don't knock it till you try it: mediocrity

I got a copy of my college alumni magazine the other day, featuring a story about wine making alums who are "lighting up" the California grape business. I felt exhausted just looking at the cover photo of a woman (class of '99) kicking back with a glass of wine while perched on a barrel.

Of course, this is standard fare for the alumni mag--if it's not a bunch of ex-students making wine it's a story about that guy who started Surly Brewing, or a graduate with an organic farm, or some couple who started out as soulless stock brokers but then launched a web company and quickly sold it for tons of money and now they still look very chiseled and Scandinavian.

In other words, I'm tired of hearing about all this stylish and progressive-appropriate success. It's not that I disapprove--I'm actually glad this stuff is going on. Someone should put a green roof on City Hall--yes, that's definitely a good thing. Hats off to the immigration lawyer who works primarily with seasonal farm laborers. I'm totally on board with educational investment programs in low-income countries.

But as a failure-oriented sort of person who is more interested in weird interpersonal situations and gossip, these empowering, occupation-driven stories of "alums on the make" leave me cold. Where is the story about the guy who always meant to leave St. Paul, but ended up dating that local girl for a few years and even though that didn't work out, the job at Medtronic kept paying the bills, and when it comes to Korean food on Snelling Ave. isn't Sole better than Mirror of Korea?

Those are the kinds of stories I want to read about in the alumni magazine. Seriously, what's so bad about mediocrity? Isn't success actually kind of boring?

I suppose this desire for stories of inertia and ordinariness is strongly influenced by my own experience. Because let's admit it--I'm really pretty mediocre, at least when it comes to the work I do. It took several years for me to "warm up" to that realization. I spent plenty of time thinking that I really "should" do something more meaningful with my life than proofreading the fine print in credit card offers or ghostwriting emails for the CEO of a Big Agriculture corporation.

Other people have also emphasized the importance of doing something else--anything else. Well, maybe not anything, but something better.

I recently told an acquaintance about some of the freelance writing work I've been doing. I was actually feeling pretty okay about my work for once, when I realized he was stifling a look of pity. "You're a pretty good writer, Shannon," he said. "Shouldn't you be doing journalism? Wouldn't it be more fun to write articles?"

I had the sudden realization that I was a loser in his eyes. This has happened before, too.

Several years ago I was at play with a friend and she ran into someone she knew in the lobby. "Shannon, you've got to meet Mary--she's a writer, too!"

It turned out that Mary was a 30-year veteran of the Twin Cities journalism scene, currently holding a high post at Minnesota Public Radio. My friend enthusiastically announced that I was a writer.

"Oh, really?" said Mary. "Where do you work?"

I could tell right away this wasn't going to end well. I informed her that I was editing a trade magazine about window treatments.

"Oh, of course--trade magazines," she said, as if I'd initiated a conversation about hemorrhoids--embarrassing, disgusting and definitively indicative of one's low status. "I've never worked in that field."

The message is always the same--why are you wasting your time with that? I suppose it could be taken as a compliment, that these people think I have more to offer the world than a well-worded and persuasive brochure about heat pump upgrades.

don't knock it till you try it: body dysmorphia

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don't knock it till you try it: expecting brilliance from your child

Billboards have really been getting me worked up lately. For example, a pro-life advertisement in my neighborhood recently caught my eye. The billboard in question featured a grainy snapshot of a toddler on a sled. The "don't get an abortion" message? "Your child could grow up to be an Olympic bobsledder!!!"

This pretty neatly sums up what I hate about that striving, desperate brand of parent who observes some normal, everyday kid thing and immediately equates it with future impressive achievements. Your daughter grabbed a wooden spoon and waved it around? Obviously she's a budding gourmet who will one day run her own farm-to-table restaurant! Your son clocked another kid at the playground? The next Muhammad Ali, no doubt!

I suppose some of these pronouncements are meant to be humorous, but I still think they betray an underlying anxiety about the pronouncer's child. Just under the surface of "mommy's little neurosurgeon" is the possibility that the kid will be disappointingly normal--a clerk at Home Depot, perhaps.

Recently some people came over to my house for lunch. My daughter (just over one year old) was in attendance, and one of my guests entertained her for awhile by encouraging her to drop some coins into a cup. She became quite adept at placing the coins in the cup. I was so proud! "My baby's gonna grow up to work on an assembly line!" I exclaimed.

Although I thought this was a hilarious joke, I later learned that one of my guests did not agree. Evidently he thought that I really was afraid that Lydia would grow up to work on an assembly line due to the putting-things-in-cups skills she was developing that day. Perhaps we weren't encouraging her cognitive development as aggressively as we should have been? Maybe some baby sign language could have been incorporated?

