She had told me that she just wanted “to snuggle for a minute” and then she promptly fell asleep on my lap. My all-grown-up do-it-myself six-year-old didn’t want to admit she still needed a nap (or her mom!) — but she did. And I love it. Unabashedly. Plus, she’s the only kid who will even fit in my lap to sleep anymore. So I had to document it, right?

But when I posted the pic to Facebook, I was surprised to see that many of the comments focused on my eyelashes. “Are those all YOUR lashes?!” said one friend. It’s been over a week since I posted that picture and I’m still getting questions about my eyelashes.

Here’s the thing: Yes, they are all my real eyelashes (i.e. no falsies but I am wearing mascara) and no, I was not genetically blessed in the lash department. Like the hair on my head, my eyelashes have always been thin and sparse. Sigh. But a couple of months ago I lucked into an awesome trick and since so many people have asked me about it, I figured I’d share it here.

Let me start by saying I certainly didn’t invent this trick. In fact, it’s been around for centuries and been on Instagram and Pinterest for years now. I’m just the last person to know about it. So what is this amazing not-so-secret? Coconut and castor oils. Yep, that’s it.

Awhile ago I was trying to take off some stubborn waterproof mascara without completely denuding my poor eyes and tried using coconut oil. It worked like a charm and didn’t sting like normal makeup remover (I have crazy sensitive dry skin) so I kept using it. After a week or two I started to notice my eyelashes looked amazing – fuller and a bit longer. So I googled it. And it turns out that people, who are not babies, putting food on their face is A Real Thing Women Do.

After reading through a bunch of sites, I decided to continue my experiment with a mixture of about 3/4 castor oil and 1/4 coconut oil. I don’t measure it because lazy. I just pour a bunch in a squeeze bottle and use an old eyeliner brush to put it on every night.

Super high tech, here! (That’s a valentine Jelly Bean “made” me… and my one attempt at “staging” a pic ahahahahaaa)

Since coconut oil is generally solid at room temp, I melt it and then add it to the castor oil. Once mixed, it all stays liquid. Then I use the eyeliner brush to put it on the base of my lashes (don’t coat your lashes, doesn’t help and makes it hard to see!). I just do the upper lashes and when I close my eyes it kind of rubs off on the lower ones too.

After a couple of months I started to see real results. I wish I’d taken a before picture without mascara so you could see how seriously stubby my lashes were. But honestly I didn’t really expect it to work as well as it has!

Now, here are my eyelashes today with NO makeup:

Pretty amazing, right? (I was standing in front of my curtain trying to get a consistent backdrop. It worked. It also made my hair really staticky!)

Oh HAI internets, here is my completely bare face. This feels awkward.

Obligatory scary close up of my peepers!

Now look what happens when I add my usual mascara (Maybelline “the falsies” in black, nothing fancy):

This is just two coats of normal mascara (no fibers or primers or anything) on my top lashes and nothing else. I’m also not wearing eyeliner or shadow. But I did put on lipstick and brushed my hair. Just for you guys. YOU’RE WELCOME.

See? They even touch my eyebrows in some places! And the effect is even more pronounced when I go all out with eyeliner, eyeshadow, and fiber mascara on the top and bottom. It’s crazy! Although they can look a little spidery, especially since the oils seem to mainly make them grow longer, not thicker.

Second scary close up. 

And it’s official, I’ve spent way too much time looking at close ups of my face and I’m starting to freak myself out! Anyhow, here are my tips if you’re interested in trying this yourself:

1. Buy quality. The great thing is that even the nicest castor oil is stupid cheap. I got a 16 ounce bottle for six dollars at the grocery store. And I already had a tub of virgin coconut oil. Normally I eat my food products but sometimes I wear them, as one does. I got organic because I figured if I’m going to blind myself with it might as well be organically blind.

(Note: there are lots of “recipes” for eyelash serum online that use these oils plus other stuff like essential oils and herbs but I am nothing if not lazy and the oils seem to work great just themselves. But knock yourself out if you’re feeling crafty and/or you like your eyes to smell like lavender and Pinterest.)

2. You will blind yourself. And it will be scary. The first time I used waaay too much and it got on my eyeball, clouding my vision and forcing me to run around my house yelping like a cat with glaucoma. (Can cats get glaucoma? Or does my cat just have the cRaZy eyes naturally? Mysteries.) I tried to rinse it out with water but since the rules of chemistry are legit, water doesn’t do much to oil. But! It didn’t really hurt and after a few minutes I blinked it all away and I can only hope it made my tear ducts lusciously supple.

3. Put it on at night, with a clean brush. Use an old eyeliner brush and wash it thoroughly. (You’re sticking it in your eye!) Then put a tiny drop of oil on it and brush it on the base of your lashes, just like you would eyeliner. Note: The oils will take your makeup off so I recommend doing it at night after you’ve washed your face.

4. Be patient. This is the hardest part. I think I began to see some difference after one or two weeks of doing this every day but it was subtle. The results pictured above are after two months of daily application. It’s not a quick fix and I’m pretty sure you have to keep doing it if you want to keep having butterfly lashes.

5. Feel free to rub it other places too. Lots of the sites I read also recommended using castor oil and/or coconut oil on your hair roots to help it grow. In the past I would have thought this ridiculous but since it worked so well on my face I am now trying it on my head. Using the same squirt bottle, I put it all over my scalp. After massaging it in and appreciating how well I rock the greasy hooligan look, I leave it on for… a while. Some sites say overnight but I can’t sleep smelling like salad. So I leave it on for at least a half an hour and sometimes several hours. I’ve only been doing it for a week and I have a feeling it will take a very long time to tell if it’s working. All I can tell you for sure now is that it is a b*$%& to wash out. But I’ll let you know how it goes.  (Here’s a good tutorial on how to use it on your hair, by a woman with the most adorable accent ever.)

Have any of you ever tried using oils to grow any of your hairs? Any tips for me?? What other cool beauty tricks have I been missing out on?

Andersen Family – April 2015 photo courtesy of Still Memories photography

UPDATE 9/15/17: For everyone looking to discuss their Myocardial Bridges, Ben (you’ll recognize him from the comments) has set up a site specifically for this purpose. Join the conversation at the Myocardial Bridge Community forum. Thanks Ben!

Vomiting at a finish line isn’t exactly unheard of. In fact, spectacular displays of bodily fluids are half the fun of watching sports! (Is it just me or is Paula Radcliffe’s popping a squat to drop a load still one of the best sports photography moments ever? Or maybe I’m just gross. Whatever.) Usually it means you’ve pushed yourself to your very limit, pumping out every last bit of effort (and breakfast). But when I “left it all on the field” – technically a parking lot outside my gym – a few months ago, I felt neither proud nor accomplished. I didn’t even have the energy to laugh at myself, which is usually the last respite for people puking on their own running shoes. All I felt was awful. That, and crushing chest pain.

I drove myself home, collapsed on the couch, and when I finally had enough energy to pick up my phone, called my doctor. He told me to come in right away.

Did I mention what grueling workout I’d done that had so undid me? Zumba. ZUMBA. Yes, an hour-long aerobics class (albeit a super fun, hip-swiveling, stripper-squatting dance party of an aerobics class) so exhausted me that I had to lay flat down for two hours afterward, crying with pain. Sadly, this wasn’t the first time it happened. You may recall that I’ve been having weird attacks of chest pain ever since moving to Colorado two years ago.

Usually they start about 15-20 minutes into any type of cardiovascular exercise, like running, kickboxing, circuit training or Zumba. It starts out just feeling tight in my chest. I can still breathe fine and my muscles don’t feel overly fatigued. If I keep going, the tightness will increase into pain and then eventually severe, crushing pain – sometimes to the point where I vomit. Once I stop exercising it can take hours for the pain to go away and I’m exhausted way beyond what one would expect for my fitness level and the activity I was doing. (Ex: Running a 10K knocked me out for six hours afterward.) I’ll often have to sleep it off.

At first my doc thought it was exercise-induced asthma but after three separate inhalers failed to provide relief we moved on to bigger, badder things. I was checked for cracked ribs, symptom-less pneumonia and, for a hot second, pericarditis – an infection in the sac surrounding my heart. Finally, after a year of no good answers I had a stress echocardiogram that involved me sprinting bra-less on a treadmill trying to force my heart to do something funky. (I still hate you, lab techs. I may have tiny boobs but they still bounce!) Which it didn’t do because my body enjoys publicly humiliating me. Actually I think they didn’t let me run long enough to get the chest pains to kick in. But when that didn’t show anything wrong with me, my doctors agreed that the problem was mostly likely in my head. So even though I still had questions – like why did it only hurt when I exercised and why only since I moved to Colorado? – I went along with it because, let’s be honest, I am kind of a hypochondriac.

They sent me away with official permission to ignore the pain and do whatever I wanted. Which was cool since that was pretty much what I do anyhow. I love working out! I love hiking and biking and running and kick-boxing and circus tricks and yoga and Krav Maga and… basically anything that’s not swimming! I didn’t want to give any of that up! But do you know what will really make you hate exercising? Having crushing chest pain any time you try and sustain a high heart rate.

The past year has been like living in a Skinner box. Any time I start to work up a decent sweat, my chest starts to feel tight, I feel nauseated and dizzy. If I push through it and keep going, the chest pain will worsen until I literally cannot stand up anymore. And then there’s the vomit. It’s humiliating. It’s demoralizing. It’s insane (I’m a fitness writer who can’t fitness!). But most of all it just really, really hurts. Unlike the last time I got grounded from exercise, this time I can see the damage being done to my body and I can’t ignore it.

I ran the Bolder Boulder 10K (the world’s largest!) on Memorial Day with my hot husband. I was fine because he made me keep it nice and slow! 

