical to the carpet in his pre-K classroom, are priceless. He had to sit in his spot and he told me to send this picture to his old teacher.

He still gets upset, and there’s an occasional slammed door. He sometimes tells me he misses our old house and we all need visits to our old ‘hood (it’s only 12 minutes to our favorite bakery - we clocked it), but he taught me to listen. I’m not very good at it, sometimes. Sometimes, I don’t hear what he, his sister, or even my mother-in-law or H (she’s now living with us) aren’t saying, either. Sometimes, I’m angry myself, or I just can’t hear it. But then, I remember. I remember that settling in to love and showing it unconditionally has more power than anything in the world, if we can hear it.

(If Only I Were) Lost in a Book

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Tue, 12 Jan 2016 23:44:00 +0000

I’m a reader, but I can’t find my way back into books.

I tell myself it’s because I’m too tired, or too busy, or not in the right frame of mind. And then I remember: books are my escape. Books are my safe place, where I can hide from the world and heal. Books may not be as scientifically helpful as your body healing while you sleep, but they let me step away from my worries.

So why do I have umpteen books on my makeshift nightstand started, but collecting dust? Why does my nighttime ritual involve me rolling into bed, intending on reading even a sentence, if that’s as long I can keep my eyes open, but going to set my alarm on my phone and instead looking at social media? Why won’t I let myself escape into my books?

If I were back in therapy, she would remind me to notice just that, notice my feelings at that point, and then later wonder about it all. Doing something about it will come later, she’d remind me as gently or strongly as I needed to hear it right then.

So this is me noticing it. I know I asked the questions two paragraphs up, but I’m going to put them on hold. I’m noticing that I’m not able to open books like I used to. I feel - as I do often at the moment - like I’m sticking out my tongue a little (maybe behind my back, where I can’t get caught), thumbing my nose at my able self who knows she can cope better with reading in her life.

“I don’t wanna!”

I’m more comfortable at the moment in my state of disrepair, my state of discomfort, than I am seeking comfort and safety in the written word. Even to put pen to paper and fingers to keyboard feels like I’m challenging my current state. Today, wanting to journal for a few minutes daily, but not knowing where I’ve still got the what feels like dozens of empty notebooks I’ve bought along the way packed from our July 2015 move, I wandered into Paper Source. “I’ll buy a journal,” I thought, so there are no excuses.

I walked out without one.

That one’s pages aren’t wide enough. There are too many words in that one. $21.95 for a Christian Lacroix gold embossed journal? Tempting, but I’m apparently feeling way too practical and frugal for that one.

I walked out without a tool I know would help me.

The same goes for books. That topic, while fascinating, is a non-fiction work, and I can’t handle that right now. This one, which H has urged me to read for years and I’ve started and am enjoying? I haven’t opened it in a week. Nothing is jumping off the shelves and shelves and shelves of volumes we have - a sanctuary, if I’d let it be one - in our family room.

I won’t use a tool I know would help me.

I won’t solve it here. I don’t want to. But I do know that, while I didn’t buy a notebook today, I put fingers to keyboard, and I wrote. I took one step, one as sure as the ones I used to march in the blustery chill of a day. And that little walk helped.

Writing, checking in, and, oh yeah...10 years.

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Fri, 08 Jan 2016 12:01:00 +0000

A little unorthodox for me on here, but at just past the 10 year mark (yes. 10. I've written here for TEN FREAKING YEARS), I'm wondering where this site and my writing will take me. So in the face of storied Weight Watchers online community IT issues (if you're a WWer using eTools of any kind, you know what I mean) that wouldn't let me post my darn WW blog this morning, I'm sharing it here. I needed it to be out there in a universe.

i'm checking in. i'm checking in with me - and you all just happen to be there. as usual, i don't have a lot of time, a deadline looming, but i've set my mind to recognizing that helpful things 99.9% of the time don't take much time or much effort.

so i'm writing.

i’ve had a number of mini-realizations in the last week or so - reminders, really - that i’m most centered when i’m writing. when i’m most centered, i can make productive, helpful decisions, like:

responding kindly, instead of harshly to those around me, including my babies

stopping to drink a glass of water instead of shoving some cookie in my mouth

pausing before collapsing into bed to swing my reluctant body through a single sun salutation and a twist or two

making a list of things i want to accomplish during the day

give my husband a kiss instead of an eye roll

if i stop for 5 minutes (i wish i’d timed this for myself, would’ve been useful data) and dump it out, whatever comes, i’m more me.

i’ve been tapering. i haven’t been tracking as well as i’d like. i’m still dragging my feet on getting back into the smart choices. i feel good about the possibilities smart points offers me, and i know tracking smart choices helps me oh, so much. and teenagery me is still there. so i’m tapering into my semi-annual food-based cleanse (a lot of you know about them - join me, ellen is a-MAZ-ing). i’m looking forward to it as a way to start making my choices well and reminding myself how good i can feel when i fuel well.

heck, i’m looking forward to the green.

i’ve barely seen a leaf lately, and i’m not talking about the ones now blanketing our backyard because we had no idea how much work it is to rake them all. my body and my mind miss the green. so starting monday, once i’m caffeine-free (except for green tea and cacao), and gluten-, dairy-, alcohol-, red meat-, egg-, and sugar-free (yes, it seems extreme, but in practice, i find it very calming and helpful, once i did it the first time around), those greens will roll in.

this time around, it may look different. i haven’t wanted a smoothie, for example - which i had obsessively every morning for almost 3 years - in months. i’m craving different. so i’ll listen to my body, and maybe have broth for breakfast (cannot wait to make this smitten kitchen/atk one now that i have a slow cooker), then something else later. i’m open. i might be more open now than before, but i’m getting ready.

and i’m writing.

PS - this view, on a 3+ hour drive from MD to WV for the dayjob, is part of what reminded me i need to write.

One Wonderful Thing

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Wed, 02 Dec 2015 11:56:00 +0000

I can't even remember what it was yesterday that gave me pause. Something caught me, made me stop and bask in a moment of wonder. It was fleeting, apparently, but it gave me an idea. I got to the office, crammed through a day, spent a lovely afternoon and evening with No.2 while his big sister was off at a flute concert rehearsal, and crashed hard by 9pm.

The idea was only that yesterday, an idea.

And then, this morning, as I shuffled partially caffeinated towards my office building, the view made me stop. It was simply beautiful. On the surface a planned, out-too-early (it was up before Thanksgiving) retail "seasonal" marketing scheme (read: make the area so pretty that folks can't help but "get in the spirit" and buy their friends and family lots and lots of Things), I wanted to wrinkle my nose at it.

Instead, I chose to let it wake up a joy - a wonder.