I'm trying to imagine being part of the intended audience for that pro-life billboard--pregnant, not so sure I wanted to be pregnant, weighing the options. But then, the sudden realization: "If I keep this baby, he or she very well might grow up to have some kind of impressive profession or skill that could reflect positively on me!"

Because isn't that the whole reason to have kids? If people knew the truth--that their cute baby would one day turn into a teenager who would take hallucinogens and climb under the Lake Street bridge, then get depressed and graduate from an expensive liberal arts college in preparation for a job as a receptionist a community newspaper--I imagine more ladies would be checking the correct placement of their diaphragms.

don't knock it till you try it: wedding rings

I recently saw this statement on a billboard, right next to an image of a big tacky wedding ring:

"It was easier picking out the guy."

Of course. Finding a dude to marry is fucking easy, the real decision-making comes when it's time to PICK OUT THAT ROCK!

I find the whole thing with wedding rings to be completely bewildering. An expensive, custom-designed ring seems like something that you might purchase if you were extremely wealthy--not something that your average working sap should be expected to buy.

Did you know that those things cost thousands and thousands of dollars? Well, they do. I know, because I went out shopping for them a few years ago. I was getting married, and I thought, "Well, there's usually an exchange of rings, right?" So I started to look around.

Someone referred me to a custom jeweler. I thought that sounded kind of cool. Not your average mass-marketed blood diamond, right?

But when I visited his shop, I quickly realized that everything there was going to cost thousands and thousands of dollars. "I guess I have very simple tastes," I said. "Can you show me some plain metal bands?"

He showed me some plain metal bands, the cheapest of which cost five hundred dollars.

Someone else told me to go to this "arty" jewelry store in the Minneapolis skyways. I don't remember exactly how she described it, but she made it sound like it was for people who were "too cool" for normal wedding rings. "That sounds like me!" I thought.

This time I went with Nick. But once again, it became immediately apparent that everything there was on sale for thousands and thousands of dollars. The clerk could tell that we weren't satisfied with the offerings on hand.

"We do custom designs, too," she said.

"Could we custom design something for less than three hundred dollars?" I asked.

"For your wedding?" she asked, her tone redolent of divorce.

After that, I lost all interest in the wedding ring task. "Who cares?" I thought. It seemed pointless to cough up loads of money for something that I was inevitably going to leave next to the sink at the Turf Club.

But even more than that, I was embarrassed by the idea of an expensive wedding ring. Even if we could afford it, would I really want that message projected to the outside world? "Look at me, a unique and special creature who has traded her maidenhead for this shiny symbol of possession!" No, I wouldn't want that, not at all.

So the day before the wedding, Nick and I were like, "Fuck--the rings." We went to an antique store where I tried on everything they could find in the cabinets, but virtually everything was too big. Finally, I came across a ring featuring a stone that can only be described as a "black teardrop." Of course, it fit perfectly! It was $24, but when we told the clerk it was for our wedding--which was the following day--she was so impressed that she gave it to us for half price.        

don't knock it till you try it: being boring

Back when I was about 13 years old, I was dating some guy I just wasn't that into. (And by dating I mean, I think we held hands once.) Our "relationship" mainly consisted of labored phone conversations and the occasional outing to the Boulevard movie theater.

I remember one particularly grueling phone call. After making some stilted small talk ("How are you?" "Fine...") the conversation promptly trailed off into nothing. I finally broke the silence, asking him what he'd done that day.

"Well, you know, I returned some movies to Blockbuster."

I was appalled. Although my speaking skills were clearly pathetic, I knew better than to give voice to the reality of my daily life. Much better to be vague and (hopefully) project an aura of mystery, right? Blockbuster? Really? I pictured him riding his bike to the movie rental chain, opening the little drop box door, placing the VHS cassettes in the chute, and riding back towards his house. There was something almost poignant about it--driving home the absolute mundanity of daily life.

There was also something totally hilarious about it. For years afterwards, those words became the punch line for a running family joke:

Mom: "So, how was your day, Shannon?"

Me: "Oh, you know, great! I returned some movies to Blockbuster!"

And we'd laugh and laugh.

But these days, this classic joke is hitting a little close to home:

Husband: "So, what did you do today?"

Me: "Oh you know....stuff. What about you??"

I practice this deflection technique so that I can use it when I meet new people. It might seem like the typical "woman deferring to the man" kind of scenario, but it's really just self-preservation. No one needs to know the tedious details.

But sometimes, for fun, I provide a comprehensive blow-by-blow, like this:

"Well, I got up and fed Lydia her breakfast. It took FOREVER. Why does it take so long to feed babies?? Oh my god! She totally smeared the food all over her head. I checked my phone while she ate, but all I got were emails from groupon. Then I changed her clothes. Those baby jeans I got at the Salvation Army are a pain in the ass to get her into! Wow! Eventually she took a nap, and I wrote some captions for a corporate magazine article."