So after this last puke-tastic Zumba class I finally decided that “you’re imagining things, go away” wasn’t a good enough answer. And thankfully this time my doctor agreed with me and said maybe there was a small chance I had coronary artery disease and referred me to a cardiologist who specialized in sports (which in hindsight might have been his nice way of saying “you’re imagining things, go away and bother someone else”). After over a month of waiting, I finally met the world-famous doc. He told me that if I had coronary artery disease then he was a singing chipmunk and did some more tests.

It turns out I have a myocardial bridge. Probably*.

This is a condition, present from birth, where one of the arteries goes through the heart muscle instead of over the top of it. So every time the heart contracts, it closes that artery and temporarily deprives the body of oxygen. When I’m at rest, it’s not noticeable because the heart muscle relaxes between beats and allows blood flow to resume. But when I’m taxing my heart, like during intense exercise, the heart can’t catch up and the pinched artery causes a severe lack of oxygen which can lead to myocardial ischemia (where you have pain, fatigue, numbness from lack of oxygen) or acute coronary syndrome (like a mini stroke). In rare cases, according to this one study, it can lead to sudden death.

And that’s about all I know about it because there’s not much literature or research on it. (This article from the Texas Heart Institute is probably the most comprehensive info out there.) According to my doc, it’s pretty common – about 5% of people are born with it – but the vast majority of those people never know they have it and it causes no symptoms, generally because the “bridge” is so shallow. But for some of us the muscle covering the artery is thicker and causes problems. He added that I probably have had mild symptoms from it my whole life but they didn’t cause a problem until I moved to Colorado and living at 6,000 feet above sea level was enough extra strain on my already taxed heart to cause the extra pain.  Oh that and he pointed out that I’m getting older, which apparently also strains your heart. (I turned 37 last week! That’s not that old, right??)

The treatment for a myocardial bridge is almost as elusive. Apparently there is a surgery they can do but he told me that no responsible surgeon would do it on me because it’s open heart surgery and they only do that on the most severe cases. As long as it’s only bothering me during intense exercise he told me to count my blessings and avoid intense exercise. He also said if it worsens in the future they can put me on blood pressure meds like beta blockers or calcium channel blockers – an option I didn’t want to pursue right now as my blood pressure is already ridiculously low (I’m a fainter!) and lowering it further would create a whole new set of problems.

So I walked out of his office with a prescription to keep my heart rate low (under 145 ish). That means no more running, kickboxing, martial arts, spin class or most of my other favorite activities. For the rest of my life. 

I cried. A lot. Not gonna lie. While it was a relief to know what was the deal is – and it really does explain all my symptoms – it means that a huge part of my life and my personality is gone from me. Then I gained 12 pounds in two weeks. I don’t know if it was me eating my feelings or what but now I have tight pants to deal with on top of everything else. (I’m trying to be gentle with myself on that front. For my birthday I went shopping and bought two new pairs of jeans so at least I could breathe while I figure this all out.)

But then I got over myself. For all the things I “can’t” do, there are way more that I can. I can lift weights, dance (lightly), walk, play with my kids, ice skate and (probably) do circus tricks. Hiking, one of my all-time loves, is still open to me. And living in the gorgeous Rocky Mountains gives me plenty of opportunities to do it!

We took the kiddos hiking in Estes Park over the 4th of July holiday and it was so gorgeous it felt other-worldly.

You can’t see what my t-shirt says but I it’s a picture of a film camera (like the kind from the 80’s). The caption says “And that’s when I snapped” which I thought was funny enough at the thrift store to buy it as a workout shirt but the real humor ended up being having to explain over and over again to every child in a 1-mile radius what this “camera” was, why it didn’t look like a phone and what “film” is. Maybe 37 really is that old…

And as far as disabilities go, my heart thing is pretty minor. Lots of people deal with chronic injury, illness or other problems that are way more life-impacting and still manage to lead healthy, happy, balanced lives. So I can’t run anymore. Big deal. I’ll be fine. Yeah it stings a little to hear friends talk about their next big race and how they’re hoping to PR or how amazing their Spartan team and know that I can’t join them. But that’s a small thing in the grand scheme of life. Plus, perhaps this will help me make fitness a more balanced part of my life instead of the over-arching theme of it.

So why am I posting this now? First, it’s been almost a year since I updated this blog. You may recall that I gave up daily posting because my first job (raising my cute kiddos) and my second, paying, job (writing for Shape, Reader’s Digest, Women’s Health, Redbook etc.) made this blog too much to keep up. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t missed you all so much! And all the little notes you guys have been sending me have seriously made my day!! I love that you still remember me and care what happens to me. So I did want to give you an update. Other than this health thing, my life is going amazingly well. The kids are growing up to be happy, healthy, interesting and incredibly hilarious little people that make me smile every day. I’m so glad I am here for all the moments. And professionally things are going well too. I’ve got more freelance work than I can handle.

Second, I’m posting this because I’ve been super frustrated with the lack of information about myocardial bridges so I’m hoping that this will get high enough in the Google-verse that medical professionals and other sufferers can share their experiences with this too! The only case study I found online was a 40-ish man who was super into fitness and who DIED of his myocardial bridge. It freaked me out. So I’m posting this to let other people know that at least this girl is still alive and doing great:)

So now I’m asking you guys: I know many of you have a chronic condition that you have to deal with – how do you plan a workout that accommodates that? Mentally, how do you deal? I’d love to hear all your stories too and learn from you! (Or just give me an update on how YOU are doing! I want to hear everything!!) Also, ANY information about myocardial bridges is much appreciated!!!

*The “probably” is because he said he was “95 % sure” that was the problem. Maybe there’s no such thing as 100% sure in medicine?

Getting skinny will solve all our problems, right? We will be unconditionally loved by all, be able to run marathons in under three hours and, of course, be able to wear bikinis and heels to any occasion, including black tie events. As one does. At least that’s what all the diet ads say. But a new study says that not only does losing weight not make people happier, it can actually increase their risk of depression two fold.

Well this is uncomfortable. Confession: Even though I no longer diet or exercise with weight loss as a goal and I eat intuitively and exercise gently and I love and accept my body way more than I ever have in my entire life — even with all that, I still believe with all my heart that if I weighed 15 pounds less I’d be happier. I hate that thought still lives in my brain. I don’t act on it but it’s still definitely there.

But the worst part is that both intuitively and from past experience I know this this isn’t true. Losing weight has never made happier. Did I feel prettier, more confident, successful, relieved, or even more popular? Yes. Happier? Not really. It doesn’t seem like that would compute. I mean, doesn’t feeling prettier, more confident and popular automatically make you feel happier? It didn’t for me and I think it boiled down to two reasons. First, I was never skinny enough. No matter how much weight I lost it wasn’t ever going to be enough. I started out just wanting to be my “happy weight” but then I decided I couldn’t be happy there unless I had a “buffer” and then… a death spiral of insanity ensued. Part of that was all the eating disorder voices in my head but part of that was also the very loud segment of our society that equates thinness with perfection and sees the new 000 size as a goal instead of a number that you will find nowhere in math. Second, I was terrified that if I regained the weight I’d lost (and I always did eventually) then I would no longer be pretty, successful or loved. All things that aren’t true but nevertheless thwarted any happy-skinny frolicking.

And I’m not alone in my experience. Researchers at University College of London followed 2,000 individuals who were overweight or obese but otherwise healthy for four years. All participants had been instructed to lose weight to improve their health and at the end of the four years 14% had lost 5% or more of their body weight while 15% gained more than 5% of their body weight and the remaining 71% remained at their original weight. (The fact that 71% remained at their original weight even though they were trying to actively lose weight is a topic for another day.)

The researchers then measured the participants’ depression, overall well-being, blood pressure and triglycerides to get a picture of both their psychological and physiological health. The results were surprising to say the least. As one would expect, losing weight lowered subjects’ blood pressure and triglycerides. Yet even though most people report thinking that losing weight will increase their happiness, the people who lost weight were twice as likely to be depressed as those who gained weight or remained stable. They also reported lower well-being. This held true even after they accounted for demographics (like race and income), health conditions (like a cancer diagnosis which would make anyone depressed) and psychological variables (like a recent traumatic life event).

So why would someone be sad if they were healthier? I got to interview Sarah Jackson, PhD, the lead author of the study, for an article for Shape and she says that while they can’t determine cause, they can look at correlation and it appears that something about the act of losing weight makes people unhappy. She speculates that the people became depressed because of how notoriously hard it is to maintain a weight loss. We might feel happier when we’re losing weight but the thought of living with that level of deprivation forever is, well, depressing.

But the researchers had several other theories as well:

– Perhaps the subjects were exhausting their self control resisting tasty food and so other areas of their lives were suffering – i.e. their social lives and becoming more isolated can definitely be depressing.

– There’s also the idea of unfulfilled expectations – perhaps the people became depressed after realizing that losing weight hadn’t had the effect on their lives that they’d hoped it would. They weren’t happier because… they weren’t happier.

– And all the biological factors.  Maybe their bodies wanted to replace the lost fat and therefore made them feel hungrier which made controlling their weight increasingly difficult. Or perhaps the drop in carbohydrates dropped their serotonin levels. Also, when you diet you alter your microbiome in your gut and as I was very surprised to learn before, over 80% of our serotonin is produced in the gut, meaning that those gut bugs can have a powerful effect on our mood.

For me, the interesting part was that not only did the subjects not feel happier but they felt more depressed than they had at baseline. So while their physiological health markers improved, depression and stress are known to have a very negative effect on health. And I don’t think this dissonance will be resolved until we can remove the cultural assumption that thin=good, pretty, righteous and fat = bad, ugly, sinful.