As a Christian, this Advent season is about just that: wonder. We wait, and we anticipate. We know of the great wonder coming. It's central for us. In our home, we're trying to counteract the giddy anticipation of ALL THE PRESENTS that's had No.2, especially, wired and on hyperdrive since before Turkey Day. We're looking for ways to give Baby Jesus his best birthday present ever by showing his world some love and kindness. But that's a story for another day.

Today, I ask you to join me in the wonder of the season. No matter what your belief system, there is a something in the air. Let's notice it and capture it - and share it. Let's see what we can create. At least once a day through January 6th (more is ok, because, let's face it, there are so many moments out there right now), capture One Wonderful Thing and share it on the social media platform of your choice (I'll be on Instagram, Twitter, and facebook), tagging it #1WonderfulThing.

There are no definitions for that wonder - or even for what constitutes a "thing." That's part of the point. Whatever catches you, whatever brings you a moment of joy - spread that wide. Tag friends and convince them to join us, and let us raise our spirits to the true spirit of the season.

Bridges, Boxers, and the Blues

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Tue, 22 Sep 2015 13:44:00 +0000

Dateline: Sunday morning, home alone

“Two steps ahead of the county line...

...Everywhere I go, I get slandered, libeled,

I hear words I never heard in the Bi-ble.”

I straightened up and sang along, instinctively, belting it out the full lyrics, dancing in my seat.

“I barely learned the tune, so soon, so soon.

I remember Frank Lloyd Wright

All of the nights we’d harmonize til dawn...”

The mood shifted to languid, easy, and rolled across the fluid tones of the bossa nova flute melody.

I knew the words to every line of this one, too. Every single word.

I don’t think I’ve listened to Paul & Art for years. Maybe I’ve had a song or two pop up in a Pandora or Google Play station, as I do love my pseudo-retro-folk, but I can’t remember the last time I put on my “Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits” CD. (Yes, I’m still mostly on CDs, people. Working on that digital thing.)

I see my teenaged knees, bare and pulled up to my chest. I held the album cover, its dulled corners showing love, front down. The back had lyrics written in a teeny tiny font. I’m aware of the simple “indoor-outdoor” carpet my parents put in my new room over the now finished garage. The pull and force of “The Boxer’s” quiet power must have spoken to me in my youthful angst.

“...til he cried out in his ang-er and his PAIN...”

There may have been a contrast to the sunny yellow paint I’d picked out for my trim. It wasn’t pink, decidedly. I was too old for even the sophisticated ballet pink of the childhood room I’d shared with my 7-years-younger sister. The stenciled tulips, poppy red and kelly green, though, belied the dark, tortuous self I wanted to be. Yeah. Not me - despite the occasional - ahem - deep poem I’ve since unearthed.

I poured over those lyrics. I listened to the album over and over, until I knew them all. The LP spun on my parent’s castoff stereo, complete with wood paneled receiver and massive speakers. When they had upgraded, I claimed the system faster than my pubescent tears could even flow.

The air. I can feel the air. I can sense the fluttering eyelet valances. The early fall afternoon light - not unlike the tinged filter we’ve been getting here the last few glorious days - settles over me.

The orchestra rises beneath the acoustic guitar, and “heeeeeeeeere Iiiiiiiiiii aaaaaaaaaaammmm...” Every. Single. Word.

I must’ve been 12, maybe 13. That makes it 30 years, give or take a muddled memory. Mind and memory are a wondrous thing. Every word. A sense of belonging I still carry with me from singing The Boxer in harmony with a middle and high school friend. I haven’t seen her since maybe graduation. Word has it that she’s now a Buddhist nun. The music brings me back to her and the closeness that we all crave, especially in those tender years.

Truth is, that closeness can still be elusive. We connect, and we reconnect. Sometimes, there are missed connections. Today, when I pressed play on the “Bridge Over Troubled Water” album, I reconnected with myself. I felt tied to family, and I touched old friends and sweet memories. I started to write today because I fell back in love with the idea of lyrics written on an album cover. I realized that my children might not get that, but as I typed, fully aware that what I really needed to do was pick up a pen and write longhand (but that’s another piece), the memories flowed, and the webs somehow wove themselves back together and into a lovely, sweetly tender image.

The balance has been particularly difficult to find lately. I’m teetering more than usual. That gentle pain that bubbled up through the vision and the music is somehow helping to rebalance me. We need those touches. I need those touches. The little pricks open up things dear to me and tie me down to what I know and believe. The feeling of The Boxer and my friend remind me of those I’ve chosen. Bridge Over Troubled Water, on the other hand, brings my parents’ relationship and our family of five back up. Played at their wedding, and now, decades after they understood they couldn’t be married any longer, it holds in it the hope and support that even separation can bring.

Support and strength come from places we often don’t expect, and sometimes don’t want to accept. Today, a worn LP and its cover, long-lost, brought the emotions I needed to recognize to the surface. They’re here, and I acknowledge them. I’m letting them flow out over that water, as corny as that metaphor might sound. I’m trusting my senses and my self, built and molded over nearly 42 years.

Lighter than...

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Sat, 22 Aug 2015 14:35:00 +0000

air?

Lighter.

I feel lighter today. There’s a weight that’s lifted off my shoulders and my neck. I can turn my head more freely, to look around me and see my world. I can stand taller. I feel cleaner. I feel clearer.

The deadlines I write of still loom. In my business, they always do. The boxes still sit from our move, some unpacked, some not, some opened, but still full, sticking their proverbial noses out at me. We have a guest coming for three weeks, and nothing’s ready.

But I feel lighter.

On the surface, it’s my hair. I went to Jae today, and when she asked, “Just a trim?” per usual, I told her I was feeling a little antsy. “Do whatever you want,” I said. After...jeez...20 years? of cutting my hair, I trust her. She knows me.

She talked me out of my itch to put in a colored streak. Just a little one, tucked under, at the nape of my neck, where you really couldn’t see it. “But is it me pushing 42 and trying too hard to be young?” I asked her. She paused. A long time. Got it.

So I read a silly magazine, and we caught up. She worked her magic, quickly, efficiently. With each snip, I felt cleaner and lighter.

Cut, all Jae Woo at Franz Sebastian Salon, Bethesda. Color, all mine.

It’s a little shorter and a little edgier than my recent long cut. I’m a sucker for long hair. I love being able to put it up, and I love feeling it fall down my back. It’s glamorous, and I have a naturally covetable hair color. Truth be told, though? While it had been a bit too long since my last cut, I was particularly lazy on hair maintenance this time around. I’m a once-a-week washer, at best (thank the lord for dry shampoo). I can blow dry my hair well, but I don’t. Even if I could find my dryer in the boxes, I’m lazy, and only blow it out once in a while. So my hair loses...something.

“You look good!” No.2 said when he saw me afterwards. “But it’s too crazy and poofy.” They like what they like - and what they’re used to.

So do we. We like what we like. We like what we’re used to. We like our habits. But today, I took a total of an hour, including the drive and parking, as Jae’s the fastest stylist in town, and let someone alter a little thing (because let’s face it, she knows me, and the cut just isn’t that radical) lift me up and out.