But you have to be careful when you act all ironic about reporting on your mundane life. There's a thin line between ironically over-reporting the boring details and earnestly reporting the boring details because, in fact, those are the only details you have to report.

It almost makes me re-think all the laughs I've had at "Ned's" expense. Seriously, I should be so lucky to be able to return some movies to Blockbuster.

don't knock it till you try it: going back to work

When my official maternity leave was drawing to a close, I received an email from my manager. "Well, looks like you'll be back in the office before you know it, right?" Obviously, he thought I was returning to work. I suppose I'd given him no reason to suspect otherwise--most people who worked at the company would just come back after three months (or sooner), and that was that.

But I had other plans. Actually, referring to my mindset at the time as "plans" is probably being too generous with myself. Basically, I had a negative physical reaction every time I thought about returning to work. I would meditate on the reality of going back to the office, and the bile would rise.

"I really don't want to go back to work," I told Nick, the father of the baby. I felt like I was telling him that I was, at heart, a man.

"Yeah, right," he said, unmoved. "I mean, of course you're not going back, right?"

Of course I wasn't, but I pretended to wring my hands and fret about money. I suppose I actually did fret about money--obsessing about my imminent financial ruin one of my favorite pastimes. But the threat of a huge credit card balance that would take decades to pay off was not enough to make me do the normal, practical thing. When it came to going back to work, I simply didn't want to, and I wasn't going to.  

I emailed my resignation. They didn't want to accept it, which I guess was kind of flattering. At their suggestion, we arranged a work-from-home-for-ten-hours-a-week thing for a few weeks while I "thought about it." But it was like a trial separation when you've already bought a one-way ticket to the home town of your secret true love. At the end of the trial, I decided to leave for good.

I spent several months doing freelance stuff, almost solely for my former employer. I was grateful for the arrangement, which allowed me to work from home, primarily while the baby was sleeping.

But all things move toward their end, and one day I received a proposition--to return to the office, part-time, to cover someone else's maternity leave. I would only have to come to the office twice a week! And only for four hours at a time! It was a pretty flexible arrangement.

I totally didn't want to do it, but I accepted the offer.

I went in to meet with "Lena", the woman whose job I was going to be covering. She was quite pregnant, and obviously more than ready to get out of the office. "I'm sure you'll do fine," she told me a really familiar way--a way that says, "I don't actually care, and I won't be around to know otherwise."

Her job seemed pretty straightforward, so I didn't worry too much. She'd documented everything I was supposed to do in super-detailed Word documents. But then suddenly she was gone, and I had to start meeting with people.

See, the thing about my old job is that I was writer, and nothing more. I'd get my assignment and crank out the work. I appreciated that my manager didn't expect me to manage projects--she considered that her job.

Lena's title was "communications consultant," which I stupidly assumed meant that she was basically just a writer, like I once was. But no, it quickly became clear that one of her primary duties was to "manage expectations." I'm an introvert and a committed avoider-of-conflict, which I quickly discovered were strikes against me when I was called into action.

For example, I was cornered by the manager of something-or-other in HR who wanted me to draft up a communication plan about this-or-that related to employee engagement in the commercial department. I was still trying to mentally process the stuff he'd said ("communication plan," "employee engagement," "commercial department") when he started pressing me for a completion date. "End of business this week?" he asked me. My feeling of irritation must have translated into my face, because he then suggested that it was okay for me to "push back." ("Pushing back" being yet another thing that people are always doing at this company instead of "disagreeing.")

And I just can't get used to actually listening in meetings. I now realize that I had it made in my former role--I'd attend meetings and zone out, planning my outfits for the rest of the week or whatever, and my manager would later fill me in on the important points. Not so anymore. I recently sat through a mind-numbing PowerPoint presentation during which I stared at the wall, debating whether or not I should try jogging again, never imagining that anyone thought I was actually paying attention.

I prepared to leave the conference room, but "Jared," HR manager of compensation, indicated that I should stay. "Wait," he said, as he got the attention of his direct reports. "Let's get a download from Shannon."

A "download"? Clearly I was meant to have an opinion. I stalled, asking to see a copy of the "deck" (why are PowerPoint presentations always referred to as "decks"?). I paged through it, imagining myself to have a critical eye for something. Coming up with nothing, I pitched my alto voice even lower (hoping my masculine tones would channel authority), and spoke a few sentence fragments that I imagined sounded both corporate and managerial.

Everyone nodded seriously, and no one called me on my bullshit. "So that's what 'managing' is all about!" I thought, as I hurried out of the room.