Of course there are plenty of people who do say they are much happier after losing weight.  But from my experience, the ones who seem to be the happiest with their weight loss are those who feel like it enabled them to better do things that they love, like playing with their kids or riding their bike along the beach or travelling. The people who diet as a punishment and try to ratchet themselves into too-small pants every week don’t seem to be as happy because we will all eventually “fail” and eat the cupcake and there are always going to be smaller pants.

And then there’s the fact that giving weight loss the power to make us happy means that we’re giving weight gain the power to make us sad. I’ve had to learn the hard way that the things that make me happiest in life have absolutely nothing to do with my weight: My family, my work, helping other people, petting my cat, talking to my sisters, hiking – and as long as I’m healthy enough to do those things well then the actual number on the scale is irrelevant.

Jackson stops short of saying we should stop telling people to lose weight as the subjects did show marked improvements in their health but rather she hopes that doctors will take this information and use it to offer more resources like support groups and counseling along with their healthy diet and exercise advice. Which I think is a great idea – anything that helps people increase their physical and mental health is a good plan and I don’t think they have to be an either/or proposition.

I’m curious about your experience though – Heaven knows I have enough dieting baggage to make me unhappy no matter what my weight does (sigh) so I’m wondering if this rings true for anyone else? Or did it make you very happy? Why do you think losing weight contributed to these people’s depression?

This is Son #3 at the beginning of the summer, pre-bangs debacle. And yes, this is his real mad face. Boy does not mess around! 

Super Cuts is exactly the place you want your child to have a meltdown. Not only is everyone there holding sharp, pointy objects but the walls are lined with bottles of expensive goo and the floor is coated in hair. Best case scenario (and by best I mean worst): your kid will knock said bottles off the shelf, continue his tantrum by rolling around on the floor, stand up looking like a multi-hued Yeti and then bolt out into the parking lot because everyone is laughing hysterically at the kid dumb enough to lick the floor of a budget hair salon.

Which is how I ended up with one leg flung across my 7-year-old’s lap, effectively pinning him to the seat, sweating while I did my best Cirque-du-Soleil back bend trying to explain to the stylist standing behind me (and as far away from my sobbing son as possible) what to do for his back-to-school haircut. I was just trying to avoid the Yeti situation! I’d hate to make a scene.

See, every summer I forego hygiene and let my kids run like wild things – getting marvelously dirty, way too freckled, skipping shoes, subbing swim lessons for showers (hush) and never cutting or combing their hair. (Except for church on Sundays when I slick it down with spit and my hand in the foyer, the way moms have been prepping little boys for church for centuries.) But the ‘fro festival has to end sometime – I always know it’s time when my husband comes home from work and says, “If we’re going to raise hobbits then at least make elevensies happen” –  and so a week before school resumes I drag them all in to get sheared.

This is definitely one of those moments where I say, “This will hurt me way more than it will hurt you”, and mean it.

The drama this time around was because Son #3, my soon-to-be second grader, for some weird reason has decided his forehead must be covered in hair at all times. He wants bangs that touch his eyelashes but everything else shaved down to his scalp. Basically this is his dream:

You guys.  The child wants a reverse mullet.

Of course, as his mother, I wanted something a little less Johnny Depp circa the Edward Scissorhands years and more like I Won’t Be A Hellion in Your Class circa… never. So the stylist and I went back and forth, suggesting different cuts and lengths, hoping to win him over to something less extreme. But he wasn’t having it. The only time the tears stopped flowing was when I finally broke down and showed him a picture of a young Justin Beiber and my son, bless him, yelled, “Justin Beiber?! Do you hate me??”

All three of my other children had quietly had all their hairs trimmed up during this time and were now, along with the rest of the annoyed patrons, staring at my sniveling son. “Okay, fine, have it your way,” I said through gritted teeth and stalked off to the other side of the room to look at pictures of well-kempt little boys and imagine.

Five minutes later he was finished. Buzzed up the back and then bangs that fell to his eyes. She’d made an attempt to “blend” it on the sides but it looked awful. The stylist couldn’t even meet my eyes as she handed him back.My son was grinning. He loved it. Of course he did.

I tried to tell myself that was all that mattered as we trudged through the clothing store to find them all pants that fit since they’ve all shot up like 20 inches this summer. But as I watched him settle on 3 pairs of the same athletic pants – the only pants he will wear – I felt the fight welling up in me. What did he care what his hair looked like? He never sees it anyhow! The last time he voluntarily looked in a mirror was when he ate so much cotton candy he dyed his teeth green.

All I wanted in life was to have three cherub-cheeked boys dressed in identical striped shirts, bow ties and cuffed jeans and instead I have one kid who wears whatever falls on him when he walks to his closet, another who will only wear basketball shorts (preferably dirty) and a reverse mullet and the third who is so preoccupied in his own thoughts that he actually forgot to put on pants one day last year – jumping in the car with sweatshirt, backpack, socks tennis shoes and… tighty whities. (It took me pointing it out to him before he even realized his error. Which is why he still needs a mom.) Heck, even my daughter Jelly Bean won’t let me dress her anymore! All that’s left to my fine-tuned sartorial senses is haircuts!

Plus it was for his own good, I harrumphed as we then stomped through Costco, because I’m a masochist and also because the kids needed new backpacks. What if his teacher sees him and thinks he’s a (second grade) punk? What if the other kids make fun of him? What if Adam Lambert forces him to join his band and I never got to see him again except on TV during the Teen Choice Awards??

That night I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the haircut. It wasn’t work. It wasn’t the back-to-school madness. It wasn’t haircuts, Kohl’s and Costco all in the same day. Or rather, it was all of those things. Death by a thousand worries. No matter how hard I tried to will myself to sleep the more my mind raced. All the experts say not to just stay in your bed and fret so I decided to get up and get some things done, even if it was 2:20 a.m.

Or maybe this is my problem.

And then it hit me. The solution!

Five minutes later found me stalking silently down the hallway to my son’s room, with a comb in one hand and a brand-new pair of school scissors clenched between my teeth (because I’m a pirate?). I slipped into his room, watching the hall light fall across his serene face, his bangs lovingly plastered to his sweaty forehead. I knelt down next to his bed and ever so softly reached across and picked up a piece of hair, gripping the tiny scissors in my other hand.

For those of you who don’t have kids, obviously this was a perfect plan: First, kids sleep like rocks! Second, kids are like fauns! He would wake up tomorrow already having forgotten the trauma of the day previous, his hair would look reasonable, his new teacher wouldn’t think he was a hooligan and Adam Lambert would have to stick with Flock of Seagulls.

For those of you who do have kids, obviously this was the most idiotic plan I’ve come up with to date: First, kids aren’t dumb. Second, see item the first.

As I leaned forward to do the first cut, I was interrupted by a stabbing pain as a Lego pierced my knee cap and I had to quickly shove my fist (not the one with the scissors!) into my mouth to stifle my scream. As I sat down to rub my knee and regroup, an incident with a woman in the grocery store from a few days prior popped into my mind. Because insomnia.

Earlier that week I’d been shopping for food (my main job these days is fueling growth spurts (and flushing toilets)) when I came to the freezer case. As I perused the fish, wondering if Barramundi was on the “good fish” or “crap fish” list (turns out it’s a good fishie!), I noticed a woman in a wheelchair come over. The freezer case was almost waist high on me and so she was unable to see inside it from her seat. Immediately I went over to help her. (Not because I’m such a super duper nice person but because I’m actually not. There is a very small, selfish, petty part of me that I fear will overwhelm me unless I beat it back on the regular.)

“What would you like? I’ll grab it for you!” I chirped. As I reached in with my healthy hands to pick up the food, I noticed her hands and arms which were contorted and twisted in a way I imagined must be very painful.

Instead of answering me, she used her elbows to hoist herself up on the side of the case and then reached inside and picked up a package of bison (girl’s got good taste!) by holding it between the backs of her hands. As she dropped back into her seat she gave me a look that I will never forget.

“Don’t help me unless I ask for it,” she said curtly and wheeled off.

My face burned bright red as I stammered out an apology to her back. All I said was “Oh, I’m so sorry!” But I wanted her to know I hadn’t meant to be rude! I was just trying to do a nice thing! I just wanted to help! I swear! How do you know how much to help someone?

I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the woman since it had happened. My first instinct had been to be defensive but as the sting of her reprimand had worn off I began to see the wisdom in it. Why had I automatically assumed she couldn’t get the meat herself? Just because I couldn’t imagine being self-sufficient in her condition didn’t mean that she was bound by the limits of my small-mindedness. Clearly her independence was hard won and something she was very proud of. I should have waited to see what she did first, waiting to see how she would handle herself instead of looking for how she couldn’t.

As I thought about the incident, and especially that look she gave me, my gaze returned to my son, now drooling on his dragon pillow pet that I’d tucked lovingly under his arm just a few hours earlier. Instead of seeing a recalcitrant little kid trying to defy me, I suddenly saw him as a young boy trying desperately to bridge that gap between small child (oh those long lashes resting on his baby-round cheeks!) and young man (oh those long, strong legs and giant feet!). And he didn’t know how to do it any more than I knew how to let him do it.

I considered his bangs. And then all the tears at the salon. I hadn’t meant to be rude! I was just trying to do a nice thing! I just wanted to help! I swear! How do you know how much to help someone?

It’s the parent’s lament: How do you know when to help your child and when to let them do it themselves? Even if they might get hurt? It’s such a hard balance to strike, waiting to see if they can swim themselves or if they need a life raft. My instinct, I’ll admit, probably tends towards the overbearing. I want so much for them not to hurt, like I did, that I want to take their choices away from them and make do it them my way – the “right” way. I don’t want to wait for them to screw up and learn from their mistakes, I want them to just learn it from me without having to go through the messy middle!