I took care of myself today, and honored myself by maintaining my physical appearance. I let go of whatever had been hanging on in my lazy hair: that overwhelmed feeling that doesn’t let me feel like I can wash it, that reluctance to “bother” with something so trivial when I have so many other things to do, that focus on everything else.

Wash. Wash. Wash.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Poof. Poof. Poof.

One hour. Lighter.

Being on the Edge

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Fri, 21 Aug 2015 11:00:00 +0000

Lately, I’ve been scared. I’ve been scared of the edges of a lot of things: new beginnings, old weights, things I can do, things I think I can’t do. I’ve even been scared of using things I know help me through the Scared, like writing and running and reaching out.

I have a couple of safe spaces with people - women, mostly - I trust implicitly. Even there, though, I’m hesitant. I’ll ‘fess up, look for sympathy, hear their support and advice. Then I blow past it, turning to unhealthy habits and hiding under physical and emotional covers, piling on the layers of protection.

And then, as it does (and has been trying to do recently - remember this?), the Universe started shouting at me again. While I haven’t even been able to bring myself to hide from my worries in books - my escape as long as I can remember - the reading I have been doing, on the Interwebs, poked at me again this morning.

Maria Popova’s Brain Pickings is one of my favorite places on the Interwebs. She has an incredible knack for finding the most apt observations - written and otherwise created - from recent and distant artists and writers. As a writer, that her pieces often speak to creativity and how our brains may or may not process and work speaks to me. Over my second cup of coffee, first at my DayJob desk, and procrastinating from starting a challenging day of “racking and stacking,” of “blocking and tackling” to get through the deadlines between me and next Wednesday, I read this.

I read it after this.

The sweet Scary Mommy piece left me wistful over my own 5 and a half year old. I’ve been lucky enough to spend the last few days with only him. His big sister is away at my mommy’s, so it’s just us. Yesterday, after an indulgent couple of hours at a mall chain restaurant and toy store, he crashed out, thrilled beyond belief that he could wear his new skeleton PJs, which he’s been wanting for ages. That they may not glow in the dark like he wanted might not be relevant. And I might be buying a new pair that does. But that’s for another indulgent day.

As I found him an hour after he went to bed in ours, completely relaxed and vulnerable, I marveled at his state of mind. I wished for his openness. I wished for that, as Libby Galin wrote in “20 Reasons 5 and a Half Rules," ”The willingness to wear a t-shirt with a jar of peanut butter wielding a butter knife fighting a jar of jelly brandishing a spoon, with no sense of irony at all.” (But number 6? The one about the joy of butt and farts? Got that one. Never lost it.)

I fell asleep early, but not as early as I’d have liked, worrying about the deadlines looming, and having wandered from cabinet to fridge to cabinet in my kitchen, looking for something just the right sweet-fat ratio to dull my worries. On edge, I walked away with an unsatisfying glass of cold water and went to bed.

So when I watched Bianca Giaever’s film this morning, smiling and nodding at the 6 year old view of a story that needed to be told, I got a little blindsided. I’d ignored the title, you see. “The Scared is scared” slipped by me, then crept back up after the bear and the mouse had to leave the pool after a not long enough visit because it closed.

the Scared is scared from Bianca Giaever on Vimeo.

“The Scared is scared of what you like.”

We adults wrap ourselves in layer after layer of worry and fear of the fear. I’m in that place right now. I know what works to help myself out of it, and yet I’m allowing myself to be in that space, oddly happy at the shield I’ve built, despite the frustration and shadow hovering. I know they’re there. I can feel them, and I can see the deep grey cloud at the edges of my world. I know what I like. I know my Scared is scared of it, and I know that’s why I won’t pick up a pen like I didn’t last night and write. If I did that, you see, I’d have to allow the frustration and shadow to creep past the edge. I’d have to allow them not in, but out of hiding, and acknowledge them.

5 and a half year olds and 6 year olds know how to do fear and edges. They may not have the words, but they know that they can cry and even scream to voice those emotions. They may not have the words to name those emotions, but they can acknowledge them. Especially if a grownup is there to listen, they can be in that space. It’s our job - my job, as a mother - to help them be there. As an adult, though, I have to be that for myself. I have to know that it’s not only ok to name and acknowledge the emotions, fear especially, but that it’s healthy to notice and observe where I am. I have to give the Scared a name and let it be there a bit.

That edge is a scary place. If I can name that place, then, and only then, will I, the grownup, be able to lift a pen or lace up my sneakers and let what I like chase the Scared away.

On Partnership

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Thu, 13 Aug 2015 17:30:00 +0000

It was the end of June 2006. I was newly minted in an increased professional role, and my boss handed me my first project to run. “I know you’re leaving to get married 3 days before it’s due to the Government, but I’ll finish it out. Oh, and the operational lead, just so you know, it’s H.”

It wasn’t the first time H and I had worked together, but it was the closest we’d ever collaborated. At the time, he was much more experienced in that work than I was, and he’s tough. Very tough.

“How can you work with your husband?”

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten this question over the years. Part of it may be that H and I work in an industry where - at least the perception is - there are a lot of traditional households. Colleagues and friends of ours come from and continue in military families; one half of the couple, often the wife, stays home, manages the household, and runs the non-office life. While some families operate with a lovely balance, others describe their weekends as full of “honey-do” lists and say they’ve “gotta check with the boss.”

Working in the same industry, let alone the same company or office, would feel like an imposition or an invasion to folks who use their careers as an escape from family life.

That’s very different than the life and relationship H and I have. I am blessed to have a partner in life. Because of the way we’ve built our reality, with both of us working outside the home, we have to be in lock step. We have to support each other and balance our collective priorities.

That 2006 project saw us pull more all-nighters than was natural (as if they are, but in this business, they happen). There were tears (mine). There were frustrations (his). In the end, a week out from our planned time off for wedding prep, we set a deadline: We would leave the office no later than 9 o’clock a.m. the morning we were scheduled to take off.

We walked out of the doors at 8:45 a.m., with 15 minutes to spare. 3 hours later, I was doing the final wine tasting with my parents.

We didn’t win that work, but we worked well together, better together than apart. We always have. We travel well together, we plan well together, and we throw a mean party together. Take a look at our wedding. It was an 8 hour party that started with a religious service.

2006 (and 2007-2015) was a good year.

I’m not a relationship expert. Nor do I play one on TV. I do, however, cherish and value the primary relationship I’m in as a partnership. We’ve been together over 15 years. Those years have afforded us a rhythm and a cadence to navigating life. We depend on it. When it’s out of whack - as happens - we find a way to reconnect. Even if that re-connection is a conversation about work. Even if that re-connection is 20 minutes of chatter on our patio well after we should have gone to sleep. Even if that re-connection means we put on the TV for the Beans and let it distract them from us.

