don't knock it till you try it: change your hair, change your life?

My friend Peter took issue with something I wrote in my recent post about self-loathing. (While cataloguing my various defects I made my reference to my "fatally flawed hair--neither curly nor straight".) "You can't say that," he said. "You've got great hair."

Thanks, Peter! The compliment I was fishing for has finally arrived.

But really, I was being sincere when I wrote that. Despite the fact that I have an excellent stylist (hats off to Thea) who thoroughly understands and appreciates the nature of my hair, I have to admit that I spend way too much time obsessing about the topic.

For example, the question of whether or not to cut bangs was one I debated for months. ("What would bangs 'say' about me? Will I morph into a 'Bettie Page girl'? Will I look like a Marianne Faithfull wannabe? Will they make my face look fat?")

Hair length is another subject of endless internal debate. ("Am I not truly a 'short hair' girl? Way cooler guys used to hit on me when I had short hair. What am I trying to prove by growing my hair long? Have I 'gone normal'?")

If I devoted as much time to, say, researching graduate school programs as I do to obsessing about my hair, I'd probably have an advanced degree by now (instead of plans to dye my hair back to its natural dark color, or maybe blue-black...god, I don't know!).

I think part of the deal with the hair is that some of us, no matter how rational we are in other parts of our life, have internalized the belief that changing our hair is a good way to signify some greater, more important life change. Show me a girl with a drastic new haircut and I'll show you a girl who just broke up with her boyfriend.

Likewise, whenever I start thinking about potentially uncomfortable topics ("Is a corporate writing job basically prostitution? How come I barely remember anything I learned in college? Have I squandered my youth?" etc. etc.) I often have the understandably human impulse to squash the feelings of anxiety that rise to the surface. Sometimes I opt for an ocean of wine or a night of panic-stricken insomnia. And sometimes all it takes is a google image search (Milla Jovovich, hair, layers) to keep those troubling thoughts at bay.

don't knock it till you try it: growing up Catholic

It's a funny thing, being raised Catholic. For many years, I didn't know anything different. I can't say that I "believed" in anything in particular, but the state of being Catholic (going to church every Sunday and zoning out, shuffling off to Catholic school, feeling guilty about everything) seemed somehow inevitable.

When I went to college, there were people there who grew up blissfully agnostic but mysteriously were interested in learning about all things religious. My friend "Joanna," for example, once asked me about the significance of the Virgin Mary in my upbringing as a Catholic. It was like she'd asked some gum-snapping, remedial-English sixth grader how to diagram a sentence. "Huh?" I think I responded, as my eyes glazed over. I couldn't imagine how she could be interested in something so incredibly tedious.

Because although I was raised Catholic through and through--I was baptized, delivered to church every Sunday, received my "first Communion" and was even "confirmed" into the church while in the second grade (confirmation is when you make the well-reasoned, grown-up decision to commit yourself to the Catholic church for life)--it's not like I ever really "believed" in it. When times got tough, for example, you wouldn't find me "praying to God" or anything. The fact of being a Catholic seemed like so much pomp and circumstance. I mean, my parents were probably going through the motions in order to "bring me up right" or something. And meanwhile, I was raising my eyebrows at the whole display. So what was the point?

After about 20 years of critical thought, I've determined that the point was guilt and sex--more or less in equal measures, and ideally mixed together uncomfortably. Like John Waters said, "Thank God I was raised Catholic, so sex will always be dirty." I think this is a generous and positive way at looking at the after-effects of Catholicism. In other words, there are some benefits, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

I remember being in junior high, and overhearing "Mary McDonald," one of the popular girls, earnestly explaining to someone or other how she would NEVER drink or smoke and certainly wouldn't "fool around" with any boys to prove any sort of point. Naturally, I didn't want to be anything like her. I made the mental note to define myself in opposition: "Drink, smoke and slut around."

Which is all well and good, but not necessarily when you're an awkward, unattractive and severely introverted young teenager. It was during these supremely uncomfortable years that I often reflected painfully upon the only "sex ed" conversation I ever had with my mother.

One day when I was nine years old, my mom pulled me aside for a brief sexual education discussion. "Shannon, men will say anything to get you into bed," said my mom, as my personality split into two. Her method for easing into this revelation is lost to me now, so traumatic was it to hear this at the age of nine. But she made her point--"Boys are out to get you! And it's up to you to protect your honor."

Seriously, nothing could have been further from the truth once I got "out there." I can't say that there was a steady stream of young men murmuring over-the-top compliments to lure me into the back of their Chevettes. They will say "anything"? How about finding one in the first place?

