tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54161708488387169742024-03-09T18:46:39.774-08:00ImpressionistaWelcome to Impressionista! Here you will find my posts about a lifelong battle with imposter syndrome. I've always felt left of center, and while I'm finally feeling proud of what makes me unique, I still fall into the traps of fear and doubt while following my dreams.There are so many subjects I plan to cover in this blog, from unexpected life paths to dealing with toxic life-doubters. I'll also throw in some fun stories! We have a lot to cover here, folks.Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-33454845742113628512022-02-09T16:26:00.000-08:002022-02-09T16:26:08.797-08:00True Detective<p>"Sheevani, you've got to calm down. It's just a math test, hon," Lindsey said, her sparkly blue eyes shining at me with concern.</p><p>I watched as Mr. Jacobsen handed back our pre-calculus tests and I guess I wasn't hiding my stress very well. Why does he have to do this so slowly? Look at test, read name, survey the room to find student, walk at a snail's pace to their desk, lower test onto desk, lift stack back to face and start over.</p><p>I shrugged my shoulders at Lindsey, apologetic about my anxious vibe. She tilted her head and smiled at me. We met our freshman year, so almost 4 years ago now, and I've never really recovered from the perfection of her smile. It was like her entire face smiled, even her eyebrows somehow. Yes, focus on Lindsey's smile - that's a perfect distraction from the impossible task of predicting my test score.</p><p>"DESAI!" </p><p>He had arrived. I took a deep breath and stared at my desk, waiting for my test to be placed in front of me. After a few seconds of nothing happening, I looked up at Mr. Jacobsen. He looked back at me with an indecipheral expression, then looked at the test he was holding, then back to me. </p><p>"Mr. Jake! What!?" I said in an annoyed tone usually reserved for my parents.</p><p>He smirked, looked at the test again and looked back at me before slamming it down. </p><p>91%</p><p>I collapsed in dramatic wave of relief and rested my head on my right forearm. I heard a few chuckles in the room. When I looked back up, Mr. Jacobsen was walking away on his glacial-paced journey to hand the rest of the tests back. I looked over to Lindsey who was shaking her head.</p><p>"See? No reason to stress!"</p><p>I nodded and looked at the test again, specifically that 91% at the top. Excuse me, the beautiful 91%, written in deep red marker and encased in a haphazard circle. Oh, what a gorgeous sight. I can relax.... that is, until the next test, the next quiz and then, oh god, the FINAL EXAM! Here we go again...</p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>I'm sorry to report that the infant and toddler memories of my kids are now starting to fade. At least Facebook's On This Day feature does help to remind me of when my daughter was obsessed with ice and my son couldn't stop quoting PJ Masks. I'll smile wistfully at my phone screen and then look up to see my kids in the present; laughing at YouTube videos or bopping their head to a rap song (clean version, relax) by an artist I have never heard of - and I panic a bit. More-so than longing for when they had chub rolls on their wrists, my panic stems from the realization that they have entered the stage of life that imprints so much of their future selves. </p><p>For that reason, I find myself in the "detective" stage of parenting. No, I'm not going through my kid's belongings, but rather I'm constantly investigating behaviors in order to solve the mystery of who and what they will be. Okay, I know that sounds very heavy (and impossible), but it's rooted in my desire to nurture the parts of them that will be helpful in life, and at the same time recognize the parts that will hold them back. </p><p>This thirst to understand them comes from my own memories of disconnection. My parents did the best they could, but I've never forgotten the ever-present doom of isolation and shame because my strengths didn't fit into the traditional paths they held so high. Since I didn't want to disappoint my mother and father, my life is a combination of some of that tradition and frantic dream-chasing. Don't get me wrong, I love so much about my life, but I do often wonder how it would be different (better or worse) if I was encouraged to follow a path where my talents could fully thrive. </p><p>I never want my kids to wonder about that.</p><p><b><u>Eyewitness Clues</u></b></p><p>From the moment your kids are born, I think it's a natural human tendency to attribute every little fuss or pleasure to an inherited family trait. My son starting solid foods early HAD to be something he got from my father who enjoyed everything about food. My daughter's affinity for animals most definitely comes from my mother-in-law who seems to be the All-Animal Whisperer. Obviously none of this can be proven, but it gives us that anthropological comfort.</p><p>As my kids have gotten older and their interests more specific and complex, I keep a keen eye on how they respond to various stimuli. Much like a scientist. That's right, I'm a parental detective AND a scientist, constantly observing my subjects (kids), hypothesizing and drawing conclusions based on my findings. And just like a scientific experiment, sometimes the results will surprise me. </p><p><br /></p><p><b><u>The Case of Puberty</u></b></p><p>Within the last year or so, I've seen my once bold young girl become more and more shy and fearful. I had to remind myself that this was normal considering she's entering puberty. Hell, I can clearly remember those intense emotions when I was around her age. </p><p>When my daughter refused to go to her first middle school dance, I was shocked. This is a girl whom I've observed to love music, loves to dance and loves being social with her friends and yet, when I asked her if she wanted to go, she shrugged her shoulders and expressed that it was "not her thing." </p><p>Paul and I took turns gently expressing why we felt the dance would be a fun experience. We told stories from our middle school dances; she delighted in the possibility of seeing some of her teachers dance based on my memory of seeing my stiff science teacher, Mr. Hyre, groove to disco music. I even showed her the moves he did. Paul spoke more broadly about how these are the moments and events that build lasting memories with her friends. After a few minutes of sharing our thoughts and listening to her reservations, we left the discussion with, "just think about it." </p><p>The next day, on our way home from school, my girl casually dropped the news that she was going to the dance. I squealed with excitement. A few days later when I picked her up from the dance, she ran to the car breathless and said, "THAT WAS THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE!!" </p><p>Parenting win.