Life and family is an eternal project. Parts of it require strict management, and parts of it work best when we let them roll. We check in with each other, and we speak up if we need to adjust. We pick up for the other because there’s a heavier weight on one side, or just because.

This morning, I rolled out of bed and into the fresh morning air first. H and No.2 were still dozing in our bed. H is usually on first for morning Bean management (I take the afternoon “shift”) while I dash out the door to the office, waving goodbye to two small beings on our front stoop.

It was quiet and cool in our kitchen as I picked up breakfast and lunchbox duties that are usually H’s domain. I buzzed the coffee grinder and put the percolator on the burner. As it came to a bubble, I unloaded the dishwasher and put on a pan of bacon. No reason. Just ‘cause. Soon I welcomed a sleepy, mohawked 5 year old. I kissed him and ruffled his hair, old school. By the time H wandered down, the sandwiches were made and No.2 said the bacon smelled “so crispy.” H was mildly amused and pleasantly surprised that I’d taken over. I’m usually on a warpath to get out the door.

“I like it when you’re home,” he said, and pulled me in for a kiss.

She's Got Legs, and She Used Them

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Wed, 29 Jul 2015 15:35:00 +0000

It was a typical Wednesday morning. Running late, I ducked into the neighborhood Starbucks, and emerged with my regular quad grande skinny mocha and a spinach feta wrap.

Uh huh. Quad. I have a little caffeine issue.

But back to our story. I got back into the Honda I drove that day, set up my breakfast “table” so as not to drip spinach juice on my dress, and checked my mirrors, pulling out of the spot in the busy lot. I backed up, watching the Honda behind me, checked next to me, and stopped. A man waited to pass.

He motioned for me to pause. Thinking I had a car issue, I rolled down the window. I recognized him from inside the ‘bux (big sunglasses and a man-bun are remarkable in suburban Maryland), but I was still a teensy bit cautious.

“I just wanted to tell you that you have wonderful legs.”

Gape.

Apparently it wasn’t a break light out.

Recovery. Smile. “Thank you,” I said. It took many fibers of my being not to dismiss it with a deflective statement. I thanked him deliberately and purposefully. “You made my morning. Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” I retorted, as I pulled away and buzzed up my window again. Somehow, that simple nicety felt like a retort instead of a mannerful response.

I drove out of the shopping center parking lot a smidge thoughtful and mildly conflicted.

“Good thing I put on a dress this morning, or I wouldn’t have gotten that compliment.”

“Was I just cat-called?”

“If I was just cat-called, am I OK with it?”

“But I like my legs, their shape, and their strength. How could someone complimenting me on them be bad?”

“I have on small wedge heels today, and I still got a compliment on my legs. Didn’t even need the 5” heels to get it.”

“Did I want a compliment?”

“Interesting that I got the legs compliment on the day I wore a dress slightly shorter than I’d usually wear to the office. I wonder if I’d have gotten the compliment in a longer skirt.”

“Is it OK that I’m happy I got a compliment?”

Let me set the record straight. My hipster-in-the-burbs complimenter had zero creep factor. His words were respectful and straightforward. My gut is that he was doing nothing more than trying to share a little happiness at 8 in the morning.

So why was my brain going a mile a minute, dissecting the encounter?

Part of my mental state is certainly feminist rhetoric. Then again, I’m not one to spurn physical attributes or their application for concern over objectification. As I’ve written before, I’m happy and confident in my physical presence.

There is a difference between understanding the power of your own physical impression and being objectified. Pages and pages have been written about how much first (and ongoing) impressions matter, and how we need to be aware of the message we send with our appearance. When someone turns that appearance against us, particularly openly and purposely, however, is where we we push up against objectification and discrimination.

Whether my simple, practical choice led to an almost cat-call, I'm not sure.

From a strictly office fashion perspective, the dress I chose to throw on this morning was just that: a dress I threw on. We’re still unpacking, it’s a quiet day in the office, and it’ll be 102 degrees today. A straight, sleeveless shift dress that doesn’t cling to any part of my body is a purely practical move. I thought briefly about my hem length, but dismissed the temporary concern because of the dress’ demure cut and picked a lower heeled shoe.

Whether my dress choice opened me up to, shall we say, closer observation, I’ll never know. Any speculation about man-bun-man’s choice to say something to me is just that: speculation. I choose to accept the compliment as such. While it set my brain a-hummin’ with some pretty juicy considerations, I’ll take the smile it put on my face and the reminder of my physical strength as a source of power, and use it kick today’s virtual ass.

In the Eye of the Beholder

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Mon, 27 Jul 2015 18:07:00 +0000

“I like your earrings, Mama.”

“Thank you, baby.”

I smiled, congratulating myself mentally for choosing to wear long, dangly earrings different than my usual suspects. I tucked him into the car seat. He watched me buckle him in, then looked up at me.

“I’m going to get you some better ones for Christmas,” said my 5 and a half year old. He sat tall in his seat, somehow coming across as far older those 5 years.

I'm fairly certain I've had these earrings languishing in my drawer for nigh on 10 years.

This past Saturday, H took him on a Target run before we had people over. We’ve been reveling in our new space, and vowed to have people over every 2 weeks. We needed hot dog buns and beer and paper plates.

So when my boys came back, piling the plastic bags on the kitchen floor, I wondered at the shimmery straw baseball cap tumbling out.

“[He] wanted to buy that for you,” H said. “He insisted.”

I didn’t wear it for the party, but put it on to play tourist with friends the next day. I wouldn’t have picked it out for myself, but you can bet your booties I’ll wear it if my boy buys it for me. He was thrilled, and beamed with a sort of surprised pride when he saw it on my head.

I pause here, in writing. I could go a couple of ways. I could go all “mamas should wear the things their babies make and give them.” There are plenty of clay pots and macaroni bracelets to go around. I could also write about how our babies see us as much more beautiful than we see ourselves, and gee, shouldn’t we take some of that with us throughout the day. It’s Instagram-quote worthy, probably.

But what really gets to me about what my boy - and my girl - sees is that he sees me so much more clearly than I see myself. That clarity manifested in a baseball cap this weekend. It cleared the outfield wall, in my mind.

With our recent move, our new jobs, and the end of a school year, the mood has been tenuous at home. Some days we are giddy over the newness. Some days we simmer with the tumult change brings. If one of us bubbles over, the rest of us take it on. Even if I think I’m keeping myself on an even keel, managing the stress and staying cool, I forget that my family, and especially my babies, see me with x-ray vision. They see through any facade I’m using to managing my adulthood, and see me for who I am and what I’m feeling in exactly that moment. They take on my fears, no matter how far beneath the surface I might I’ve tucked my worries.

Standing in my underwear on a mildly tense Monday morning - and just before I got my earring compliment - H reminded me: when you’re tense, they feed off of it.