But of course that’s not how growing works. Not for kids. Not for adults. We have to be able to make our own mistakes. (And if we’re talking hair, heaven knows I’ve made more than a few of my own! I can already feel my parents laughing through their computer screens. In hindsight, long bangs seem like nothing compared to the time I dyed my hair bright orange with cheetah spots. It took me years of bizarre parts and up-do’s to grow that mess out.)

As I sat on the carpet, my heart aching more than my knee, I realized that my son is not me. My son craves independence, to be different. He’s the third kid and the third son. He wants to make his own way. Telling him not to do something is a basically a huge neon sign for him blaring DO IT. Me, I was the first kid. I wanted someone to tell me exactly what to do and how to do it so I wouldn’t fail. And honestly I still do.

Still holding the scissors, I stood up and leaned over to kiss his forehead. As my lips met his skin, his eyes flew open and he saw me standing over him, inches from his face and holding scissors. In the middle of the night. I expected a cry of indignation or fear or even anger. But instead he smiled sweetly and said, “Oh I hoped it was you!” Then he turned over and went back to sleep. He trusts me that much? 

Someday he’ll do big things. I’ve known it since the minute I first met him. I just hope I won’t be standing in the way when he does. (Okay, and I hope he can see through his bangs when he does them! But I promise I’ll never try and give him a stealth haircut in the middle of the night again.)

How do you know how much to help someone? You listen.
Updated to add photo of son #3 post cut. I’ll admit it, I first didn’t include an after shot because once I looked at it I realized it’s not that bad at all. Which makes me look even sillier for going all night-stalker on the poor kid. But then that’s kind of point of this whole post, right? The problem had everything to do with what was in my head, not on top of his. Plus, having the back buzzed makes the hair on his crown stick up and who doesn’t love Alfalfa??

Do you remember the first time you were catcalled? I was in fifth grade, walking past the boys bathroom when a group of boys suddenly yelled (sung?) that line from a Michael Jackson song “Hey pretty baby, with the high heels on!” while hip thrusting and making awooooga! noises. One of them grabbed me around the waist and tried to, I assume, make some kind of lewd gesture. In reality it was more like the do-si-do we’d just been practicing in gym class. It was one of the most bizarre moments of my life.

First, I was wearing my white Keds (like every other girl in the late 80’s/early 90’s) not high heels so they weren’t even accurate. Second, I’d never really identified as pretty — already by that age I knew I wasn’t one of the pretty people. (I had big plastic hipster glasses back when they were still just nerdy. Does that make me retroactively cool? Let’s say yes.) Third, it was upsetting. My first reaction was to want to cry (HSP for life, yo!) but just as quickly I felt ashamed of my reaction. On one hand, weren’t they giving me a compliment? Kind of? But I felt a shaken, the way anyone would if someone jumped out of nowhere and yelled Michael Jackson at them. (Rule of life: You should only invoke the King of Pop when confronted by zombies or Pepsi.)

I didn’t know it at the time — because my parents wouldn’t let me watch that new-fangled MTV thingie — but the video they were referencing, “The way you make me feel,” pretty much is an ode to street harassment with Michael teaching Catcalling 101. (With bonus feature cool dance moves.) In hindsight, I think my 10-year-old (!) classmates were probably just imitating what they saw on TV. And probably a dare of some sort was involved.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot since Shape assigned me to write an article on street harassment. I initially thought that it would be mostly academic as I have so rarely experienced it. But as I thought more about it, the more the “incidents” piled up. Walking down Main street as a middle schooler and getting yelled at out of car windows. A teen at a drive-thru window yelling he’d give my friends and I free ice cream if we’d flash our (non) boobs. And then there was my first waitressing job. It was impossible to walk back through the kitchen without some kind of comment being made — about the length of my uniform skirt, my legs, what they wanted to show me, and especially my bra. Our uniform shirts were white and kind of see-through. SO MANY comments about my bra. I was 15. And all throughout was that feeling of not knowing whether to be complimented or completely freaked out. Part of me felt cool to be noticed by the chefs (who were all middle-aged and married, by the way) and part of me felt awful and tried to figure out what I was doing wrong. Never once did I say anything back to any of those men. It didn’t even occur to me I could, frankly.

The funny thing is I haven’t even thought about all that in years, not until I started researching for the article. And while I don’t feel traumatized today by the (admittedly pretty mild) harassment and it really isn’t something I deal with these days, it certainly was uncomfortable in the moment and I would hate for my kids to experience anything similar. Plus, I was surprised at how many times I was catcalled, even though I never was the “type” to get catcalled. So I thought I’d share my article (including the chunks my editor cut out for brevity) because the experts I interviewed were amazing and had so many interesting, helpful things to say.

Watch this first: (I’ve embedded the vid. Click through if it doesn’t show up in your reader or email! I have no idea why it’s showing up so small? Sorry! You can always full-screen it.)

Over the years most women will experience men hooting at them from cars, whistling at them on the street, muttering sexually explicit phrases under their breath as they pass by or copping a feel on the subway; it’s so commonplace that we don’t even keep track any more. “It’s constant, it’s inescapable and it’s hard to get away from,” says one young woman featured in a new documentary that aims to bring awareness to the nearly global problem of street harassment.

Mariah Wilson, the producer of the mini-documentary Street Harassment: Sidewalk Sleazebags and Metro Molesters (Catchy title, no?) , says she and her Vocativ team were inspired to make the short film after hearing Jen Corey, Miss Washington D.C. 2009, speak about a terrifying experience she had where a man followed her, trapped her and masturbated against her — all on a crowded metro car during rush hour. “I started to dart my eyes around, looking for help, silently screaming for anyone to help me,” she says. No one did.

“We locked eyes and he gave me this deep, terrifying stare that chilled me to the bone,” Corey says, “and I just immediately started crying.” The experience led Corey to make awareness of the harassment of women in public places her public platform and personal mission.

Crying is one common reaction to being harassed but women also say they feel angry, embarrassed, humiliated and scared. And as any woman who’s ever been followed down the street can attest, it can definitely be terrifying. You’re not in control of the situation and you have no idea where it’s going. Will he leave if you ignore him? Or will he escalate until you give him a fake number? What if he follows you all the way home? And we’re right to be scared. “Street harassment is on the spectrum of sexual violence and on occasion, it does escalate into sexual violence,” says Holly Kearl, founder of Stop Street Harassment and author of two books on the topic.

Corey’s story is sadly familiar. “There are still misconceptions that only certain women are harassed and that it’s ‘just’ whistling or ‘nice legs’ type comments.” Kearl says. But, contrary to popular belief, any woman can become a target regardless of age, race, clothing, makeup or other physical characteristics.  Getting unsolicited comments about our bodies is just part of being a girl today, unfortunately. (True story: I was once catcalled while wearing my flannel pajamas and buying tampons in the grocery store. It doesn’t get less sexy than that.)

And just like there isn’t only one type of woman who gets harassed, there isn’t just one reason men have for doing what they do. “Street harassment is a symptom of other forms of inequality: sexism, homophobia, transphobia, racism, classism and so forth. And a consistent factor is they feel able to because women are valued and respected less in our society than are men,” Kearl says. 

She adds that men may harass women as a power play (for example, to keep them away from a basketball court that men want to use), for male bonding or as a joke (like a group of men harassing women from their car or the street corner), for sexual gratification (like men who flash or publicly masturbate) or for some kind of perverse challenge like the recent news story of a man who said every day on his commute in NYC he’d try to grope a woman on the subway. In addition they may just be acting out what they’ve seen other men do, they may be pressured into it, or because they think she’s “asking for it”. No matter what men may say, Kearl says it’s very rare that a man is doing it to actually try and get a date with the woman.

Men often object at this point, saying that they mean no harm and even mean it as a compliment. And some women say they like hearing it:

One of the most liked comments on the YouTube video reads, ” . . .alright, rant time. Definition of harassment: aggressive pressure or intimidation. It means that someone is aggressive and insistent on you, either to insult you, intimidate you or get something from you. Whether or not this is aggressive or insistent behavior is debatable. I’d understand it if men were coming towards them to cop a feel or to try to pull them aside or something, but ultimately they’re just saying stuff and going about their way. Men think they’re complimenting you. You don’t have to take it seriously if you don’t want to. and believe it or not, some women ARE flattered by the hooting and howling they get when they pass a construction site. It’s just like when women shout out to men about how nice their muscles are or about how cute they are. Men don’t see this as an attack: they see this as flattery. They have certain qualities and they are acknowledged by them, maybe even appreciated or celebrated for them. and i can’t STAND that “just because i dress this way, does not mean blah blah blah” crap. You chose to wear it. You understand what it implies about you. If you don’t want to send the wrong message, know what sends that message in the first place. That’d be like if I hated Superman but wore Superman shirts all the time.”

So does catcalling fit the definition of harassment? Is it really just grouchy women looking for an excuse to complain?

Kearl has a good answer to this: “I think most people like a genuine, respectful compliment that is not sexually objectifying,” she says. “The problem is when it’s not given as a compliment or with respect or consent and when it’s objectifying. So, saying a stranger has a nice smile or a beautiful shirt on is different from telling someone they have a nice ass or calling them baby, though the tone of voice and actions afterward matter too – giving a neutral compliment and then demanding someone’s name or phone number, touching or following them is a problem.”

But for me, the real issue is not knowing if  “they’re just saying stuff and going about their way” because sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t and it escalates and since I am not a mind reader I don’t know what their intentions are. Which is scary. (Case in point: There was one time I was walking through a crowded dance floor in a club and brushed off a guy who was trying to say something to me. I said “no thanks”, pushed his hands away and just kept walking. He followed me back to my table, grabbed me by the arms and lifted me out of my chair all the while yelling obscenities at me. I was terrified.)

