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 I became depressive and extra-withdrawn and got scolded during class for "daydreaming" (i.e. fantasizing about suicide).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.

don't knock it till you try it: nonconsensual friendship

One day during my freshman year of college, some random dude approached me in the cafeteria.

"Hey, you're Shannon, right?"

I confirmed that I was.

"Yeah, Jason's told me all about you." He folded his arms across his chest and stared at me, letting me imagine, I suppose, just what that might mean.

I gazed longingly at my preferred solo spot in Kagin (behind the pillar next to the dessert table) but I knew, with a sinking feeling in my heart, that today I would not have the luxury of dining alone.

My initial impressions of "Gordon" were mixed. When he first approached I assumed he was harmless--so closely did he resemble a 12-year-old boy. But then he launched into it, and he immediately established himself as one of my most despised collegiate types--the big talker. He wasted little time letting me know all about his love of Foucault and "Brit pop" (surprise, surprise, what with his soon-to-be-revealed habit of ending every conversation with a studiously offhanded "cheers").

As is often the case with these types, I noticed that he didn't bother to ask me anything about myself. Another thing I noticed was the notable discrepancy between how cool he thought he was and how cool he actually was. I mean, seriously. Those glasses! That sweatshirt! But the aura of condescension was undeniable. "Oh right," I realized. "Another dude who feels smugly superior to me."

So it can only be explained as one of life's mysteries how I ended up being friends with this guy. Unlike a traditional friendship, with a slow-ish courtship phase where you get to know each other and figure out if you're really "meant to be", Gordon was just suddenly there, like a mango fly. One minute I was minding my own business, smoking cigarettes alone on the quad, and the next, Gordon was inviting himself over to my parents' house for dinner.

"So, do you ever go visit your parents on the weekend?" (I was a townie, he was from some other state.)

"Well, yeah, um, sometimes..." I mumbled, trying to sound noncommittal.

"How about this weekend? Ask your parents if I can come over for dinner this weekend."

I did not ask my parents if Gordon could come over for dinner that weekend, but when they invited me over a few weeks later, I halfheartedly mentioned that a "friend" of mine was really eager to invite himself over. My parents were always interested in meeting my friends, so they thought this was a fine idea. A sense of creeping dread set in.

I remember nothing of the dinner, but I do remember how, shortly after we arrived at my parents' house, Gordon asked them if they had any records. (Of course he was a DJ.) They indicated that yes, they did have some records. Gordon asked where they were; my parents replied that they were in the basement. Gordon then descended straightaway into the lower level, where he remained for about 45 minutes.

He eventually re-emerged with a stack of LPs. "I'm going to borrow these," he announced.

"Um," I said, my way of protesting righteously.

"Okay, sure, you can borrow those..." said my mom, trying to be nice.

I was mortified; he took the records.

Sometime in the weeks that followed I had a falling out with Gordon that involved junior-high-girl social scheming and double crossing. I was livid. I hadn't even consented to the frienship, and now he was sabotaging it? I went over to his apartment to retrieve my parents' possessions.

After accounting for the records, I made an attempt to confront him about his actions. The exchange went something like this:

Me: "I can't believe the way you lied."

Gordon: "What are you talking about? I didn't lie about anything. I don't know what you're talking about."

Me: "You know, there's just no denying that you lied. Can't you just say you're sorry?"

Gordon: "I didn't lie about anything, you're delusional, your anger is just a 're-action' to you're white American middle-class positionality, etc. etc."

Me: "God, you're pretentious! I will never speak to you again."

And in the year that followed, I was true to my word, despite sharing at least two classes with Gordon and numerous mutual acquaintances. At the time, I was aware that my resolve was juvenile, and maybe (extremely) petty.

You would think that, with the passage of time, my take on the matter might have changed--that perhaps I would look back wistfully, wishing that my younger, less generous self had embraced the spirit of forgiveness and consented to at least make eye contact.

But plenty of time has passed, and looking back, I'm even more sure that I did the right thing. With people like that, zero tolerance is the only policy. Here's to choosing your own friends!

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

"Irony is an attitude that is best expressed orally, not sartorially." --Hadley Freeman, The Meaning of Sunglasses

I'm not sure that I agree with Hadley, because I have long been a dedicated advocate of ironic style. (Can you spot the cutesy Kinks reference I so painstakingly tried to obscure?) I got started in high school, trying all the usual things, like tacky vintage dresses, polyester man pants and "I'm not fat, I'm pregnant" maternity t-shirts from the 80s. Hilarious!