I might have bucked the idea, and wasn’t willing to hear it at the time.

And he’s right.

My children see me clearly, and know me better than I know myself. Sometimes, they share that knowledge by talking their father into buying me something new. Sometimes, they can voice it, in wanting to do my job or go to the office with me. Sometimes they aren’t even aware of their vision, but it shows in their moods, both light and heavy.

I need to pay attention to what they’re saying. There is no responsibility greater than honoring my babies’ sense of being. It’s a weighty one, for sure. But sometimes, it means I get to wear a sparkly gold baseball cap.

Old Friends and New Beginnings

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Mon, 20 Jul 2015 21:58:00 +0000

A little over 3 years ago, I embarked on a fairly radical trip. I left a company I’d been with for nearly a decade, jumped to a drastically different industry, and into a new role. I used that break with my own history to jump start my HealthyMe journey. Within a year, I had lost more weight than I ever imagined I would, and was stronger than I had ever been, even as a teenage athlete. I’d even started running, which I claimed to hate. Professionally, I was making waves - the best kind - that moved an organization forward and in directions it not only needed to go, but, like me, had never thought it would.

During those 3 years, I shed quite a bit. I casted off pounds and I released images and perceptions I’d had of myself in my career and personally. I opened up doors I never wanted to open, and found that, while there was meaty, juicy stuff inside, to get to access it, I’d have to grow.

Growing is painful, people. So is change, and so is loss.

There were more tears than in most other phases of my life (well, maybe not more than when I was a sleep-deprived mother to a newborn, but you get the picture), and there was an immense amount of joy. Sometimes, the joyful tears mixed with those from mourning.

While many of those tears were deep, emotional ones, some of them were for what seem like trivial things. There was the time I bawled in the J. Crew dressing room because I tried on a button down shirt - and it fit. One day, I lost it because I was playing around with the Beans, made muscles, looked in the mirror, and I was RIPPED.

I also let ‘er rip when I gave away some clothes that had been in my closet for years. Some I didn’t wear any longer, but I held onto them as remnants of a different life, and couldn’t let them go. Then, one day, my friend Rosana came over, worked her insane stylist magic, and with a single look, helped me release a pile of those clothes with tears of laughter vice sadness.

I was going to consign a bunch of those pieces. I’d never done it before, but they were in too good shape to let them go. So I put them in my car, intending to call the consignment store and schedule an appointment. That was a year and a half ago.

Since then, they’ve moved from car to car, in and out of garbage bags, and even back into our home again. Finally, I decided I’d do good with them, and instead of unmet promises to consign them, I’d take them to Goodwill, where they’d serve both with the money they’d bring for their sale with the service they’d give their next owner.

They’re still in the back of my car.

The other day, I made a rash and admittedly painful decision on those clothes. I’m going to take them out of my car and try them on again. They might fit.

After training for my first half marathon, I went through some stressful times. I turned back to my coping mechanism (one of them), and let major sugar back in my life. I let my psyche try to hide from itself behind a second helping here, and another one there. I gained back nearly a quarter of what I’d lost. Some of my new wardrobe was starting to get tight, so I kicked it back into gear. I kept running, and I went to yoga. I ate clean (or cleaner), and I used a gala as a goal to get back to where I wanted to be. I made it.

Our prom picture...remember the marigold dress?

And then I let it creep back up. Again.

I’m still strong. I still know what food fuels me. I know better than I did 3 years ago what cuts and styles I can rock. And I’m incredibly glad right now, when, up nearly half of what I’d lost, I never did follow Stacy & Clinton’s advice and get rid of things that didn’t fit. I’m not feeling great about myself right now physically, frustrated by the lack of time I have to focus on my health - but all for good changes (another step farther in my career, a new home, and changes for our whole family). Having a cushion of things that might let me follow Stacy’s recommendation to me personally (remember this?) and having a few things that fit me well where I am now? That opportunity, born out of procrastination, feels downright like a rescue at the moment.

I don’t know whether any of the pieces in my car will fit me. And I certainly don’t advocate hanging onto clothing “just in case.” But I can tell you that, right now, for me, I’m grateful for the possibility that some of my “in between” clothing might be that for me again - a stepping stone and a tool in my getting back on the path to where I feel best about myself.

The Universe Shouted Today

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Wed, 13 May 2015 01:19:00 +0000

I worked from home today. Most of those days, I walk the Beans to school, giving H from his morning duties (he drops off, I pick up). Today was no different. I also usually wander up the street to a favorite neighborhood spot, Little Red Fox, for a coffee I didn't make myself. Today, I had my favorite steamed Gouter U-hoo with espresso (double double this time). After coffee, I pass Politics & Prose. It's an independent bookstore. How could I not stop?

It was staring right at me as I meandered past the new fiction tables.

Image via

H has long said, and we've been together 15 years, that I have a novel in me. He's always telling me that I write so much better than a book he's read. He's my biggest cheerleader in writing. Heck, he's the reason I started the blog in the first place.

It won't be today, and it certainly won't be tomorrow. I have a husband, a family, a demanding day job, and I try to keep myself healthy physically. I know, though, that writing is part of what keeps me well mentally and emotionally. I write here. I write on my Weight Watchers blog. I write for Wardrobe Oxygen and Glass. I don't write as often as I'd like, or as often as would be good for me, but I write.

I am a writer.

There. I had the courage to say it. I wrote it, even.

My newly appointed "office," with pictures hung.

Give in Style: Shield & Honor Jewelry Gives Thanks for Those Who've Served

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Fri, 17 Apr 2015 02:20:00 +0000

Not too long ago, my mommy sent a text to my sister, my brother, and me:

"Just got a message from [my mommy's cousin] that Uncle Bill passed away on Saturday night. 91 years."

We lost another one.

Uncle Bill was one of the dwindling servicemen and women who defended not just American, but other nations', soil, in World War II. A medal-winning college gymnast, he left school and ended up on Normandy's beaches. As his obituary reads, "after 92 days of near continuous combat," German forces captured him. Like so many others, he spent his 21st birthday not just in the armed forces, but as a prisoner of war.

Photo credit: University Archives, Special Collections Library, University Libraries, Pennsylvania State University.

Eventually, even as his family thought him dead, Uncle Bill and eleven other soldiers escaped the camp near Poland, ended up in Odessa, and made their way home. The rest of his life, he continued to serve those around him: as a teammate (1948 London Olympics), a professor, a coach, an advocate, a father, a husband, and a brother.

We're blessed, in our family, to have another World War II veteran. At 92, Uncle Toby (Uncle Bill's oldest sister's husband), was part of Patton's Army. His stories are still there for us, and my mother and stepdad visit with him weekly. H and some friends have gone to visit him, as have we. There's not much we can do at this point to thank him for his service, but we can be there. We can send pictures, and we can make sure he has what he needs.