But both women say there are things we can do to fight back against street harassment and the main one is to talk about it. (Which, I suppose, is why I’m posting this here as well.) “If harassed women regularly told all the upsetting things that men say and do to them and how it makes them feel, it would really raise the awareness of their friends, family, and peers and those people in turn would be more likely to look out for harassment and try to stop it,” Kearl says.

Raising awareness of the seriousness and lasting effects of such a common experience, and giving women an outlet to talk about it, is why Wilson made her documentary. “I want women to know it’s okay to speak up, and tell your harasser that what they are doing is not okay, provided that you feel safe doing so. Letting them know that their comments aren’t welcome is a good place to start.” She adds that she’s a big fan of Hollaback, a website where women can report incidents of street harassment that are then mapped, to show harassment hotspots. Hollaback also collects data on these incidents to bring to elected officials whose districts are especially plagued by harassment, to encourage them to enact legislation to combat the harassment.

Kearl says that calmly replying is often enough to surprise the man and make him rethink his actions. “Don’t harass women” (the phrase she uses), asking the harasser to repeat himself, handing him a card like these Cards against Harassment, or asking him if that’s how he wants his mom, sister, or daughter treated on the street are all good options. It’s also important to have another sister’s back. If you see someone else being harassed, asking if they’re okay can go a long ways toward interrupting an incident and helping the person feel supported. It also signals to any other bystanders that this behavior is not okay.

“Street harassment is not trivial, rare, or something that women are “asking for”,” Wilson says. “Everyone has the right to feel comfortable and safe in public spaces.”

Amen.

What do you guys think about catcalling – is it “street harassment” or no big deal? Do you remember your first time? How do you react when it happens to you now?

Wal-Mart isn’t someplace I normally associate with life-changing moments. Although if you’re going to have a public freakout Wallyworld does have a lot to recommend it: Not only can you buy tranquilizers, Natural Calm and fuzzy socks (just me?) but it seems like there are always a bunch of people around to call 911 if you actually make good on your promise to pass out. Yet when I decided to start hyperventilating, I went into the bathroom to hide. Nothing like a public restroom to guide you! Instead of two-roads-diverging-in-a-yellow-wood ambiance, I had two stalls in a peeling yellow bathroom. (If you mis-read that as “peeing” know that’s how I first typed it. I’m not sure I was wrong either way.)

Guiltily I took the bigger stall, the one with the large blue disabled placard on the front, because, by golly, I needed my space — if not for my person, at least for my huge emotions. Plus I was the only person in the bathroom. And I was totally prepared to bolt out with my pants around my ankles should I hear a wheelchair rolling in. Promise.

As I sat down on the toilet, my body threatened to betray me by doing the nervous pee. See, anxiety makes my bladder hyperactive and, ironically, the thing that was making me so anxious needed me to not prematurely pee. I squeezed my knees together and Kegel’ed as I pulled the box out of my purse. (I hadn’t stolen it, I’d just hidden it directly after I purchased it, in case I saw anyone I knew. You would be shocked at who you run into at 7 a.m. in a Wal-Mart.)

I tore open the box and stuffed it in the trash slot, not even bothering to rescue the directions first. Who needs directions when you’ve taken as many of these things as I have? One line negative, two lines positive I muttered under my breath as I stared at the plastic wand vibrating in my shaking hands. This tiny piece of pink plastic had the power to rewrite my future, to obliterate my plans, to show me again that I am not, after all, the captain of my fate.

Don’t be so dramatic. This moment could change my whole life.

Not really, of course. What was done was done and no amount of closing my eyes and chanting in a yellow restroom stall was going to change that. But as long as I didn’t know I had plausible deniability and could pretend that it wasn’t what it was. Or wasn’t. One period, four weeks late equals a fifth child? I knew someday math was going to come back and bite me in the butt! (I had just always assumed it would be the humiliation of not being able to calculate my own change during a power shortage at the store.)

By now I am a seasoned pro at pregnancy — you can tell by how often I work words like “cervix check”, “tummy fur” and “the search for the lost piece of placenta (he was in up to HIS ELBOW)” into casual conversations — and I wondered how I’d missed all the signs up to this point. In fact, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind until my sister pointed out that I probably ought to take a test. I’d been so busy exulting in finally, for the first time in over a decade, being free of diapers, of not waking up to the sound of puke hitting the wall, of getting to sleep in on Saturdays because everyone could pour their own cereal (even if they fight like rabid puppies over it). This freedom was glorious. So glorious that the brightness had blinded me to the .3% failure rate of my IUD.

I couldn’t be pregnant again. Certainly I would know it! As I uncapped the test and prepared to do my best to aim my pee at the tiny target I reviewed my usual tell-tale signs? Peeing a lot, nausea, and larger boobs. I sighed. Of course thinking about them made me want to do all three at the same time. Balancing the test carefully on top of the toilet paper holder, I cupped my breasts in my hands trying to decide if they were bigger. I considered calling my husband at work to ask him if he’d noticed but thought better of it when I remember his office has an “open” floor plan – “open” meaning no walls, of course, not “open” meaning you can discuss your wife’s breast size next to the developer’s lab. There’s always a text but I had a feeling any text involving boobs would be woefully misinterpreted.

Yes, I decided finally, I think they are bigger! My stomach lurched. (Morning sickness?!) But perhaps the chest enhancement was simply because I’d gained weight recently. (Weight gain?!) Does Wal-Mart have maternity clothes? At the rate this pregnancy was progressing I was going to need some before I could make it out of the store. Except of course you’re not supposed to wear maternity clothes any more – the newest trend in pregnancy fashion is to wear “real” clothes the whole nine months. Panel pants are for wusses! (Very comfortable wusses who like to enjoy the odd the Chocolate Extreme Blizzard, thank you very much.)

Rescuing the test from the toilet paper holder, I decided to just bite the bullet and do it already. I clenched the grippy end between my fingers and…

My bladder had performance anxiety.

I took a deep breath and imagined waterfalls, Chuck Norris, lemonade, Vladimir Putin, giant canyon swings and other things guaranteed to make me pee. A few drops came out and sprinkled the test. And that was it. I hadn’t waited long enough since my last pee! I hadn’t drunk enough water! I hadn’t done air jacks and deep back squats, darnnit!! You’re supposed to hold it under the stream for 5 seconds and I got maybe 1. Staring at the slightly damp stick I wondered if I should just stick it in the toilet to pick up any residual pee. Perhaps the cleaning lady would choose that moment to come in and see my teary eyes as I stood over the toilet, stirring the bowl with my useless, expensive plastic stick and call the psych ward for me?

Instead I settled on just re-capping it and shaking it around, banging it on the wall for good measure. Then I set it down and waited to see if any lines showed up. No lines equals failed test. As I waited I began to think about what would happen if two lines did show up. I’m 36 now so I’d officially be a high risk pregnancy just due to my “advanced maternal age”. (Thank you for that, medical establishment.) But of course the baby would be fine, right? I’m very healthy…ish!

And she would be a girl. I have three boys already and Jelly Bean would love a sister. If the universe was going to wreck all my plans by knocking me up this late in life it would have to give me another girl. (Because that’s how babies work. Someone tell king Henry VIII.) I would name her Lark. Isn’t that the cutest, happiest, slightly hipsteriest name for a little girl? Lark. A little baby bird that flew in the window, just like J.M. Barrie’s original Peter Pan. I closed my eyes and pictured a bald, chubby baby… who was buck naked of course because we’d given away every single baby thing the second Jelly Bean grew out of it!

Crap, I don’t even have a crib anymore! (Although Son #3 slept his first three months in a laundry basket which, if you think about it, is really just like a trendy Moses basket but way more durable, with ergonomic handles and perforated so they can’t smother. In hindsight I should have had all my babies sleep in laundry baskets.) Nor did I have a car seat, diapers, clothes, sippy cups or those ridiculous binkies that make your baby look like they have big buck teeth. Just then my eyes lit upon the weekly mailer that someone had left on the floor. Baby items were on the first page. Would Wal-Mart dare put product placement in my pee?!

Had it been a minute yet? I tried to will myself to look at the test but I couldn’t do it.

How would I tell people I’m pregnant? I mean, after the first two people kind of stop congratulating you. After #3 people start to ask you if you know how birth control works. By #4 the only people who will meet your eyes are the ones who look at you with a mixture of pity and horror as if to say your vagina is a clown car. (Which isn’t to say that we didn’t want and love all four of our kids. They were all planned. We were happy about it, even if I did get a lot of “Oh my you certainly are… busy!”)

The real question was how would I tell myself I was pregnant? My husband and I were done done done. When people asked (because oh yes they ask!) if we were having more I’d point to my uterus and loudly say “This shop is closed!” Because classy. The truth is that I deeply did not want to be pregnant again. And it’s not just the whole another-mouth-to-feed (with my poor, gnawed on boobs). But pregnancy is a hormonal roller coaster and my post-partum anxiety has gotten worse every time. I feel like I have no resources left for the rest of my kids, for my husband, for me. It takes me a long time to come out of that hazy fog. Plus, we’ve already lost a daughter to a genetic disorder (and had a traumatic miscarriage) – pregnancy is crapshoot for us every time and I was terrified to roll those dice again.

But what about little Lark? Would she think I didn’t want her? Of course I’d love her (eventually). It would all work out. My future would re-sort itself out like a new hand of cards. It would be fine. I will be fine. I picked up the test.

Two lines. Pregnant.

So I burst into hysterical tears. In the dirty bathroom. In Wal-Mart. No. I will not be fine. There is no worse place to be alone than in a place called a “supercenter” — it is the center of all that is super! I was not super. I bolted out of the stall, leaving my glaring pregnancy test on the top of the pile of paper towels in the waste bin. Whoever came in next would witness the residue of human drama. I didn’t even stop to buy a car seat.

