don't knock it till you try it: work-study jobs at college

I attended Macalester, a fancy liberal arts college, but I really had no business being there. For one thing, I'm not that smart. In addition, my family isn't well off at all. But most importantly, I'm just not that "interesting."

Those of you who attended Macalester or similar schools probably know what I mean. Along with a bunch of rich kids, Macalester is populated by all kinds of students with backgrounds that are incredibly novel. "From Berlin by way of Sioux City," as one friend summarized.

It's amazing they let in any townies at all. But they do, and I was one of them. Hailing from south Minneapolis, my most impressive claim to fame in my college application was probably my starring role in a poetry reading at the Sears Rotunda at the Mall of America. Other than that, it was corn-fed midwestern mediocrity all around. And I can assure that I received plenty of feedback about this from my freshman year "friends" from the east coast!

Another thing that happened during my freshman year was my assignment to report to work at Kagin, the Macalester cafeteria. Of course I qualified for work-study -- that close-to-minimum-wage job that helps the financial aid students pay for their whiskey and gin.

Like a good rules-following Minnesotan, I promptly reported to work, already accustomed to the food service grind from my teenage years spent in the bagel shop/coffee shop/chow mein joint. I actually didn't mind the job--it didn't take much effort to scoop baked tofu onto a plate for my classmates. There was possibly something a little demeaning about it, but I took a sick pleasure in the role. For example, although I recognized the insult, I basically reveled in it when some girl referred to me as "that hipster who works at Kagin."

The thing I did not revel in was my (completely anecdotal) observation that all the "interesting" financial aid kids got the easy and desirable work-study jobs in the academic departments, while all the locals/midwesterners/southerners got the shit jobs in the cafeteria and the "physical plant" (e.g. picking up your classmates' cigarette butts). I'm sure there were some exceptions to the this rule, but I don't think there were many!

I kept this suspicion to myself for years, so redolent was it of "sour grapes" or perhaps, "not recognizing my own privilege." But finally I brought it up to Nick, my lawfully wedded husband who also went to Macalester and didn't even qualified for a work-study job, so interesting was his background.

He agreed with me. His interesting-to-him but not "interesting-on-paper" friends from Nebraska and Waseca got assigned to the cafeteria, while his technically-cash-strapped but in reality prep-school-educated freshman girlfriend got the "sit around and drink coffee in the English department" work-study job.

The anecdotal evidence was in and I was livid! It was true--there was a method to the work-study madness. The locals and red state students got the crappy jobs (e.g. it was unlikely they'd ever make anything of themselves and donate large sums to the annual fund) while the fancy-poor got the "flirting in the staff lounge" assignments.

I know this probably sounds frivolous but I am convinced that it's a real thing! And if I could get someone in the admissions office at Macalester to back me up (anonymously, I suppose) I think I could write something quasi-factual about this.

don't knock it till you try it: adult conversation

So the thing about having a baby is that I was really looking forward to the maternity leave. Starting at the age of 15, I've basically always had a job. From Cathay Chow Mein to Big Agriculture, I've been working virtually nonstop for 18 years. The one time I was fortunate enough to get laid off (unemployment benefits!!) I was offered a job I didn't even seek out within about two weeks. WTF, right??

For years I've dreamed about getting a break from it all--and finally my reprieve arrived in the form of a small human I must help usher through the world for the rest of my life. And although I had serious doubts about my maternal instincts and my appropriateness as a potential parent, there is one thing I had no doubts about at all--those three months of government-approved, mostly unpaid time off.

I was under no illusion that it would be a vacation. Most of the nauseating cliches have proven to be true--parenting really is a full-time job, the sleep deprivation will render you clinically bipolar, etc. etc. But one thing that is not true is this: I do not miss the "adult conversation."

That's one of the things I hear working mothers talk about all the time. "I loved staying home for a couple months, but it was good to get back to work--I missed the adult conversation."

I really don't understand what they're talking about. Where do these women work?? Are there any open positions there for a hack writer?? In my experience, the "adult conversation" I experience at work can be boiled down to a lot of passive-aggressive nonsense rendered in meaningless corporate quasi-sentences ("Shannon, why don't you reach out to the VP of EHS for his take--I'm feeling rather agnostic about the talking points you've drawn up.")