Even when I did manage to trick some young man into accompanying me into the woods next to the Minnehaha Creek, nothing was ever free and easy about it. Take my first boyfriend, for example. To my utter confusion, one romantic evening he suggested that he turn himself in for an an attempted (consensually attempted, I had assumed) sexual assault (??).

The wisdom of time has informed me that he was probably just trying to break up with me. But what if I'd agreed? Would he still be in jail, instead of designing video games in Seattle?

It's stuff like this that makes me doubtful about having kids of my own. Seriously, what ridiculous advice would I provide to my unborn daughter? "When he declares himself a rapist--call his bluff"?

To be safe, I'll probably need to send her to Catholic school, so she has something to rebel against. And I guess there you find the point of Catholicism--to have something to live in opposition to.

don't knock it till you try it: self-loathing

Today I am horrified by a variety of details related to my physical appearance, my intelligence and my basic abilities to perform the various administrative tasks that plague my daily existence.

For example, let's start with my cuticles. God, they are disgusting. Seriously, have you seen them recently? Have you noticed just how ragged they are? I don't even bite my nails or anything. They are just naturally that bad. I remember reading an article once about how to impress people during job interviews, and one woman was quoted about how she always checks a woman's manicure. Apparently, a woman with well-kept nails is a woman who deserves to be offered a job. Ravaged nails, on the other hand...clearly a sign of an unwell mind.

Manicure? Good lord.

Actually, I did get a manicure once. I casually entered the nail salon, as if "getting my nails done" was something normal for me. When I sat down across from the nail technician, she gave me a knowing look. "You don't really seem like a 'manicure' kind of girl," she said.

She was right--I'm not. But what did that mean? Was it a compliment? I tried to take it as a compliment. "Yes, I'm so confident and naturally alluring that I don't need to do stuff like this to feel okay about myself." Or did it mean something else--something else entirely? I could imagine her eying my never-laundered-since-I-bought-it-at-the-thrift-store sweater, thinking, "A little nail polish isn't going to distract from the mess that is you."

My own mind displays plenty of skill and creativity when cataloging my various faults (the ridiculous fit of my pants--"what was I thinking?", my fatally flawed hair--neither curly nor straight...), but when this is not enough, I've found that the universe will provide.

I can take it all the back to fourth grade, when I was systematically tormented by "Todd Womper" (whose real name I totally want to use, but I won't) for being hideous and unpopular, and who frequently declared that I would grow up to be a "hooker." (Which actually doesn't sound so bad right now.) I'm pretty sure he didn't mean it in the third-wave feminist, sex-positive kind of way.

Before the fourth grade, I was blissfully unaware of my own unattractiveness. The need to be physically acceptable to other people didn't even cross my mind! But this episode of harassment (well, a year-long "episode") was probably a blessing in disguise, really, in the way it helped instill a general mood of self-loathing that has encouraged me forever more to police my own appearance--reducing the need for others to monitor it for me.

But there will always be someone willing to lend a hand, right? Let's reflect for a moment on the complicated subject of other women.

I should start by saying that I like women; most of my friends are chicks. But I distrust women who don't like other women--the kind who declare that they "just get along better with men" (while pouting and jutting a hip) or who giggle and say, "I don't know, I guess I'm just intimidating to women!"

These are the ones who are dangerous--the ones who are always on hand to make a catty comment about your footwear ("Cute shoes, Shannon--I remember those from two summers ago!") or your makeup application techniques ("Have you EVER thought about using a foundation brush?").

Seriously, how are you supposed to respond to this kind of thing? I guess I could try to be empathetic--"Goodness, she's just as self-loathing as I am! We have so much in common..."--and give the offending commenter a break, right?

Or I could take solace in another cliche, that thing people always say in these situations--"She's just jealous." Is that so? As a perenially unpopular person in my youth, I don't buy that at all. "She just gets off on insulting people she perceives to be 'beneath' her." Okay, that makes sense.

Take, for example, "Nadine," the friend of this guy I once dated. When "Edgar" and I got together, Nadine was all excited about it. "God Shannon, I'm so impressed with Edgar, he's really changed," she said, pulling me aside earnestly at some party. "I mean, he used to be so concerned with being cool and having hot girlfriends. But he's totally gotten past that. I mean look at him now--he's dating you!"

I'm still trying to determine the best response to this sort of comment, which, if experiences my mom has had in recent years are any indication, are going to be lobbed my way well into my 60s. "Take the higher road" and say nothing? Back-handedly compliment in return? Sleep with her boyfriend? All are viable options, and yet none seem just right.

don't knock it till you try it: the death drive

"You know how when you're on the freeway, and you suddenly have that overwhelming urge to just yank the steering wheel to the left and crash across the median into oncoming traffic?"

