don't knock it till you try it: pregnancy

One of the most mean-spirited essays I ever wrote was about pregnant women. Titled "Pregnant Women are Disgusting" or something along those lines, it was inspired by a former coworker who waddled around the office, grimacing while clutching her lower back, dropping her pens and then waiting for the rest of us to dive under the conference table to retrieve them.

I was repulsed. I couldn't believe she would come into work like that! There was no dignity in it. Plus, the pregnancy made her even more irritable and unpleasant than she usually was. The whole thing was very inconvenient for me, both practically and aesthetically.

I've never really considered myself one of those "pregnant types." Until lo and behold, one day I was.

I staggered around for a few days, trying to come to terms with it. Surely, the encroaching mediocrity of my life (suburban job, sensible shoes, etc.) would be hastened by the appearance of a child. I imagined myself meeting with a friend post-baby for my once-a-month social outing where I would speak in the third person, saying things like, "Mommy never knew how much she would appreciate a shower back in her childless days!!!"

Isn't everyone rendered tedious when they have a kid? I suppose I know quite a few exceptions to that rule, but I fixated on the worst offenders--the suburban coworkers with their "AVASMOM" license plates, for example. Filled with dread, I obsessed silently to myself, confiding in no one.

Eventually I calmed myself down and went out to purchase a couple books on the topic of having a baby. Although I would have preferred to go to Magers and Quinn, I didn't want to risk it. Instead I went to a bookstore near my corporate workplace in the suburbs. I found the two books recommended to me by a friend who hasn't been ruined by motherhood, and clutched them to my chest (so as to obscure the titles, the way one might conceal some pornography or a self-help manual) as I hurried to the cash register.

As the woman at the counter rang up my purchase, I felt strongly compelled to mention that the books weren't for me--that I was picking them up for my sister, or something. But I forced myself to keep my mouth shut.

Luckily, I didn't start to "show" for a really long time, so I saved myself the trial of having to admit to it too early. I'm still hyper-aware of the judgement leveled at pregnant ladies (being a former offender myself) and I didn't want to invite any unwanted attention if I could help it.

Now that it's pretty obvious what's going on, I've resigned myself to having to acknowledge the pregnancy in public some of the time. But the fact that people--especially strangers--even want to discuss it blows my mind. Despite some evidence to the contrary I am pretty much a prude at heart, sex-negative at my core from years of Catholic training. Being pregnant is clearly a sign that I'm "in trouble", visual evidence that I'm damaged goods. Embarrassed silence would make sense to me--not a battery of questions about how I'm feeling, the status of my "nesting" stage (nonexistent) and whether or not I'm "excited" about being knocked up.

don't knock it till you try it: childhood dieting

Back in the fourth grade I was tormented every day by "Curt Mudger" for being fat and ugly. The abuse was primarily school bus-based--every morning I would get on the bus and there he was, taunting me for the rest of the ride. He'd start in again on the way home, and I'd finish my day with a barrage of insults shouted from his open bus window as I lumbered towards my house, mortified and hating myself.

For the record, I think it's safe to say that I was in an ugly phase that year. And I was by no means skinny.

But a petty, hateful defensiveness rises up as I write this. "I may have been pudgy and less than lovely, but I was by no means the fattest in my class!" I protest loudly in my head to an audience of no one.

I was not so righteous at the time, taking Curt's insults as the gospel truth. "I am hideous," I said to myself as he encouraged his friends to get in on the action. "He's right--no one will ever love me. And yes, I'm definitely going to grow up to be a hooker."

No one rose to my defense, least of all myself. I became depressive and extra-withdrawn and got scolded during class for "daydreaming" (i.e. fantasizing about suicide). I certainly didn't have the nerve or the self-regard to stand up for myself, and no way was I going to swallow my pride and complain to my teachers or parents. I figured that it was just something to be endured.

And I put up with it until the end of the school year, when I was finally released from the daily verbal assault. I approached the summer with grim determination.

That summer both of my parents were working and I was left to my own devices for at least half the day, with strict orders not to leave the house. Since I couldn't go outside to over-exercise, I'd stay in and do cable TV aerobics for at least a couple hours a day. My "meals" generally consisted of plain microwave popcorn and nonfat yogurt--a weight-loss plan I'd probably devised from reading Seventeen magazine. I was also playing soccer that summer, so I'd get my second helping of exercise every day on the soccer field.