Don't they have any friends with whom they can chat? I know it's tedious to hear all about someone's baby, but it's also tedious to sit through a breakdown of just how insulting it was when that one executive insisted on two spaces at the end of a sentence instead of one despite the fact that it's just plain wrong and makes him look completely old fashioned!!!

There were many times during the first three months at home with the baby when I would look at her--red-faced, screaming for five hours straight, ruing the day she was born--and think, "Would I rather be at work right now?" The answer was always no.

don't knock it till you try it: a c-section

So everyone knows about the c-section "epidemic" in the U.S. However, two out of three births still need to be completed the old-fashioned way, and when I was pregnant not so very long ago I assumed that I'd be having a "natural childbirth." I mean, I went to Macalester College!! And I'm a Pilates instructor, too--an ideal marriage of power-to-the-mother politics and physical training, right?

I was actually looking forward to the challenge of an unmedicated labor. I imagined it would be the ultimate practical application of my Pilates training--all that breathing and concentration finally put to a task other than successfully executing "Big Splits" on the reformer (which, it should be noted, is quite a challenge in its own right).

I was also kind of smug about my "plan." On one level of my brain I would tell myself that "Every woman should be respected for her choices in childbirth," but I have to admit that when a girl at a party told me she "Couldn't wait for the epidural!" I had a petty little feeling of superiority. I would not be cheating at childbirth! I think I successfully hid this uncharitable reaction from her, but still, there it was in all its assholishness.

So in the grand tradition of divine retribution (which I totally believe in selectively when stuff happens to me that I'm unhappy about, despite my rejection of my Catholic upbringing), naturally I was destined for that childbirth procedure which I dreaded--the preference of celebrities like Britney Spears and Posh Spice.

About a month before my due date I went in to see my midwife (of course) for a routine appointment. She praised me for my healthy, active, relatively uncomplicated pregnancy thus far. We patted myself on the back for what a model patient I was. She asked me about my doula and the waterbirth consent form. And then she noticed that the baby was breech--which, even in my natural childbirth-friendly clinic, is a recipe for a c-section.

Suddenly she canned it with the chitchat about my "birth plan." With the emotional distance of someone who's about to break up with you, she avoided my eyes and told me that I needed to meet with the resident OBGYN as soon as possible. "You're about to have this baby, and you'll have to have a c-section. I hope we can buy you a week." I expressed my dismay at this sudden change in plans. "I'm sure you don't want to compromise the health and safety of your baby for the sake of having a particular 'experience,'" she said. You could actually hear the air quotes!

This was the last I'd see of her and her holistic prenatal care. Like Pontius Pilate, she'd washed her hands of me! (And although that's dramatic and self-indulgent, it's somewhat relevant in relation to the way one is strapped down for a caesarean).

And also, I was going to have the baby in a week?? I refused to believe it, mainly because I was moronically unprepared. Assuming I had at least a month to get ready, I hadn't acquired anything baby-related, aside from some helpful hand-offs from a few good friends. Mainly I'd been making jokes about "packing for the hospital" (of course I'm not the kind of loser who'd pack a bag in advance, WHATEVER!)

So I met with the OBGYN, who I actually liked and who reportedly was "natural childbirth-friendly", but he was like, "Yeah, we should pencil you in for a c-section in a week or so. But I think you're going to have this baby sooner than that."

"Yeah right," I thought. "I'm gonna flip this baby around and show these assholes!"

I was pretty sure I could do it. I started with my acupuncturist who made a valiant effort with moxibustion. I went to the YWCA and did handstands in the pool. I practiced inversions involving an ironing board propped on the side of the bed. In other words, I abandoned my dignity with these futile efforts to encourage my unborn child to disengage her ass from my pelvis (she was a "frank breech"--e.g. "ass down").

On the morning of October 4, I went in for an appointment with the OBGYN. I'd reluctantly gone to the hospital the night before (I guess I was in labor), but since I wasn't "progressing" very quickly they sent me home. I was relieved, as the OBGYN on call (who would have been the one to slice me open) appeared to be in her early 20s and bore a striking resemblance to my freshman year dorm RA ("I'm KT, but my friends call me 'Crackie', because I act like I'm on crack!")

"I'm surprised they didn't section you last night," he said. ("Section" you???) After a discussion of my concerns about the inevitable operation, he sent me home to pointlessly burn my cute little moxibustion incense sticks next to my toes.