Ironic fashion was pretty much a given at arts high school, so when a fellow classmate admired my "I'm Proud to be a Christian!" t-shirt I didn't think for a second that she'd taken the message seriously. "I know," I said, "isn't it great?!?" She agreed that it was, and then asked me if was interested in joining her bible study group. I declined her invitation, feeling both guilty (I tricked an earnest Christian with my shirt! I'm going to hell...) and indignant (Jesus, it's obviously a joke!).

I really hit my stride in college, where I was surrounded by peers who were also interested in making cultural statements through their wardrobes. At this point I dismissed much of my clothing from high school as "too obvious" and began to search the DAV thrift store for more subtle fare.

For example, I recall with some embarrassment my dubious obsession with the little boys' clothing department--an untapped resource, as far as I was concerned. This exploration started innocently enough (the shrunken striped polo shirts were reasonably "indie rock" and that hockey sweatshirt from Inver Grove Heights was almost acceptable) but it quickly spiraled into absurdity.

For example, I remember purchasing not one but three tiny mesh basketball jerseys during a burst of thrift-store induced mania. I was convinced that I was going to start a hilarious new trend. I remember wearing one of the jerseys to a party, believing my style to be very advanced and expecting appreciative comments. But no one said anything about it, and I started to question my motives. What was I trying to prove with my witty little outfits? Was my silly clothing an attempt to distract people from the fact that I had an underdeveloped personality? Did this have something to do with my failure to convince [_____] to date me?

Then I got another five drinks and put those questions out of my mind. I spent the greater part of my 20s wandering around thrift stores and estate sales, obsessively adding to my collection of 70s sunglasses from France, West Germany and Austria.

But at some point in the past couple years, I had to take a hard look at things. Much in the way that drunken displays that can be written off as "cute" in one's early 20s (they can, right?) turn into "sad and pathetic" as one gets a little older, it seems there comes a time when ironic fashion stops being amusing and starts heading into train-wreck territory. Personal style needs to evolve over time, I think. (And it's obvious when it doesn't. I wrote and then deleted a couple things about "aging scenesters" and "cool moms" because they seemed too mean...but you can probably imagine what I'm talking about.)

Not that I think one needs to give in and start wearing pantsuits from Ann Taylor every day (although that could be very funny!!), but merely that one needs to foster enough self-awareness to notice if one is becoming a caricature of oneself.

judge not, lest ye be judged

When I was 16, I worked at bagel shop in south Minneapolis. And despite my chronic unpopularity with boys and the indisputable fact that I was in an ugly phase that year, it someone came to my attention that "Eric," one of my teenaged colleagues, was interested in going out on a date with me.

I wasn't even the slightest bit attracted to Eric, but given my circumstances, I figured I should take what I could get. I accepted his vague invitation to "hang out" and asked what he had in mind.

"Well, I was thinking we could go the Mall of America. I mean, the mall has everything, right?"

I don't know if I sneered openly or if I merely muttered something noncommittal, but either way, the outing to the Great Mall never happened (and neither did the love match). The mall has everything? What kind of person could even say that, much less believe it? What kind of teenager thinks the mall is cool? (Now, thinking rationally, probably a pretty typical one, I suppose.) This was a turning point in the development of my personality: my desperation for male attention had given way to my burgeoning snobbery.

Okay, so it's wrong to judge people, right? I mean, I know it's a really shitty thing to do.

Like last week, when I was locking up my bike downtown and I couldn't help but overhear the conversation of a passing group of 20-something ladies: "So, you know Parasole, the company that owns Chino Latino and El Gatto? Well, they have this incredible deal where when you go to one of their restaurants you just get a stamp on this punch card and when you've got six stamps you get a free drink!"

People actually talk like this? They think these things and then say them out loud to other people? God, how boring!

Okay, so I realize these thoughts call attention to my shameful and previously unrevealed feelings of superiority. After writing so much recently about the hell that is other people, it's only fair that I finally unveil the truth--I am actually just as bad.

Take, for example, the coworker who entered the break room the other day, loudly talking to someone via an earpiece, his cell phone clipped to his pleated pants in a white-collar holster. He was wearing a tucked-in polo shirt advertising one of my company's products, and was talking about the details of his son's football practice. He set about the business of filling his water bottle with hard-nosed efficiency. In other words, he was the portrait of corporate American masculinity.