My classmate stared at me. "No, I don't," she said.

This was in high school, and we'd been discussing something innocuous like our after-school jobs. Mine was at a coffee shop in south Minneapolis, and I had to drive super fast on crosstown in order to get there in time for my daily 4 p.m. shift. It was during these often-reckless drives that I started to notice my death-and-destruction fantasies. The most common one had to do with "crashing through New Jersey barriers" (I swear the fantasy preceded that Magnetic Fields song). Other times, a tire would blow as I went through a turn, sending me spiraling into a ditch. Once in awhile I'd be victimized by an idiot in a pickup truck who would cut my off, screeching to a stop in front of me, and as my car slammed into his my steering column would magnificently crash through my ribcage. (My Ford Probe didn't have an airbag.)

Maybe "fantasy" isn't the right word for these daydreams. But whatever you want to call them, they didn't seem so unusual to me. I certainly didn't think they might point to "deeper issues" (Was I secretly suicidal? Did I have a martyr complex?). On the contrary, they seemed relatively normal to me, and were oddly sort of comforting.

And as the years have passed, the fantasies have only become richer. For example, I was recently biking home in the dark on a busy street. The city had just laid down a bunch of loose gravel, so the route was a little treacherous. I could see it so clearly: my tires catching unfortunately on the gravel, sending me tipping over into traffic. My shoulder bashing into the street. A cell phone-talking blond driving her Malibu right over my neck...

Or this: I am on my lunch hour at my job, walking around a suburban lake (which of course has a highway running alongside it). As I trudge along, obsessing about the life choices (or lack thereof) that have brought me here, a passing Cadillac Escalade goes out of control, flying off the road and right into me, knocking me out of my shoes.

After all, we're all going to die someday, right?

No matter how emotionally stable I think I am at any given time, all it takes is a few moments of "mindfulness" about my thought patterns to make me realize that, more often than not, I'm actually plotting out my next horrific accident (hot tar burns and a severed Achilles tendon probably not being enough for one life). What I've been trying to figure out is--is that so bad?

The reaction of my high school classmate would indicate that it probably is. So for years I have largely kept these thoughts to myself. Then I read Foreskin's Lament by Shalom Auslander, and he described a very similar thing. The death fantasies I remember from his book primarily revolved around other people, but were very similar in tone. For example, he described being stuck in traffic when an ambulance went racing past him, off into the distance. Suddenly he was overcome with the knowledge that the ambulance was for his pregnant wife, who had just been involved in a horrible accident just up around the corner--the good life he thought he had, suddenly shattered for all time...

Reading this made me feel much better about things. After all, Shalom Auslander wrote a really great and funny book about self-loathing and death obsession--that girl from high school is probably assistant-managing a temp agency or something right now, totally feeling at ease with herself.

don't knock it till you try it: drinking obligations

Today's installment is from the archives, originally appearing to great acclaim in the Whittier Globe, sometime in 2006, I think. It's one of my favorites from the early "don't knock it" days. (In other words, I tried to write something new and original but it sucked, so this will have to do for now.)

don't knock it till you try it: keeping up with your drinking obligations

Today I woke up hungover for what I think was the 532nd time in my life. I first opened my eyes around 11:30 a.m.—way too early to be getting out of bed. I was super dehydrated, but the idea of staggering the seven feet from my mattress on the floor to the sink was overwhelming. I closed my eyes and passed out for another couple hours.

Like many other aimless young women with misdirected energy, I find myself, week after week, desperately attempting to keep up with my drinking obligations. If it’s not a happy hour for the latest person who quit their job, it’s a drinking dinner to discuss someone’s imminent divorce, or a rock show that requires the consumption of at least seven beers—because that time between bands is so tedious otherwise.

But recently, I seem to have lost the “drive” to keep up with my drinking obligations. In fact, in many cases, I am simply letting them slide. As a result, my social life has all but disappeared—which is really kind of depressing. So, in order to save my friendships and have something to write about here, I decided to once again devote myself to my drinking obligations. What follows is a review of a week spent “on the ball” (and off the wagon).

Monday: Although I managed not to drink anything the night before, I was pretty tired from restless sleep patterns due to the creeping dread that always overtakes me when the work week is about to begin. So I was already behind. I checked my messages mid-afternoon, and had one from my friend Jen. Monday is one of the few nights she has off, and she wanted to go out for dinner. Of course, I had to go—we’re usually on opposite schedules, and I hardly ever get to see her. I figured, since it’s a weeknight, I’d have “a couple glasses” of wine. Two bottles of wine, one Pernod, a beer, lots of expensive food and $120 later, I threw myself into bed, forgetting to set the alarm.