At home, I sobbed to my husband as I choked out the words. Because he is awesome and a rock, he took it a lot better than I did. He comforted me and told me how it will all work out. We talked about our battered minivan, our battered finances. We talked about how a baby would fit into my jobs, my body, my life. The pieces would make a different puzzle but they would still fit together.

And then he asked, “Are you, you know, sure that you read the test correctly?”

Anger ripped through me. This was not my first pee-flinging rodeo! “Of course I did! It’s simple. One line just means the test worked. Two lines means you’re preggo. That’s how every pregnancy test works.”

To prove it I marched to my purse and pulled out the second test (because like jet engines and clean underwear you should always have a spare) and handed it to him.

“Are you sure?” He looked at the box. One line and a plus sign equals pregnancy. He held it up. “Did you have a plus sign or just two lines?”

Chagrin. (I am an idiot. Who doesn’t look at the picture ON THE BOX?)

And then a whoosh of hot emotion went through me like a backdraft in a fire. Or like peeing my pants. (There may have been actual pee involved, ironically.) In that one moment the image of Lark went up and out of my arms and into the sky, settling among the stars. I looked for her in the empty space inside me. Did I miss her? Could I miss a baby that never was? I would have loved her. We all would have.

And then I was crying tears of relief. I’m not pregnant! My life clicked back into sharp focus. Everything had changed yet nothing had changed.

I had no plus sign. Not pregnant.

***

Post-script: Then I rushed to my computer and started Googling What are the symptoms of perimenopause? Because Mother Nature is still four weeks late for our monthly brunch of red meat, chocolate and raspberry leaf tea — that doesn’t happen for no reason. And also because apparently I must have something to worry about.

 All photos courtesy of the Rugged Grace Tumblr

Have you ever played rugby? I haven’t. I had the chance once. The super rad Jen Sinkler (you may know her as the strong-woman who coined the phrase, “How do I get my cardio? I lift weights faster.”) once invited me to play with her team. Actually I think she invited me like five or six times. Yet despite my whole shtick being trying new athletic stuff I balked at rugby. I’ll be honest: they were some of the most super-fit ladies I’ve ever seen and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep up at all. I’m not usually one to mind public humiliation but I was really intimidated. I mean, it’s rugby.

At the time all I knew about rugby was that it had really complicated rules, people got hurt a lot and it most closely resembles American football, the sport I most detest. (Yell at me if you want but for me watching football is worse than watching my cat lick her biz. The players only move for 11 minutes out of 3+ hours of game time – the rest is just watching people yell at each other without being able to hear what they’re saying. How is that fun??)

I was scared. And I let my fear stop me from trying it.

But now I’m seriously regretting that decision. (The decision to play rugby, not the decision to never watch football again. I will stand by that one to my grave.) I should have trusted Jen. After all, she’s the one I made the MMA video for Lifetime Fitness with and taught me how insanely fun tackling someone is.

Because today I came across the the Rugged Grace project. The Harvard women’s rugby team dressed in identical gray sports bras and shorts, were given markers and told to write on their teammates’ bodies what they love and admire about them. It’s hard enough defining what it means to be a girl (or a woman or a lady) in our society, in our culture and in our bodies on our own. But what would happen if we let those who love us the most tell us what they see in us?

The team started the photo-essay as a way to fight the “frightening normalcy of hating your body” after a survey showed that a whopping 86% of female students said they had an eating disorder by age 20. (Question: Is this a Harvard thing? I mean I know how prevalent eating disorders are, especially in college students but nearly 9 out of 10?? I can’t decide if Harvard co-eds are just more honest or perhaps more perfectionist than my state-school girlfriends.)

Being strong women who played an “unfeminine” game, the women’s rugby team felt like they were in the perfect position to challenge that mentality and help redefine what it means to be female. “There is almost nothing in our society besides rugby that allows women to be truly physically aggressive, to use our bodies in the same unselfconscious, unafraid, assertive way that men use theirs all the time,” writes author and rugby player Amy Perfors.

Not only is this attitude different than what you find in many female sports but the players say that because all body types are necessary to play the game that rugby provides a more body-positive environment than other female sports. Unlike stereotypes like “a dancer’s body”, “a swimmer’s body” or “a runner’s body” there’s no such thing as a “rugby body” as apparently every body is a rugby body. If you doubt that, the pictures are definitely worth more than a thousand #thinspo words.

In fact many of the words they wrote on each other aren’t ones typically associated with the stereotype of a woman. But when you see the pride, camaraderie and love among the girls on the team suddenly the words look perfectly feminine.

One woman has “battle tested” written across her stomach, turning a long scar into a medal of honor.

“Squat master”, “Quad Lyfe” “Hey quads” and “So ripped” adorn a picture of muscular thighs that defy the fragile Hollywood standard we are all told we must aspire to.

The word “Huge” appears several times, challenging the assumption that women need to be as small as possible.

“Power sized” scrawled across a stomach replace all the iterations of tiny (anyone remember when “fun sized” was in?) that women have been taught to prefer.

Then there are the words like “Inspired/inspiring” (on chiseled calves) “powerful” (across the knuckles of two fists) and the simple “Proud” (across a chest).

Brooke Kantor, Helen Clark and Lydia Frederico write in an article on the team’s project in the Harvard Political Review that the team is fighting the message that women are supposed to be in a constant state of self-improvement through beauty products, diets, and exercise. “Exercise in particular has now taken its place as a piece of the “sexualization” of women phenomenon. Women are bombarded with the idea that the purpose of exercise is to attain a fit body, rather than to improve athletically,” they write.

I couldn’t agree more. These days “health” for women is all about looking a certain way rather than feeling a certain way. We pay lip service to the myriad mental and physical benefits of fitness but in the end it’s “bikini body boot camps” that sell.

According to Amy Perfors, shedding this version of health and beauty is one of the best parts of rugby. “There is a wonderful transformation during the season as recruits come to realize that being strong and muscular makes someone more beautiful, not less; that routinely tackling other women into the ground on the weekends not only doesn’t compromise femininity, it increases self-confidence and assertiveness; and that women really can do something that almost everything and everyone says we can’t do.”

I found this especially meaningful as I just go a comment on an old post, one where I talked about doing Krav Maga as way to get past the PTSD from being sexually assaulted, that said basically, “Women doing MMA? And you bitches wonder why men don’t want to hold open doors or pull out chairs for you. Chivalry is dead because girls like you killed it.” (Note: I deleted the comment as it violated my no-cursing policy. And also my no douchebags policy.) But I’ll admit that I thought about that comment for a long time. Was it impossible to be both aggressive and feminine? Was learning to protect myself (and I guess lessening the need for men to play their traditional role of protector) effectively castrating men? No. Just because we can be tough doesn’t mean we have to be tough in every situation. And I find the fact that this attitude even exists to be terrifying.

And then there’s something particularly touching about watching the girls write the statements on their team members. We’re so often encouraged to see other women as rivals and competition or bitches and ho’s. Heck, I think the entire premise of reality television shows, all the way from Toddlers and Tiaras to the Real Housewives of Wherever, are written on the premise of women tearing down other women. So it feels rare and special to see women taking such care with each other. This isn’t some hypersexualized picture of women in underwear having a pillow fight or doing a fashion show or even showing off unrealistically ripped pictures of “strong is the new skinny” – it’s just women being awesome.

You know, like we do.

I wish I had tried rugby and I’m sad now that I didn’t jump on that opportunity. Yet I think the larger message of Rugged Grace is even more powerful: Even if we don’t play rugby, sometimes we just need to see ourselves through someone else’s eyes to recognize how beautiful, unique and especially strong we truly are.

Any of you ever play rugby? Anyone else ever not tried something because they were afraid?? And I can think of lots of words I’d love to scrawl across the lovely, talented, smart, strong ladies in my life — do you think my friends would let me attack them with a marker?? (I know Jelly Bean would – child is ALL about drawing on herself with markers!)

This happened. JellyBean (4): “Look what I found mom! Now we can be twins! But… where do I buy the thingies that go in them??” (Oh honey, I too need to find the thingies that go in them!)

“Mom, can you tell me the story again of how I was born?” Everyone has a vital need to know their creation story. (No, not your literal creation story. That would be TMI. Unless you’re one of those kids named after the place they were conceived, like my friend Sage. Don’t picture it. Sage brush is ouchy.) I don’t know why I’d never realized the importance of the story before I had kids but they ask on such a regular basis that now I know: Everyone wants to know they were wanted, were loved, were hoped for and dreamed of, before they were born. Even if they weren’t born under such happy circumstance, they still want to know about that electric moment you first locked eyes, held fingers and then how they burped up amniotic fluid all over the both of you. I may be romanticizing it a little — nothing says love like burping — but the truth is that these re-tellings are deeply meaningful to my children.

So the other night, when Son #3 brought me a scrapbook (don’t get too impressed, I just upload a billion pictures to Winkflash, autofill and print) and asked me for the millionth time to tell him about the day he was born, I smiled at him, pulled him on my lap and started from the beginning. (“We didn’t even have a name for you yet because I was 100% sure you were a girl…”) Eventually the other kids wandered in to look at pictures, reminisce (about things they can’t possibly remember, which is hilarious) and ended with me playing lullabies on the piano until they fell asleep. After which I went to bed, happy and guilt-free. It was a beautiful bubble. A Moment.

You guys gave that to me.