I slouched in my chair in the corner of the room, studying an eight-month-old copy of More magazine so as not to make accidental eye contact. "I am definitely a lesbian," I thought to myself.

Like my friend Mark once said, "There are good people everywhere...but they're a different kind of good people." We were on the subject of "work friends", and how when you're being held captive at a place of employment, you're not always in a position to be choosy. Whereas in college I could snob out to my heart's content ("Ugh, did you see Michael reading On the Road in the cafeteria? Plus, he wouldn't stop playing Tom Waits when he invited me back to his room..."), this position is simply not sustainable in the modern suburban workplace.

And this is how I find myself nodding in agreement as that girl from the tax department tells me about how she lost "five inches" after she started eating microwaved veggie burgers for breakfast, and listening intently as my coworker describes how much money he saves using "coupon theory", which he actually learned about in his MBA program--"You know those chocolate-flavored Teddy Grahams? Five boxes for $2.99 at Cub this week."

So you know, you get older and you start to realize that life is probably going to involve making some compromises, and that you'll probably be happier if you can convince yourself that your boss is "just fiscally conservative"...not the other kind that would require you to quit on principle.

All this makes me look at my various relationships and wonder who might be "settling" for me. "Shannon?" they might respond, when a real friend asks about their association with me. "I don't know...yeah. Work is pretty boring, and she's always up for making the drive to Pineda Tacos...so."

don't knock it till you try it: "treats" at work

I used to work as the assistant editor of a window treatment trade magazine. One day "Lisa," one of the advertising sales girls, barged into my cubicle.

"Hey Shannon, I made cookies. Do you want one?"

I didn't want one. "Okay," I said.

"They're pretty stale," she said, once I had one in hand. "They've been in my refrigerator for about a week, but I figured I'd just bring them in to work!"

This seemed wrong to me, but she probably had a point. I am frequently overcome with a sense of awe when I look at the quality and condition of the "treats" people bring in to my job, and am blown away by the speed at which they disappear. Congealed doughnuts from the Cub Foods bakery? Why not! Three-day-old banana bread from the United Way potluck? Don't mind if I do!

On the first day at my current job, my manager marked the festive occasion with a box of pastries. Since it was day one, I felt obligated to choke one down. However, just a couple days later, I was summoned to a conference room to celebrate a coworker's birthday. I declined the slice of cake. "Kathy," my manager, looked me up and down. "God, Shannon, trying to make the rest of us look bad? A little sugar wouldn't kill you!" I held my ground (but I think I've paid the price by becoming the object of her fashion scorn).

I guess what I'm saying is, you usually have to give in, or risk getting unwanted attention for being a "vegan" or "anorexic."

But in the case of Lisa's stale cookies, I thought it was safe to secretly decline. I waited until she was back at her desk, and then silently opened a desk drawer and placed the cookie inside. I knew I couldn't just throw the cookie in the basket under my desk--Lisa was the type who might actually check your garbage when you were out at lunch.

(I mean, this was the girl who, when her boyfriend--a fellow coworker at the magazine--refused to buy her a Christmas present [not forgot, refused], marched around the office, telling everyone about how she had been done wrong and encouraging all of us to hassle him about it. If my boyfriend refused to buy me a Christmas present, I'd be mortified--or more likely, would probably just reason that I didn't really deserve a present.)

So I was taking precautions. I figured that when she left for lunch I could sneak the cookie back to the break room and bury it in the communal trash can.

Then I overheard Lisa loudly explaining to a coworker how our desk drawers are actually removable. This coworker was switching desks, and Lisa was insisting that she didn't need to empty her desk drawers--she could simply pull them out and walk them over to the new desk!

A struggle ensued on the other side of the fabric walls as Lisa tried to demonstrate. "I don't think the drawers are meant to come out," said the coworker.

"No, they do!" said Lisa. "I know they do at Shannon's desk."

Before I could act, Lisa was back at my desk, frantically yanking away at my desk drawer--the one hiding her cookie--the cookie I refused to eat. She suddenly stopped yanking when she saw the cookie. She looked at me, first with confusion, then with something more like annoyance or low-grade hate. She shut the drawer and walked away.

Did I do wrong? Should I have choked the cookie down, knowing that somehow--Lisa being who she was--she would find out if I didn't consume it?

I don't think so. She wasn't my manager, so I wasn't obligated to appease her, and we were never going to be friends.