And then, the other day, a friend sent me a link. She sent it to me because she knows I love fashion - and unique fashion, especially. She was already addicted to both the style and the story - and the salute - jewelry maker Shield & Honor weaves into every piece.

"No legacy, no matter how small, should go untold."

I bought two. I'll wear them daily, I think, because remembering the promise our nation and its heroes hold is so very important.

Rimfire Chain Studs

Prime Lariat Onyx

Style Dilemma: Hitting the Spring Sales as a Woman Executive

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Tue, 07 Apr 2015 00:25:00 +0000

It's been an interesting wardrobe week. I started in my new role, with a new company, and with new people. While a few of the folks have known me for a long time (connections, people, connections. It's how the world works), most don't know me at all. As I finished up in my last role, I was not only tired, but also in a more internal space. I could push the boundaries of "business casual," even in a conservative industry, because I was a) in the "creative" role, and b) rarely around folks external to the company.

Oh, and have I mentioned that I've gained back 20 of the 50 pounds I lost 3 years ago? So even my go-to dress options (love me a sheath, a shift, and a shirtdress - so very easy), which would be perfect for a female executive in a more outward-facing role, are limited. Some still fit, but their numbers are reduced because they just don't fit properly. Let's not discuss the pants.

So inspired by Alison over at Wardrobe Oxygen culling the Ann Taylor sale for us last Friday, and taking Stacy London's 2012 advice to me (yes! to me personally), I decided to do a little online shopping and fill a few holes with transitional pieces that will hopefully serve me well at varied sizes, match my corporate level, and still let me keep a little edge and personality.

I found another easy shirt dress, a denim pencil skirt with some nautically-inspired details, and two wider-legged trousers. The dress is a no-brainer. The skirt, a little higher waisted, will keep me feeling sleek, even when I don't really feel that way. The wide leg pant with the stripe is just too good to let go - it's a tuxedo for the office, after all, and the paperbag waisted pant, though it has widely mixed reviews online, could be just interesting enough (and yay cinched waist) that I couldn't pass it up.

From top left: Ann Taylor Fine Stripe Shirtdress, Ann Taylor Edgestitched Denim Pencil Skirt, Banana Republic Piped Navy Drapey Wide Leg Pant, Gap Paperbag-waist pants

Both Ann Taylor and the Gap companies have sales going on through today (and you can bet your peep toe booties there will be more tomorrow), so check them out - what are you banking on?

The Joy of a Break...and Onward!

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Wed, 25 Mar 2015 01:09:00 +0000

Well, happily back from a too-long trip to California, H and are ready to go. We're eternally grateful for grandmothers who stay with the Beans and let us make a trip we needed to make - and in the process get a little time on our own.

But really, it was too long to be away from them.

So as we get started - I'm starting my new DayJob tomorrow - a little update on my list:

1. I read a book. I'm not done yet, but it's a page turning, intelligent, and oddly sweet thriller from Alan Furst: Night Soldiers. So. Good.

2. I got a haircut. We even put layers in. And it lasted through a convertible ride into the desert, a run, and an afternoon by the pool.

3. I got a mani/pedi for the first time in I don’t know how many months. DC folks, Varnish Lane. Almost a full week of a regular polish (albeit my new fave, matte, on my fingers), and the only thing that really got to it was, you know, surfing. In the ocean. With the sand.

4. I went for a run. I can't even remember now whether I managed one before we left, but I did fit in an hour of Combatitude. And then I ran on a cool California desert morning. And there were mountains and flowers and sky.

5. When we arrived in California, I took a 2 hour afternoon nap. So necessary. And then, one afternoon, I nodded off by the pool. I know.

6. I still need to buy some new black pumps...and maybe some red ones. I looked one afternoon, to no avail, while still here. I'm still on the hunt. But instead? I bought some Reef flip flops. Because we were in Pacific Beach before a surf lesson and it seemed the thing to do.

7. Even before I finished at my last gig, H came by and brought me lunch. And then on our break, we had lunch together (and with his mom), dinner, breakfast, and drinks. There were drinks. By the ocean. And now we're home.

The Joy of a Break

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Tue, 10 Mar 2015 00:40:00 +0000

2015’s going to be a big year. I can feel it. Even before changes were afoot in our family and with our friends, things were just brewing. So when it came to be that both H and I are not only changing jobs, but taking interesting, challenging steps (lord, how grown up of us), I wasn’t surprised.

He’s already on his self-imposed break, much deserved and very needed. He has a list of Things, but part of it is to just hang out with our Beans more, work on his Voice audition song, and take a breather. I’m done this phase of my career this Friday. I’ve got a few days “to myself” before we take a little getaway and then return to start the new phase.

We have laundry to fold. We have food to cook and stock in the freezer. We have boxes to sort, piles to donate. We have doctors appointments to schedule and make. Then there’s the list of things I need to do for me.

1. I need to read a book

2. I need to get a haircut

3. I need to get a mani/pedi for the first time in I don’t know how many months

4. I need to go for a run

5. I need to take a nap

6. I need to buy some new black pumps...and maybe some red ones

7. I need to have lunch with my man

I know I won’t be able to get all of the Things in. I also know that these things are really “needs.” They’re things I know will grant me a little space and a little freedom to just be.

And I can’t wait.

Out of the Mouths of Babes OR How a 7-Year-Old Saw through Big Fashion

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Sun, 22 Feb 2015 16:08:00 +0000

“Where does ‘DC Celine’ come from, Mama?”

She knows I have a website. She knows I sometimes write things about her, and that I sometimes ask her if I can share what she’s written or said on the site. She knows I write about fashion, that I read about fashion, and that I love fashion. The first time I took her to New York City, the Museum at FIT Daphne Guinness exhibit drew us there. Then in 2013, the Met’s Costume Institute produced the groundbreaking Impossible Conversations, in which Muiccia Prada and Elsa Schiaparelli discussed their inspirations and motivations - face to face. Decades apart.

While the question didn’t surprise me, it did take me by surprise - a kind of gentle joy of a surprise. I want my girl to be her own person, but I love that we share an interest, and that she’s curious enough, and has noticed enough, to ask about my writing.

So I explained DC Celine’s origin: that Celine, with Michael Kors at its venerated helm, was the first line I recognized without cue. There were no logos, no telltale camellias, no signature zigzag prints. I saw Rene Russo in one of my favorite movie roles, ballsy in her artistic investigation, and sheathed in contrast by supple voluptuousness. If you look carefully, you’ll see Kors’ aesthetic, almost a given, in classic trenches and turtlenecks. But for the French house, that all-American and commercial spirit he trots down his eponymous runways was gilded in the design equivalent of an Instagram filter: softened around the edges and richer than in real life.

Long story short, even after (love of my life) Pierce Brosnan had left the screen, I was still sitting in the worn theater seat, waiting for the credits to confirm my suspicion. I’m pretty sure I squealed when I saw I was right: Rene had stolen Pierce’s heart (and mind) in Celine.