It was fear-based, unhealthy and joyless, but it worked! And I suppose it also helped that I grew a few inches that summer. I managed to transform myself from a pudgy little kid into a freakishly tall, overdeveloped woman-child. I certainly didn't look like a "normal" fifth grader when I went back to school in the fall, but I was thin and therefore prettier and that was all that mattered.

And it was true. When I climbed back onto the bus that fall, I braced myself for the inevitable insults. I might have gotten skinny, but I was still the same self-loathing troll deep down inside--and Curt was a manipulative little asshole, he would surely tune into that.

But he didn't. There he was, sitting in his usual seat in the middle of the bus, and he didn't say a thing. I refused to look at him but I could sense his disbelief. I'd "won"--silencing him with socially acceptable attractiveness. I felt like I should be proud of my big accomplishment, but I didn't. I felt pissed off. I hated myself for getting skinny for his benefit, and I hated him because he fell for it. "So, this is how it is," I thought.

don't knock it till you try it: regret

Because of a series of fear-based, wine-numbed decisions I've made over the years (if by "decisions" you mean "lumbering inertia"), you can find me enjoying my lunch most days in the break room of my corporate workplace. Had things turned out differently for me, I probably wouldn't even think to have lunch most of the time. I'd be too distracted foreignly corresponding or whatever.

But as it is, here I am. I generally grab a small stack of magazines from the window sill, the recipient's address carefully snipped off the cover. I'll usually start out with something "smart"--The Economist or The Atlantic, maybe--but on a bad day, stuff like that just makes me think of college, and how what I'm doing now is so completely the opposite of what I ever imagined myself doing with my life back then, and all the wasted opportunities and the shattered dreams...

So I usually end up reading something far stupider, like Ladies Home Journal or More ("for women of style and substance"). Feeling superior, I'll read with nasty delight page after page of woman-to-woman advice on the best way to store your plastic tupperware when cabinet space is at a premium or how to be a "husband whisperer" (e.g. how to make your dude do more housework through subtle coercion).

This is soothing until I make the mistake of reading the celebrity interview, in which the actress "opens up" about her struggles. Without fail, she's asked about her regrets in life. And invariably, she says the following: "I have no regrets in my life. Every experience I've had, good or bad, has made me who I am today."

Fuck that, I say.

Okay, so I've tried to talk myself into believing a version of that sentiment before--usually while I'm resisting the temptation to jerk my car into oncoming traffic. But I don't really mean it. "I have no regrets." It sounds hollow. It sounds like a lie.

Relentless positivity seems to be all the rage these days, like it's a competition to display who has "grown" the most from his or her setbacks. "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger," said a coworker who was forced out of her job for dubious reasons most likely due to blatent sexism. "It is what it is," said a friend whose wife left him for another man. Really?? It is what it is, sure...and it sucks, right??

I guess what I'm saying is, I have regrets. Lots of them. A whole lifetime of them!

Here are just a few:

• I regret that I didn't tell Ms. Strickland, the theater teacher at my junior high, to suck it when she told me I was "sinful" for rolling my eyes when she threw one of her ridiculous diva fits.
• I regret that I spent my high school years dutifully saving the money I earned from my part-time jobs for college, instead of blowing it all on ecstasy and hair dye.
• I regret that I didn't throw myself at _____ ____ in high school.
• And that I didn't force myself on _____ ______, _____ _______ and _______ ____ in college.
• Seriously, why didn't I at least try? God, I'm so STUPID...
• I regret that I quit my fun, horribly paid job at the tiny newspaper for a better (but still mediocrely) paying corporate job in one of the world's worst and most distant suburbs.
• Yeah, in retrospect, that was totally the wrong decision. The people at the newspaper were really smart and cool. What was I thinking?
• And again, why didn't I throw myself at _____ and _______?

Seriously, this is only the beginning when it comes to my particular ocean of regret. And clearly, I've got a theme going on--it's all the stuff I didn't have the nerve to do that haunts me the most. It's a grim thing indeed to look back on your life so far and realize what a major coward you've been.

Maybe I'm being a little hard on myself. I have positive memories too, things that I'm "proud" of (although maybe "pride" isn't the right word for some of the illegal and/or morally dubious things I'm thinking about). I mean, I've taken a risk here and there. I haven't been a total and complete wuss. I've actually done quite a few "bad" things that I don't feel bad about at all.