Ok, I gave that to me but you guys gave me permission to do it. I didn’t need permission to change one of the biggest things in my life (yes, I just declared this blog to be one of the biggest things in my life – at least it was) but I’ll admit I wanted it. I’ve always wanted other people to tell me what to do, to replace my uncertainty with their solid sureness of the right course. I’ve asked my husband, sister, friends and family members what they thought I should do so many times that I think some of them stopped taking my calls. I’m not much of a risk taker so I wanted someone to write me a permission note to quit. But eventually, last week, I sat down and realized that I didn’t have to make the decision anymore. It had made itself. I just couldn’t do it anymore. Any words but “I’m tired, I love you and I need a break.” wouldn’t come.

And you guys told me it was okay. More than okay.

I’ve spent the last week reading a few of your comments/messages at a time and they all make me cry. I haven’t responded to any of them yet because the response was, frankly, overwhelming. Beautifully overwhelming but still, a lot. But each one of you who reached out to me made me feel so grateful, blessed and happy. Happy tears.

Thank you. Thank you for your kind words. Thank you for sharing your lives with me. Thank you.

It made me want to do something for you. Perhaps this isn’t something you need but just in case you’re a little bit like me – an overthinker, an analyzer, a planner, a list maker, a ringmaster – I want to give this back to you: Permission to quit. Sometimes all you need is someone to tell you it’s okay to listen to that little voice inside. So I’m telling you that now – you can quit stuff. It doesn’t make you a bad person. In fact, it may even make you a better person.

(If you just asked, “Quit what??” then you probably can stop reading but for everyone who had something pop immediately into their head, something beloved but heavy, this is for you.)

A few weeks ago I was listening to the Freakonomics Podcast when they did a show called “The Upside of Quitting.” Steven Dubner, an economist, said, “ in our zeal to “tough things out,” to keep our nose to the grindstone, in our zeal to win, we underestimate the upside of quitting.” It immediately caught my ear. 

He explained that first you have to understand two economic principles to understand quitting. One is called “sunk cost” and the other is “opportunity cost.” “Sunk cost” is about the past — it’s the time, or money, or sweat equity that you’ve put into something, which makes it hard to abandon. “Opportunity cost” is about the future. It means that for every hour or dollar you spend on one thing, you’re giving up the opportunity to spend that hour or dollar on something else — something that might make your life better. If only you weren’t so worried about the sunk cost. If only you could quit.

Me? I am the queen of sunk costs. I don’t like to quit things. I’ve always equated quitting with failure. But I began to see I was thinking about it well, in a very sunk-cost way. If you don’t quit things that aren’t working, you won’t have room in your life for the things coming that will work.

Steven Levitt, the other host and also an economist, then explained why his motto is “fail fast”:

If I were to say one of the single most important explanations for how I managed to succeed against all odds in the field of economics, it was by being a quitter. That ever since the beginning, my mantra has been “fail quickly.” If I started with a hundred ideas, I’m lucky if two or three of those ideas will ever turn into academic papers. One of my great skills as an economist has been to recognize the need to fail quickly and the willingness to jettison a project as soon as I realize it’s likely to fail.

He adds, unironically, “I’ve failed at everything I’m bad at.”

But the most powerful part of the podcast to me was when they interviewed Eric Greitens, a Navy Seal who talked about the infamous “hell week.” The ones who make it through are Seals but he says there are two types of people who quit: Those who are honest about it and those who make excuses. (I loooove excuses! I have so many!)

Greitens said,

“I don’t think many people want to say to themselves that they’ve quit. At the same time, we’ve all failed in our lives, we’ve all failed at different things in different ways and I think there’s a lot to be said about facing that failure squarely. And the people who I know, who were able to admit, you know, “This isn’t the right for me at this time and I went over and I decided to quit, I decided to ring the bell,” they’re really able to move on from their experience. And I do find that there’s only shame in it if you feel shame.”

There’s no shame in quitting? Really??

Really.

That was a revelation to me.

Of course I’m not telling you (or myself) to run out and quit everything. There is definitely a time when persistence and perseverance are key. And in many cases there are lots of gradations between I QUIT and a lifetime of manic drudgery. But there are also times when it’s important to let go. What we need changes over our lives; what worked before may not always work now. And I think we know it, deep down, when the time for change comes but sometimes we really fight that voice. (At least I do.) So if you’re on the edge about something and it’s weighing your heart down – you have my permission to quit! (Or at least take a step back to regroup, rethink.) You don’t need my permission — you don’t need me or anyone else making the choice for you — but sometimes it is nice to have someone tell you it’s okay.

It is okay. We all quit. You can quit.

I can tell you that I’ve felt ten pounds lighter since my declaration last week (pause for recognition of that irony), severing myself from having to post every day or stick to fitness and be the best! blogger! ever! (pause for more irony). Giving myself the freedom to just write when I want what I want (like now) has been so freeing. I sleep better. I’m happier. I’ve enjoyed the extra time with my kids SO much. I may not win any more blogging awards. I may lose readers (the cardinal sin in writing). But you know what? It was worth it. And I am so so grateful to you guys for helping me see that.

At the end of the show, one of the guests says, “We like suffering for things we love; we like it so much, that if we suffer for something, we will actually decide we must love it” — which makes it that much more important to choose wisely what you’re suffering for. Anything worth loving is worth sacrificing for but not everything you sacrifice for is worth loving. 

I would love LOVE love to hear about a time when you had to quit something and how it worked out for you!

I need to take a break from this blog for a bit. I need to reevaluate what I want from it and for it because for about the past year I feel like it – no I – have gotten really stagnant. Which isn’t fair to any of us! You guys deserve fresh, interesting, funny stuff and I deserve… well, I don’t honestly know at this point. This is the convergence of several things that have been brewing for a while:

1. I’m basically back to exactly where I started from. When I started this blog, I had just started my journey to health. I’d been doing a bodybuilder-type diet and running with some weight lifting for about a year prior. (At that point I was definitely one of those people terrified of the free weights who stuck to machines but hated them because they weren’t any fun yet knew I was “supposed to” lift weights so I did.) While my diet and exercise were both pretty bland, they worked and helped me drop the last 10 pounds of baby weight I was carrying.

But of course I wanted more! More weight loss, more strength, more speed, more… crazy? So I started this blog with the intent to try out every fitness and diet trend on the planet to find which ones worked the best. And I did that for about five years. What I learned is that pretty much every exercise program “works” and every diet doesn’t – meaning that you can increase your health and fitness with just about any exercise program you like and that for long-term weight loss and health most “diets” aren’t helpful.

During that whole discovery process, I went to allllll kinds of extremes (as many of you well remember). I dropped a ton of weight, ended up with an overexercising compulsion and made myself sick both mentally and physically. Then, with the help of medical professionals and you all, I have been in recovery for several years now. I think given my predilections for extremes I always be recovering but I am light years better than I was. I pretty much eat what I want now, listening to my hunger, and while I still work out about six days a weeks it’s now much gentler and shorter and I don’t freak out if I miss a day or two.

The net result is that naturally I gained back all the weight I’d lost doing this blog so I am pretty much the same size, weight, shape and fitness level as I was when I started on my mission to get my best body ever.

Yet rather than feeling like a failure for not achieving that goal, I feel like I’ve grown past it, in a totally different direction than I originally started out but so much growth nonetheless. I’ve learned A TON, starting with the fact that whatever body I have is the best because it’s awesome and helps me accomplish what I need to in life. I’ve also learned that there is no such thing as a perfect body and that spending all my time thinking, writing and manipulating my food/exercise to get it is a waste of time at best and deeply disordered at worst. And there’s all the fun workouts and interesting research I’ve learned to love! I’ve tried so many new things I might not have had the opportunity to do otherwise.

But the irony is that all those workouts and research led me back to nearly the same place I started from. While I knew deep down there wasn’t a magic elixir or exercise program I think I still hoped there was and if I could just read all the research and try everything I’d find the hacks I was looking for. I still want to be healthy and I will still keep doing the things that make me feel good but extreme “healthy living” is basically the new religion in our society and I just can’t be its evangelist anymore. Sometimes I feel like a fraud because I don’t want to think about diets and exercise and weight loss and everything that goes with it, all the time. (Which isn’t meant to be insulting to anyone who does want to think about those things  – it’s just not the place I’m in right now.)

I don’t regret any of it but I also don’t want to keep spinning my wheels. There’s a huge, wonderful world to explore:)

2. My family.  When I started this blog (in 2007… whoa!) my kids were teeny tiny and Jelly Bean wasn’t even born yet. I was a stay-at-home mom whose life revolved around nap schedules and potty training (important, for sure, but stultifying) and at that time in my life having a time for exercise blocked out every day was exactly what I needed. The Gym Buddies, who also all had tiny kiddos, were my lifeline and the gym was my social group, my therapy, my sanity saver, my entertainment and I will always be grateful for that. Those ladies and everyone else at the Burnsville, Minnesota YMCA saved me.

But now my kids are much older (12, 10, 8, 4) and have all the things that go with being an older kid. They don’t need me to wipe their butts anymore (THANK HEAVENS) but they need way more of my time, emotion and energy than before. Instead of them tagging along and being a part of whatever I was doing in my life, the roles are reversing and now it’s me tagging along as their lives expand and grow. Which is exactly how it should be and I want to be there whenever they want me to be because honestly I only have a few years left before they won’t always want me around.

Before, the hours seemed long and I needed a diversion from the monotony of little kids (sorry, yes, I said it) but now the hours fly by and it’s killing me to try and find time to fit in blogging. I don’t want to be sitting alone, clacking away on my keyboard, while they play without me. It’s too hard on me emotionally. I’m done saying “Just one more minute!” …for 60 minutes. Or staying up until 2 a.m. And I know that so many of you totally get this.