Later that afternoon I had a business meeting at a cafe. I became increasingly feverish and sick-feeling as the meeting progressed, sweating profusely and visibly in my light grey dress. I was mortified by this unladylike display in front of my potential client, but in a vague, through-the-fog sort of way. I staggered home and collapsed into bed, where I writhed around until Nick, the father of the child, came home.

He was supposed to go to band practice that night, and I was like, "You should totally go." But he was all, "Uh, you're totally in labor, I'm taking you to the hospital!" And I was like, "Well, okay."

We got the hospital and I was hustled into a room. I was dismayed to see the admitting nurse--a sour-looking, humorless woman who instilled in me an immediate sense of dread. She got down to the business of hooking me up to an IV. Meanwhile, I was having all kinds of contractions. Next on the agenda was the installation of the catheter.

I should explain that I am irrationally afraid of catheters. A few years ago, when recovering from surgery to my shredded Achilles tendon, a particularly nasty nurse threatened me with a catheter if I was unable to urinate unassisted within the hour. I put my mind-over-matter skills into action and completed the task--anything to avoid having a tube shoved in my bladder!

But evidently the catheter was non-negotiable. "Can't you wait until I get that needle in my spine?" I asked, sarcastic but also genuine. She wasn't having any of it, and painfully forced the tube on in. This made it virtually impossible to writhe around during the increasingly intense contractions. However, this negative experience made me almost excited to get the spinal block--one of the aspects of the operation I'd been most dreading. I was like, "Stick that giant needle in my spinal cord RIGHT NOW!"

It was time to be wheeled into the operating room. Nick put on his hospital-issued Devo suit but was kept out of the room while they took me in to get numbed. I sat on the edge of the bed while the anesthesiologist asked me to flex my spine in order to create more space between the vertebrae so he could better insert the needle. The OB stood directly in front of me. At the time I assumed he was being "supportive," but in retrospect he was probably just there to catch me if I pitched forward.

Like a dead deer, I was then hoisted awkwardly from the gurney thing to the operating table. At some point, they allowed Nick to come in. Someone strapped my arms down and out to the side, crucifixion style. The whole thing was becoming increasingly Lynchian. I waited for the light overhead to start flickering.

They installed a curtain over my abdomen to shield me from the carnage. "Don't you dare watch this!" I ordered Nick, uncharacteristically assertive. I was, you know, hoping to preserve "the mystery."

Although it wasn't painful, I could most definitely feel the doctor pulling that baby out. And despite my instructions, Nick did in fact peek over the curtain at one point, later informing me that the doctor had been "up to his elbows" in my abdomen.

So eventually the baby was removed, and they took her over to the corner of the room to do whatever it is you do with babies when they're born in the hospital. Although women sometimes report feeling bad about this separation from their baby, I was on too much pain medication to really be having any "feelings" at that point. I remember someone bringing the baby over to me while I will still strapped down on the table (Nick? The doctor? Some nurse?) and presenting her to me from a distance of several feet. "Oh my god, it's a boy!" I thought, taking note of my baby girl's swollen genitalia. Then I started shaking uncontrollably as the anesthesia wore off.

The days of recovery in the hospital are a blur. Although in theory I have a problem with taking massive amounts of painkillers and then passing them along to the baby in my breast milk, Courtney Love-style, I quickly revised this position when confronted with the reality of major abdominal surgery. Simply rolling from my back to my side in bed was a major undertaking, requiring fortitude and at least two Percocets.

On day two they removed the hated catheter and I was encouraged to stand up and lurch around the room. It was excruciating--as if my organs were about to spill out of my body. One of my nurses (who'd had three c-sections of her own) suggested that I grasp a pillow over my abdomen to provide the sensation of extra support.

For several weeks, the surgery made it painful and difficult to do a variety of things: stand up, sit down, roll over in bed, bend over to pick up the baby and walk. I'm sure a "normal" childbirth results in all kinds of physical challenges as well, but there's just a special something about having a baby sliced out of you. However, as some well-meaning friends informed me, I am trying to take pleasure in the fact that my baby got to emerge with a "perfect," not-cone-shaped head. Indeed, that will have to be the first thing in the baby book.

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.