I guess the point is that if you really want to cut down on your list of regrets, you should speak up, slut around, do what seems exciting and not what seems "right" and always risk appearing stupid. Here's to selfishness and irresponsibility! And to a fuller and more meaningful life.

don't knock it till you try it: confidence

"I feel that Shannon is very confident but sometimes chooses not to show her confidence." --anonymous "360 degree feedback" from a coworker

I was recently sent off to take part in a "leadership development" program, paid for by my corporate employer. Part of the program involved soliciting "360 degree feedback" from a selection of my coworkers and then obsessing over the negative comments (while ignoring the positive ones) in a small-group setting.

"What should Shannon do differently?" asked one of the anonymous, open-response questions.

• "Shannon should consider working more on speaking up in meetings."
  
  


• "Speak up more and offer her opinion. She has really good things to say but sometimes keeps her thoughts to herself."
  
  


• "Shannon tends to be very quiet in meetings. I would encourage her to dramatically increase the amount she speaks up."

These comments came from three different people, but they basically summarize the feedback from all seven of my coworkers who were surveyed about my weaknesses. There was a consensus. I am way too quiet--so quiet it's troubling, a professional liability.

I was completely irritated by the comments--so clearly did they seem to be a critique of my essential personality. "Become an extrovert RIGHT NOW!" seemed to be the directive. And indeed, outspoken people are clearly respected and rewarded in my workplace. (Whether or not what they say has any value is secondary at best.)

But I don't like to "play the game." In fact, I have a juvenile drive to openly defy people and principles I don't agree with, and am mystified by people who don't react the same way. For example, one time a coworker complimented my new short haircut. "I wish I could cut my hair like that," she lamented.

"Why can't you?" I asked. "You'd look great with short hair!"

She sighed. "My husband would kill me," she said. "He just loves my long hair!"

"Oh, yeah?" I asked, feeling excited in a confrontational sort of way. "In that case, you should shave your entire head. Do it tonight!"

I guess what I'm saying is, I realize that blowhards are rewarded at my company, and I think that's stupid. But if I could just get over it and learn to spout off more inane comments in meetings, people would probably leave me alone. I'd earn some respect, and maybe people would stop questioning how much I "want it" (answer: not much).

"The only limits she will experience in her career are limits she puts on herself," wrote one coworker. Indeed, in true American fashion I am the only thing getting in the way of fantastic success (or my "infinite potential", as they put it). Never mind the rampant institutionalized sexism at my company, as illustrated by a quick scan of the board of directors and the "senior leadership team."

(Hmm. I'm thinking sexism--and the way I should totally not talk about it if I want to be cool--should probably be the focus of another post.)

So in summary, the comments about my problematic introversion seriously bothered me. But after giving it some time to sink in, I realized that they might have a point--that I might be doth protesting too much or whatever. It's true that I don't blather on and on in meetings, and I really believe that it's because I don't say stuff unless I have something meaningful to contribute. But is that maybe only part of the whole story?

I read through the comments again and noticed another theme that I wasn't as eagar to acknowledge, one having to do with things like "confidence" and "courage."

I have a complicated relationship with the idea of confidence. That is, I think somewhere along the line I replaced my idea of "confidence" with what is actually "arrogance." When I hear the word "confident" I picture a strutting, bragging, self-satisfied asshole. Or maybe a hip-swaying, judgemental, "won't-take-no-for-an-answer" bitch.

"Gross, I don't want to be like that!" I often think to myself when I debate whether or not I should display my confidence by, oh I don't know, standing up for myself in the face of a bitchy comment from some judgemental, hip-swaying female. "I'm just not stooping to her level," I tell myself I as I in fact stoop, prostrate myself and offer up my spine to her tasteless but effective spike heels.

It's kind of a harsh thing to realize that what you thought of as a harmlessly modest and self-effacing style is probably just a nicer way of describing what is essentially the quality of being spineless, self-hating and weak.

I mean, it's almost enough to get me to start sharing my real opinions and speaking to the injustices I see and stuff! Then again, I hate people who think their opinions are more important than anyone else's, and really, who I am to say what's right or wrong? Plus, I haven't thought things through and my judgement might be clouded by unattractive, irrational, stereotypically female emotion. Yeah, fuck it, never mind.