And really, that seems to be it. I keep getting caught off guard, usually by someone who is very adept at corporate-speak. But then I just turn on my serious voice and focus on shifting responsibility, and I'm pretty sure I'll be okay until Lena puts her two-month-old into daycare.

don't knock it till you try it: being a teenage girl

Time marches on, and things change. You get a deadly boring job in the suburbs, you start doing Pilates, you sometimes try not to drink so much. You get married, you have a baby, you take her to baby storytime. Certain things are gone for good--like the freedom to book a spontaneous flight to Europe or to drink whiskey all night long with (almost) no consequences. And in my case, one thing that is definitely over is my time as a teenage girl. In particular, my teenage girl-appeal to creepy older men.

I'm assuming most women know what I'm talking about. Am I right?

I should establish one thing before I move on. I was not a "hot" teenage girl. During the time when my appeal to creepy older men was at its zenith, I had really crappy hair. I wasn't exactly fat, but I wasn't svelte in the least. I was super awkward, and couldn't find an age-appropriate boy to "take me to the mall" to save my life.

But bring a divorced, late-thirtysomething dad into my bagel shop and watch the one-way sparks fly!

When I was 16, I used to spend a lot of time hanging out at Know Name Records, where I would buy records as well as cigarettes. You were supposed to be 18 to buy cigarettes, but there was no problem with that when Mike was on duty. I totally looked like a 16-year-old in the nineties--cargo pants, shapeless L7 t-shirt, braces--but Mike could see past this horror show to the teenage knockout within.

One day he peered over the counter. "Nice bumpers," he said.

I tried to act nonchalant--after all, this was my nicotine dealer--but I probably accidentally looked a tiny bit alarmed.

"They're new," he said, and I realized he was talking about my shoes.

The next time I went in, he chatted me up more than usual.

"So, what are you doing this weekend?" he asked me. I was noncommittal, since what I was doing was probably along the lines of smoking pot out of an apple in someone's basement.

"I'm going to the Run Westy Run show at the Entry," he said. "Wanna come?"

I asked him if it was a 21+ show, and he confirmed that it was. He must have thought I had a fake ID--but of course, he'd never asked to see it.

"Uhhhh..." I said. "I don't think I can. I'm not 21."

Mike acted shocked. "Really?" he said, as if he was actually surprised.

One night when I was working at Bruegger's Bagels, a middle-aged dude came in with his two kids. I got them their food and sent them on their way, and went back to my food service tasks. But every time I looked up, the dude was staring intently at me. I pretended not to notice.

Time passed, and he approached the counter. He ordered something else. "You make a damn good bagel sandwich," he said.

Later that night, after I'd sweeped and scrubbed and mopped the floors at the bagel shop and was back at my parents' house, the phone rang. It was probably close to 10 pm. "It's for you," my dad said, all abrupt the way he always was if anyone male ever called me (which admittedly wasn't often).

"Hi, this is Tim," said a mostly unfamiliar voice. (I'd use his real name, but I can't remember it.)

"Tim?" I said.

"Yeah, from the bagel shop," he said. "I was in earlier tonight."

How had he gotten my number? I asked him.

"Oh, I got it from the office. I borrowed the phone, it was right there on the wall."

"Oh," I said. I didn't know what else to say. There was pause.

Suddenly Tim got all rushed. "I really enjoyed meeting you tonight, and I'd like to see you again. I'm supposed to go back to Buffalo early in the morning, but if I can get my flight bumped, could I see you again?"

"What?" I asked. I was still confused as to how he got my phone number. "When, where?"

"Well, tonight," he said. "You could come to my hotel."

His hotel? I imagined his kids--back with their unappealing 35-year-old mother, no doubt.

"Do you know how old I am?" I asked.

"What?" he asked, sounding annoyed. "What does that matter?"

"Well, I'm 16," I said.

Like Mike from Know Name, he pretended to be surprised. "I thought you were at least 21!" he said. What he didn't say was where a middle-aged dude in khaki pants gets off trying to pick up a young girl--even a 21-year-old "woman".

Now that I'm well into my thirties, this kind of thing never happens anymore. Obviously, I guess--what would it be now, some 70-year-old acting all surprised when he finds out I'm not 45? Whatever--I'm sure all the sleazy 70-year-olds have set their girl age cut-off at 22 years old, too.

Now my charms are only appreciated by men who appreciate real things about me, including the reality of my advanced age. This is mostly good, but it's a little bittersweet. Never again will some old dude approach me while I'm working at the neighborhood coffee shop and invite me to his Valentine's Day party. His Valentine's Day party that, when pressed, has no other invited guests aside from me.