Tuesday: As if proofreading all day under fluorescent lights isn’t bad enough, this particular Tuesday I was under orders to “write copy” for a ShopNBC holiday postcard. I stuck it out until noon, at which point I lumbered out of the office to purchase something cheap and unhealthy for lunch. Poorly nourished, I came back to work and swallowed a Vicodin (left over from my Achilles tendon surgery). Painkillers are called that for a reason, you know. Did not venture out that evening.

Wednesday: Finally refreshed, I coolly and confidently accepted an invitation to a Whittier Globe “writers’ meeting” at the Red Dragon. I entered the establishment at 10:15 p.m., figuring we’d briefly discuss the upcoming issue, and I’d have “a drink or two.” Four vodka cranberrys later (cranberry has health benefits, I reasoned, and might negate some of the alcohol), I realized my contributions to the meeting were complete, and staggered back to my drafty studio apartment and the squirrels that live in my window.

Thursday: It had been awhile since I’d seen my childhood friend Katie (actually, since the night we went to Liquor Lyle’s when I had the flu, after which I couldn’t get out of bed for three days). We made plans to get together Thursday night for coffee or “maybe a drink.” We decided that coffee wouldn’t be wise (all that caffeine before bedtime is a no-no), so we arranged to meet at Café Barbette. We had lots of catching up to do, and stuck around for about four hours. I paced myself, however, and thus felt like a “together” young professional who deftly knows her limits. “Katie and I are totally growing up!” I thought to myself, with a mixture of pride and depression over behaving reasonably. This was a far cry from our college days, when we’d alienate each other’s male friends by starting fights with them at dorm parties. "Maybe I really can keep up with my drinking obligations," I thought to myself.

Friday: Though I was drained and exhausted all day Friday (despite keeping it together the night before, I didn't sleep at all, making all that temperance irrelevant), I knew there was no getting out of Friday night happy hour with Anne and Lindsay. Anne and I had both had recent birthdays, and this was to be our big celebration. I mean, I couldn’t skip my own party, right? We met at the downtown Grumpy’s for fried snack foods and beer. When a metal band started their soundcheck, we moved down the street to Maxwell’s. Eight hours later, after each of us had rebuked the drunken, smitten young man who separately proclaimed each of us “amazing” and “just what [he] was looking for,” I headed for home, confident that my friends still liked me.

Saturday: I think I told Jen I’d have breakfast with her, but I totally slept until one and didn’t hear my cell phone ringing. I should’ve called her back, but the effort was just too much for my swollen head. Then there were a couple rock shows that I’d been thinking of going to that night, but the idea of having to drink more Phillip’s vodka was enough to keep me away. And if you can’t tell, we have come full circle to the scene set at the beginning of this article.

So there you have it—a summary of a week of drinking obligations. Was it worth it? Uhh….well, the friends I saw have already called me about going out again this week! I’m doing way better at having friends now that I’ve re-resigned myself to bar life and stopped talking all that nonsense about “cutting down” and “working on my writing.” That stuff’s fine—if you want to go through life friendless and boring. My advice to all of you who have ambivalent feelings about your drinking obligations—suck it up, spend the $50 on the drinks and keep your friends happy. Or start hanging out with a group of pregnant ladies. It’s your choice.

don't knock it till you try it: office fashion

If there's one thing I hate about having a job, it's the clothes. Getting out of bed day after day to cobble together an uncomfortable, ill-fitting corporate costume is one of the mundane indignities that mars an otherwise-pretty-good life.

I just don't understand the point of it. As if seeing a bunch of thickening, middle-aged suburbanites dressed in suits instead of t-shirts will somehow distract from the brutal truth that we're all just self-serving, fearful animal-people, shuffling vacant-eyed through life.

One day I was complaining to my friend "Josie" about how oppressive office attire is, and declared my desire to work from home full time so I never had to hoist myself into another pair of sensible work pants ever again.

"You just need some nicer clothes!" she told me. "Even when I work from home, I always get at least a little dressed up. It's good for morale!"

I couldn't disagree with this more. I guess some people think that professional attire is going to make workers more productive. I suppose the idea is that playing "grown up" is going to trick us into thinking we're busy little junior executives and that we'll finish the report just that much faster.

Personally, I find dress codes condescending. I've worked in a bunch of different offices over the years, and all of them have addressed work-appropriate attire in their own way. From a low-standards code I could get behind ("All employees are expected to arrive at work in clean clothes--underwear on") to more repressive guidelines ("business professional" complete with photos illustrating dos and don'ts), I have operated under various regimes.