You’ve got me. I didn’t quite give the Bean all that detail, but I did explain to her that the first time I recognized a fashion designer’s work, it was Celine. She seemed to understand, but I stretched for a way to illustrate it for her.

She knows Elsa Schiaparelli’s designs. She’s seen them in person, and she’s read about them (she appropriated the biography we bought at the exhibit, and won’t give it back to me to read). Inspired by Schiaparelli’s friend Dali and his surrealist compadres, her work is distinctive, to say the least. While popular, it wasn’t commercial. It didn’t survive, and went dark until just a few seasons ago, when the house relaunched as Schiaparelli.

Schiaparelli’s contemporary, though, is legendary. Even those outside the fashion world label Chanel jackets, fabric, and logos as “iconic.” For heaven’s sake, aliens probably recognize the double “C” - and maybe even its current guardian, Karl Lagerfeld. His persona is as carefully cultivated and shielded as Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel’s own mysterious self.

I decided to try an experiment. I Googled “coco chanel designs,” clicked “images,” and showed the Bean the page of pictures. “Are any of these Elsa Schiaparelli’s designs?” I asked? She considered the mostly black and white images (by entering “coco chanel,” vice just “chanel,” it pulled - purposefully - designs from the house’s early years that would be from the same era as to Schiaparelli’s), a page full of drop waist dresses and the early versions of probably the most copied jacket in the world. After a while, she pointed out one of the few pictures of an evening gown, and one of the few with any womanly shape. “This one,” she said.

Google Images results for "coco chanel designs"

I told her who had designed the pieces on the page, simply saying that she was a designer at the same time as Schiaparelli. She’d never heard of Chanel. Then I pulled up another tab full of Schiaparelli’s designs. “What differences do you see?” I asked.

Google Images results for "elsa schiaparelli designs"

Again, she considered before she spoke (on an aside, can we just keep that quality? If she manages to maintain that ability to think before she speaks, she’ll be the most advanced adult around.).

“I would wear Schiaparelli now, but I wouldn’t wear Chanel now.”

In her 7 year old eyes, she saw the straight lines and ladylike deportment that make Chanel both so coveted and considered so “classic” as “old fashioned” and not of today. The almost outlandish artistic quality that might well have done Schiaparelli in, on the other hand, speak to the Bean. For a girl who claims black is her favorite color (not kidding, I told you she’s interested in fashion), the Schiaparelli’s nearly garish color pairings are modern; the black and white Chanel boucle is something a grandmother would wear.

The other day, I read a criticism that Karl Lagerfeld, for all the respect he has in the industry, hasn’t designed a single original thing in 8 years. As I read that, I thought of my 7 year old daughter. A child’s eye caught what legions of fashion admirers and even critics won’t dare to say: that, despite its place in cultural history, usefulness in the classic closet, and commercial viability (we have to assume that there will always be women buying boucle), we can’t just assume a Fashion House’s relevancy. Perhaps men in ponytails, no matter how chic their shades, should have stayed in the 90s.

On a completely unrelated note, this, my friends, is my 1000th post. When I started in December 2005, I had absolutely no idea I'd still be writing on this site 10 years later. I'll probably wax poetic about it at some point later this year, but suffice it to say, I'm grateful for the technology, the community, and the people who grant me the space to keep writing. When I hit 7 years, I wrote a little bit about it, but in the meantime, just THANK YOU.

Britney Survived 2007 (Now with Winner!)

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Fri, 20 Feb 2015 02:52:00 +0000

Ladies, the ladies I know have had it rough lately. Nothing terrible, just one thing after another. First, a bad morning, then an especially long commute. After that, a deadline missed (by someone else, which pushes back your deadline), complicated by a cold. Or the stomach flu.

A couple of us keep saying that 2015 is gonna be the year of change, and the year of Great Things. I may have said that myself lately, more than a few times. In the process, though, change hurts like a mofo.

So when I saw this mug in my Instagram feed this morning, I kinda just had to. And then I realized, well, how 'bout I share some of the love? We could all use a little strength, and if it comes with a little levity, all the better, and best if there's room for your favorite caffeine. Which there is. 15oz' worth.

So, my friends, if you'd like a shot at a mug, give me your best shot, share the best craptastic story you have from your own personal life so far in 2015 in the comments. It can be funny, serious, silly, or morbid. I have no strict rules, just that you have to share your story in the comments here on the blog (not on Facebook or my other social media channels) by 12:00am March 1, 2015. That gives you 2 more weeks, even, to come up with more soul crushing insanity. Then I'll peruse the stories and pick one, and post a winner on my Facebook page, as the easiest way to let folks know, and find a way to get it to you. (Hint, hint, follow me over there!)

Go on. Give it your best shot.

Winner Update: Deb, this mug is yours. I'm all about putting this mug in front of that sort of soul-crushing behavior. Stand tall, sit straight, and drink up. (I'll be in touch to get the mug to you.)

Thanks to all of you puke-ridden candidates (really, there's a lot of vomit lately). Wish I could give you all something to get through...so maybe I'll find a way for another contest soon.

Style Dilemma Solved: 10 Pieces, 10 Days

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Tue, 10 Feb 2015 21:47:00 +0000

The Alexandria Stylebook team called for volunteers to join their “10 for 10” experiment: 10 pieces of clothing for 10 days. Accessories, shoes, and outerwear? Up to each participant how “hardcore” they wanted to be.

“I don’t have time. I don’t have clean clothes. I don’t like my clean clothes.”

Then I thought about it for a few seconds, without the excuses.

Truth of it is, I’m in a funk. The DayJob is demanding. The Beans have their own demands. Exercise and even eating well, which got me to my #healthyme goal a little over 2 years ago (first post in the series here, and all of them here), aren’t just in the back seat, they’re in the “way back.” I’m up 10-15 pounds from my fit, happy place, where I feel strong and sleek. My closet is full of clothes that fit the strong, sleek me much better than the now me, if at all. I have a few pieces that are more forgiving than others, and I rewear them. Over and over and over.

“So why not?” I thought. I do it anyway.

“But you don’t have time to pick out the 10 pieces,” my scaredy-cat self protested. I was up to the wall with deadlines as it started. I didn’t even know where in our house some of my “old reliable” pieces were hiding.

On that first Friday, though, I got out of bed, got the Beans ready, made my green smoothie, and got dressed. I thought carefully about what I would wear on that casual Friday that wasn’t completely casual (I had meetings).

That first Friday, I picked a simple black sweater (old, a v-neck version here), navy skinny “jeans” (old, but these would give a similar effect) a heathered blazer (similar), and riding boots (similar). I accessorized with a scarf (similar). I figured that I could rewear these three pieces with just about anything in my wardrobe. We’d see.