3. I’ve turned into a huge wuss. I don’t know if it’s just me being ultra sensitive or if things really are changing but it seems like all the cultural commentary has gotten so much more negative. We all stew in a culture of criticism and it permeates everything. I get so much more hate mail and comments than I used to and it just doesn’t roll off my back like it used to anymore. I used to just be able to shake it off (Oooh an angry person on the internet? Shocking!) but now it takes a lot out of me. It does hurt. And while I have so many amazingly kind and patient readers/commenters, the negative ones are the ones that seem to really stick with me. It’s not fair, it’s not right and I hate that my mind works that way. (It wasn’t always so) But it is what it is.

After that Isagenix debacle a few days ago, I was literally shaking and crying all day. People are needlessly cruel. They’re cruel not even to further their argument or make a point but just for the sake of being cruel. I hate feeling like there are so many people just watching and waiting for me to screw up so they can pounce. And it’s not just me, it’s everywhere. It seems like there’s a small group of people out there doing new things, trying stuff, having adventures, giving opinions… and also doing all the mistakes inherent with trying new things. And then there’s a much larger group who make their living waiting for the first group to screw up so they can have something to talk about. Nothing gets page clicks like righteous indignation. And while some things are genuinely worth getting mad over, it’s not nearly as many as we do. And I’m not putting myself above any of it – I’ve been on both sides and I’m tired of both.

All of which means that I often write from a place of fear these days. I worry over every word – Is this offensive? Is this funny? Is this thoroughly fact-checked? Is this grammatically correct? I anticipate which things people will object to and come up with a defense. Or I just write pablum that I know everyone will agree with. While obviously some of that is good and makes me a better writer (I welcome constructive criticism, always have) too much is just paralyzing.

This part probably sounds like a total cop-out and maybe it is (Waaah people are mean to me!) but I realized the other day that I’m choosing all of this. But I don’t have to keep choosing it. If I’m going to start complaining then it’s time to take a break.

All of this is so, so scary for me. This blog has been a lifeline to me so many times. I’ve gotten to be friends with SO many of you guys and you have brought so much beauty, wisdom and comfort into my life. And I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you. I also don’t want to lose what I’ve worked so hard to build here.

Yet I know myself well enough to know that I need to write like I need to eat (actually a closer approximation would be to pee – you know how I love my bodily fluids!) so I’m keeping this blog up. But it’s going to change. I’m not sure exactly how – that’s what I’m taking a break to think about – and I anticipate I’ll lose a lot of you in the transition. But I have to be able to write what I love and that’s not always going to be health/fitness related. (Although let’s be honest, it’s been skewing farther and farther away from that for a year now.) I hope you’ll stay. I’ll understand if you don’t.

Maybe this is a huge mistake. But I need to stop being afraid of making mistakes. I can’t be open to new opportunities unless I’m willing to take a leap.

TL;DR: I’m tired. I love you. I need a break. 

Someone on my other post asked about my lip color in this picture – I’m actually just wearing Dr. Pepper LipSmacker haha! Because I’m a middle schooler. And it’s yummy.

P.S. Yes, I still have my day job writing for Shape, SheKnows, Greatist, The Fix and other great sites. I write 3-8 articles a week for Shape and 6-10 articles a week for SheKnows plus other freelance work so there’s still plenty of me out there (not to mention 7.5 years of archives on this blog) but I will say that most people who read my articles on other sites are slightly disappointed. Since I’m writing for them, I cover their topics using their voice. In other words, you won’t find any beet-fueled bloody entrails over there;)

P.P.S. Mom, TL;DR means “too long; didn’t read”

Image Credit: Anne Cha (facebook, instagram)

Have you ever been told you hit like a girl? Or run like one? Or cry like one? If so, I hope you answered yes. Because you are a girl and girls do all of those things. Oh, and we do them well. What – you thought “hit like a girl” was an insult? For a long time, so did I.

Recently ad companies – especially those specializing in cotton catchers for our crimson cooters – have been pumping out the girl positivity. Taking a page from all the #realbeauty Dove adver-mocumentaries (that was a terrible portmanteau, I’m sorry!), companies are realizing that instead of telling us we should be ashamed of the “weird” things that make us women – stretch marks, menstruation, boobs, periods, hair, below-ground bleeding, cellulite, did I mention all our bloodletting? – if they tell us to be proud of those things and embrace them we’ll feel happier about ourselves! (And talk about them more by blogging about them and using their hashtags and sharing all the inspirational videos on Facebook and, natch, buying more of their products.)

First we had the Period Party, sponsored by Hello Flo (a monthly subscription service for… your monthly):

Not going to lie, this was hysterical. First because I was totally that girl who was the absolute last among her friends to join the “cherry slushie club” (I was 16). Second because my family was totally the type to do a first moon party (alas no Vagician or bobbing for ovaries though). And last because… periods don’t have glitter. (If you haven’t seen this vid yet, it’s a must. Click through to see it if it doesn’t show up in your reader or e-mail!)

I laughed. (So hard.)

Next we had the Sorry Not Sorry video, brought to you by Pantene:

The phenomenon of women apologizing for everything is well documented and the video (again, click through if it doesn’t show up for you) gives some perfect examples. I so totally do this! Although I think some of it is just social lubrication and isn’t meant to be demeaning, I do think lots of us have just gotten in the habit of starting everything with, “Sorry, can I say something?” When instead we could just come out with it: “I have something to say.” You can say it with a smile. You can still be polite and professional. And you can still be powerful. We don’t have to apologize for owning our own power.

I got mad. (Just a little.)

Then there was this Like a Girl video, courtesy of Always maxi pads:

I got sad.

“You punch like a girl,” my boxing coach laughed as I futilely tried again to get a good, clean jab at him. “Come on, you can do better!” And you know what? I felt encouraged. I punched harder, worked harder, attacked faster. Inherently I knew that “punching like a girl” was bad and I felt like my girly-ness was something I had to overcome to be competent at Krav Maga. In hindsight, I think I was punching like a newbie as I’d never done real boxing before. It was inexperience, not gender, that made me incompetent.

But this idea of “you …. like a girl” is so ingrained in me that until tonight I’d never even thought to question it. Of course men are better at punching, kicking, throwing, hitting, running, or whatever-ing because they’re bigger and stronger, right? And while there is truth to that – I will never say there aren’t significant differences between genders – it doesn’t mean that the girl way is inherently worse. Different doesn’t mean bad.

What I wish I’d said that night: “Thank you, I do hit like a girl. Because I am one.” You hit like a girl should be a compliment, or a statement of fact.

As I thought about this, I was reminded of Azusmom’s comment on my post yesterday about taking gentle care of yourself. She wrote,

” Because that’s what we, as females, are “supposed” to do. If we take care of ourselves, we’re “selfish.” Which is the worst thing a girl or woman can be. I took that lesson to heart. Don’t be selfish, and don’t be confident. Don’t be more accomplished than someone else. Hide that light under a bushel, lest you make another person feel bad. Oh, and don’t be angry. No one likes a bitch. Don’t cry, because everyone hates needy, manipulative girls.”

We’re given such a narrow role of what a “cool girl” needs to be and while we may question certain items on the list, we rarely question why just being a girl isn’t “cool” in it’s own right. We always feel like we’re not enough – always trying to improve, be better, be perfect. Always trying to overcome our girly weaknesses.

I’m not trying to make the guys look bad here or diminish them at all as we’re all a product of the culture that we are living in. We’re taught it from the very beginning, from both men and other women. And we ladies often inadvertently reinforce these lessons with each other as we grow older. No, what made me sad about this video is that I had so totally bought into this “like a girl” message. I innately agreed that doing those things “like a girl” meant that I was doing them poorly and I needed to not be like a girl to do it right.

Just in the past week, I’ve heard other women say or said the following things myself:

– “I’m totally girl-braining this” (said because she thought she was over-analyzing a text from a boy)

– “Stop being such a girl” (said because she said she didn’t want to do a mud run)

– “I’m a girl, I can’t help it” (said when I purchased another foofy dress)

– “I don’t want to be that girl” (said while she was crying through some hurt feelings)

– “I’m a basic b*tch” (said to explain her spray tan, acrylic nails and hair extensions)

– “Stop acting like a girl” (said to a boy, intended as the ultimate insult)

All of these were said as if the person was doing something wrong. But is it wrong to try and figure out a relationship from a cryptic text or opt out of an athletic competition or cry or want to be beautiful or love pretty things? Even if these are stereotypical girl behaviors (and of course there are many girls who don’t fit these stereotypes), it isn’t bad to do things like a girl. (It’s also not bad for a boy, if he wants, to imitate “girly” characteristics he likes and sees value in.)

Remember when a guy in my bootcamp class told me, “You sure are strong… for a girl“? I was indignant and with the help of you all came up with some really great comebacks to that comment. Yet ideally it should just be a statement of fact like “I had eggs for breakfast” or “My left foot is a half size bigger than my right”. What I wish I had replied to him: “ I am strong. I am a girl. And neither has much to do with my muscles.”

Even the word “girl” can be problematic. A while ago I wrote a post about how terribly NFL cheerleaders are treated and one comment on it that has stuck with me ever since was someone who basically said, “Great article. But you should have referred to them as ‘women’ instead of ‘girls’.” And I think she made a good point. Supreme court justices are always women. Cheerleaders are always girls. Yet being a supreme court justice doesn’t necessarily make you a better human being than does being a cheerleader. Plus, NFL cheerleaders are adult women, even if they represent the extreme end of stereotypical girly behavior. I should have used “women” in my article about the cheerleaders. But I also hope that someday “girl” won’t be seen as an insult either.

Being a girl doesn’t make us better than boys. But we’ve got to stop treating “… like a girl” as an insult. To which I have to say get it girl. Oh, and to my boxing coach? It turns out that I only started to get better at Krav Maga once I accepted and embraced the part of my girl-self I was most ashamed of.

Have you ever been told you do something “like a girl”? Have you ever slammed yourself for “being that girl”? How do we turn “like a girl” from a pejorative to a positive??