But never before I arrived at my current workplace had I encountered such virulent skirt bias.

A few days after starting my new job, I arrived at the office in a sweater, a black skirt, tights and boots. I didn't think twice about the outfit--it was the kind of thing I'd worn all the time at my previous corporate job.

Later that day I ran into my boss, "Kathy", in the hallway. She looked me up and down. "Well!" she said, as if she'd caught me in my hot pants and stripper heels. " I wish I had the legs to pull THAT look off!"

Ever since that I encounter I have to mentally brace myself anytime I wear not-pants in the workplace. For example, just recently I came to work in a generic brown shirt dress. Kathy spotted me immediately. "Cute dress, Shannon!" she said, setting me up. I said thanks. "You know, I have a similar one--from Ann Taylor, one of their cheaper things. I would never wear it to work, though."

I realize that interactions like this are meant to put me in my place--to indicate in no uncertain terms that I am expected to return to the office the next day in a lady-politician pantsuit. But stuff like this just encourages me. I get a juvenile thrill when I see Kathy wince at the sight of my bare knees or when her face falls after I inform her that I found the sweater she admired draped over a parking meter in downtown Minneapolis and that it was "only a little dirty."

don't knock it till you try it: bike rage

Yesterday, while riding my bike to my parents' house, I got stuck behind two middle-aged female bikers. I was on the Minnehaha Creek bike path, which is, in theory, a two-way bike lane. Of course these slow-moving ladies were riding side-by-side, preventing me from easily passing them.

I realize I could have barked, "On your left!" and cut around them rudely, but I hate it when fake-pro bikers in their Clif Bar-branded bike shirts do that, so I decided to "do unto others" and just slow down and wait it out. It was only about half a block until my turn off--there was no urgent need for me to pass them.

I can't say that I was totally Zen about the wait. Their self-absorbtion was evident as they pedaled along slowly, oblivious to their surroundings, like the lumbering mothers in the grocery store who stand gazing vacantly in front of the pasta sauce, hands on hips as their cart blocks the aisle indefinitely.

I had plenty of time to listen to bits and pieces of the biking ladies' conversation ("Yes, so Alan works for 20 hours one week, scheduled, and then the other 20 hours are on his own time--evenings or weekends, if he wants, you know, flex time?") and to take in their Midwestern lady bike uniforms (the cautious bike helmets, the sensible mauve capris, the hiking sandals).

Finally we reached the intersection. Despite the fact that the traffic light was green, the women came to a halt, continuing to block the way. Since I wanted to turn right, I carefully edged around the women. I swear I wasn't a jerk about it. Then, when I'd ridden about 15 feet away from them, I hear one of them say, "Well, I think WE'RE just going to obey the rules over here."

Despite my naturally repressed nature, this "pushed a button," so to speak. Of course they would say something like that when I was far enough away to hear their snippy little comment, but probably too far away to bother confronting them about it. Typical midwestern passive-aggression.

I slowed down and looked back at them, rolling my eyes dramatically and making an ugly, sarcastic face that might have involved me sticking out my tongue. I considered turning around to go address their complaint in person (I've done this once before in response to a different condescending comment--it was strangely exhilerating), but I held back. It took all my resources not to flip them off or invite them to "blow me" (two knee-jerk responses that I suppressed).

Then I biked on to my parents house. I didn't mention the incident to them. (If it's even a little negative, then we don't talk about it.) My mom and I had plans to get dinner at a local Mexican restaurant. While we waited for our server, a vaguely familiar-looking guy came over to the table. "Susan? Shannon? Hi, it's 'Dave Semmler'!" It was the father of this guy I went to Catholic grade school with, whose parents I had known fairly well, back then.

We made idle chit chat for a few minutes. "I'm sure 'Mindy' will come over to say hi when she gets here--she's biking with a friend."

A few minutes later Mindy arrived, who I supposedly hadn't seen in 15 years. "Hi, Susan! Oh...Shannon. Hi." She looked at me, and I looked at her. It was a classic woman-to-woman disdain festival. A Curb Your Enthusiasm moment. There she was in her mauve capri pants and hiking sandals, her helmet in hand, her law-abiding friend behind her. "It's SO good to SEE you," she said in that totally dishonest manner that only women employ. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I could do it--I could make reference to the bitchy biking encounter! I could alienate everyone gathered around our table in faux-fellowship! But I lost my nerve. I agreed it was GREAT to see her, too. I'm not proud of giving in.