Saturday, we went skiing, so I “cheated” with cold weather workout wear. Then Sunday, even as I donned my church clothes, I was back to it. I added another piece (a pink shirt, old, but this army green would be a great option), but used the blazer and pants again, building to four.

As I've had most of these pieces in my closet forever, they're not available any longer, but Banana Republic always has a good grey trouser and pencil skirt, and I wore my Aerin booties from The Shoe Hive practically daily.

As the week progressed, I added a piece or two a day, until I was up to the ten. I opted to keep the outerwear, accessories, and footwear out of the count, though in the end, I wore a number of those pieces repeatedly. When it’s freezing cold, for example, I will only wear my one blue wool coat. My riding boots were a staple, and my sole pair (pun not at all intended) of black shoes - black suede booties - even garnered a “You’ve been wearing those shoes a lot,” from H.

I suppose I’m lucky. I work in two different offices, and had at least one day with meetings entirely outside of the office, so no one group of people saw me in the same clothes, even if I wore them 2 days in a row. (I do wonder if other people really would notice duplicate ensembles. Perhaps that’s another experiment.) As early as a couple of days in, I welcomed the limited choices. Not having to go through a full closet of things I didn’t want to or couldn’t wear every morning? The lack of choice felt like pure, comfortable luxury.

Capsule wardrobes are in. Stylists preach “quality over quantity.” Magazines publish article after article about the 5, 10, 15 basic pieces every woman needs to anchor her closet. I agree with all of them. While I love me a good Target find (and will “splurge” on a silly, fun piece like a Grinch Christmas sweater), for years I’ve considered possible new purchases as they fit both into my existing closet with other items and into my lifestyle. Yet somehow I ended up with a closet full of things I didn’t feel I could wear, and found myself freed by the 10 for 10 exercise.

Having 10 pieces of clothing for 10 days (if you can do the math, which I can’t, any longer, there are exponential combinations) was a relief. For where I am right now, having fewer - and carefully considered - choices let me focus on other things (like getting my makeup on daily, though washing my hair is another story) each morning. Looking back, this sort of closet should be a no-brainer for me. I’m the sort of person who can juggle a lot - as long as I maintain certain systems, like putting my purse, keys, and gloves in the exact same place every single time I come in the house. It makes perfect, logical, head-slapping sense that limiting my wardrobe choices when I’ve got a particularly full plate would work well.

Did I feel amazing in every combination? No, I didn’t. I did, however, feel polished and sleek. I felt considered, professional, and elegant. Even on weekends, when normally I’d err on the side of jeans and a T, I turned to my darker, dressier wash (albeit boyfriend) jeans and that original black sweater or one of two button downs I’d added within a few days. By the end of the 10 days, I also realized that I’d turned to menswear. I used a black skirt and a grey and black dress, but those button downs and jackets were straight up off a boy. My favorite ensemble, the one in which I felt the most kick-ass? Chalk that up to the the day when I channeled both Lauren Bacall and Lauren Hutton (and Kate Hepburn, my original trousers-wearing-idol) in a perfectly slouchy silky pink button down and tailored grey trousers.

I started the exercise as a bit of a lark. It became a tool to navigate a stressful time, and emerged as confirmation of my personal style. What I wore is what I love best - it’s what I feel best in, style-wise. In the end, you can take the girl out of...well, you can take the girl out of it, and give her boys’ clothes, but she’ll always add sparkly earrings and kick your ass while wearing red lips. At least this one will.

Would you do a “10 for 10?” What would be in your capsule? What would you consider as you selected pieces?

Style Inspiration: Light in the Dead of (Romantic) Winter

noreply@blogger.com (Alison Santighian) — Wed, 28 Jan 2015 00:11:00 +0000

I've said it before, I'll say it again: I'm a Winter Girl. I'm the one disappointed at the measly dusting DC got from Juno. I'm the one happily digging out her hand-me-down fur hat on a bitter cold day. I'm the one looking forward to a cup of hot chocolate - while sitting outside at a café on that brilliantly sunny January afternoon.

But it hasn't been sunny, really, and January brings an onslaught for me at the DayJob. It's all I can do, some days, to keep my head above water (never mind wash my hair). Our annual weekend down tha shore over the Presidents' Day holiday couldn't feel farther away.

In between deadlines and dance class (the Bean's, not mine), though, I sneak a hungry peak at facebook and Instagram, following along with others' adventures - and their daily lives. I love seeing the normal, the regular, through others' lenses. I also love seeing the beautiful and striking. I've discovered a few new folks to follow recently, though, and thought I'd share. Maybe you'll find a little inspiration - style or otherwise - in their snaps of their worlds.

Kirsty Larmour's images of her family's travels are stunning. Breathtaking, even. For me, the aesthetic (how does she capture that light?) heightens the connection. I can only dream of taking my two Beans on the travels she and hers are experiencing. Of course, being based in Abu Dabi doesn't hurt. I discovered her just as they were traipsing through Armenia, H's - and therefore my Beans' - ancient homeland. And in case her Instagram account (@kirstylarmour) isn't enough for you, you can follow along on her blog, too. Image via her Instagram account.

I met Simon Alcantara before I knew his work. In the whirlwind of my first trip to New York Fashion Week, Jessica Quillin introduced us over lunch at Henri Bendel. But really, that isn't the important part. His Instagram account (@simonalcantara) is as delightful as he is - and as his work is elevating. Like Kirsty's travel's Simon's jewelry designs are aspirational for me. This silver and cotton (yes, cotton) creation from his Odyssey Collection was the first thing I saw online one dreary morning. It's stuck with me. Image via his Instagram account.

Ulyana Sergeenko's Instagram account (@ulyana_sergeenko_moscow), my newest guilty pleasure, is splattered with celeb sightings at her Moscow atelier. She is married to a billionaire, afterall, and is a couture client and couturier. But it's these deliberate shots (sometimes part of a film shoot, sometimes a photo shoot) that have me longing for this life gone by (or perhaps that never really existed). The feed captures a rich, velvety sense of the most decadent Russian salon you can imagine. Given I carry a copy of Anna Karenina around on every major move (both my years in Austria and Germany, college, group house, you get the picture), it's no wonder I'm drawn to these pictures. Image via her Instagram account.

I discovered Champagne Tarlant's Instagram account (@tarlant) after a World Champagne Day (yup, that's a day. for realz.). I suppose I have Polly Wiedmaier to thank for that (and her kind invitation to join her at Marcel's for a tasting a few years back). While I can't drink champagne every day (or can I?), I can certainly lose myself in the elegant mists floating over the French countryside and between the vines. I suppose my not-so-secret Romantic is showing. Image via their Instagram account.

What are some of your favorite Instagram accounts? Where do you find online inspiration? I'd love to hear more.

And if you're on Instagram, and not following along with me, join me (@dcceline). It's a pretty real life. I hope there's a little beauty and fun in it.