</p><p>I've been able to use this dance example as fuel for whenever she displays some irrational fear, which leads to more examples of her overcoming obstacles; it's exponential really. The more she faces her challenges, the more reasons she has to believe she can conquer the next one that comes along. </p><p>Conversely, some of the clues into my girl's psyche can be distressing because they seem all too familiar. Struggling with math, for instance. If only the solution was going to a dance!</p><p>I chose my opening story to illustrate that my relationship to math education was rife with anxiety. I willed, wished and yes, even prayed for my kids to inherit the math talents of my husband. It seems my son has directly descended from his father, but not my daughter. She's going to have to put in a lot more work, just like I did. </p><p>There are layers to her math struggles and we are peeling them back one by one. I am determined to help her nip this issue in the bud. Perhaps because I feel responsible? She gets it from me, after all. Whatever the motivation, after every disappointing test score, I've been adamant to tell her repeatedly that we will figure this out. Emphasis on the WE. And after every test triumph, I tell her that her hard work paid off and that she is capable of math greatness. Emphasis on SHE. </p><p>My daughter is dealing with some fear and math confidence issues, but I've also observed some very encouraging behaviors as well; </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>She stands up for herself and speaks her mind </li><li>She loves storytelling</li><li>Her imagination is non-stop</li><li>She gets a wide range of comedy, from broad to very dry (this is particularly pleasing to me 😏)</li><li>She loves to make her friends laugh </li><li>She holds herself to a high standard</li></ul><div>Ah, nice to remind myself of the positives as well... my heart can get so tangled in guilt and concern for the habits I want her to break, but that's parenting. Nurture the helpful and starve the hurtful. </div><p></p><p><b><u>Incessant Inspection</u></b></p><p>What about my son? Yeah, I just spent a lot of time analyzing the observations of my daughter. I wasn't necessarily expecting that would take up so much real estate in this post, but it makes sense considering her age. A lot is revealed when you have to deal with so many unfamiliar, and sometimes scary, changes. So, my magnifying glass has been pulled in her direction a bit more during the last year or so. </p><p>But a good parental detective who uses the scientific method doesn't just IGNORE her other test subjects! My son gives me plenty of clues and I spend many hours theorizing what they could mean for his future self. </p><p>Here is a quick rundown of my findings:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b>OBSERVATION: Son is really into Emo Rap</b></li><ul><li>He's an empath. Or is he identifying with the lyrics about feeling so much anxiety and depression? Must keep an eye out for any behavioral issues. Inquiries about why he enjoys the genre elicits vague responses. Will track how long this lasts. Could be very temporary, like his love for Beyonce's Homecoming.</li></ul><li><b>OBSERVATION: Son loves to find ways to jump off high surfaces</b></li><ul><li>He's a thrill-seeker. Enrolling him in Ninja class has allowed for a safe outlet of this tendency. Does he want to keep going with this and expand to tumbling and gymnastics? Parkour, perhaps? Maybe he will climb rocks and mountains? Will require heart monitor for my palpitations if this expands to dangerous areas of adventure.</li></ul><li><b>OBSERVATION: Son is obsessed with super cars and loud engines</b></li><ul><li>He will be a car enthusiast. Has already stated he will own multiple Bugatti's and Lambos, even though I and his father have informed him they are bad investments. Audibly reacts in a positive way when he hears a loud engine on the street. Future career may entail engineering or car design? If so, looking forward to a sporty whip in my 60s. </li></ul><li><b>OBSERVATION: Son wants to learn EVERYTHING</b></li><ul><li>This curiosity will serve him well. From helping me cook to perfecting barrel rolls, it's difficult to find knowledge he doesn't want to gain. Except the Beyonce catalog. He's all set. I can live with that because I believe this tendency will lead him to cook me meals one day. Very excited for that. </li></ul><li><u><b>OBSERVATION: Son is very sensitive and cries easily</b></u></li><ul><li>I know this is my genetic gift and curse to him. People will love him for it, but it will be a frustrating trait during stressful times. Must validate feelings and also use the tools I use to temper when and where the emotions are necessary. We shall make progress together, son.</li></ul><li><b><u>OBSERVATION: Son laughs at toilet humor... A LOT</u></b></li><ul><li>Makes sense as he descends from generations of fart and poop humorists. </li></ul></ul><div><br /></div><div>These findings are just the tip of the iceberg and subject to change at a moment's notice. At least I'm never bored with this boy. </div><div><br /></div><div>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div><div><br /></div><div>For the last couple of months, I've been thoroughly enjoying RuPaul's Drag Race. It's the binge experience I didn't know my soul needed. In almost every season, at least one of the drag queens reveals how he is estranged from family because of his lifestyle. The tragedy of those experiences are written all over their faces, no matter how much make-up they've applied. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was so moved by something a supportive mother said during the Season 7 finale episode. Violet Chachki, one of the drag queen finalists, was so lucky to have the full support of his family. His mother was in the audience and RuPaul asked her if she had any advice for parents out there who have a son embracing drag. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Just let them be who they are and love them," she said.</div><div><br /></div><div>So simple and so beautiful.</div><div><br /></div><div>The entire purpose of being a Dr. Detective is to serve that sentiment. As a parent, the least we can do is stay cognizant of what our children show us, because they are constantly showing us who they are. They will grow and change and it's our job to keep up and roll with all the growing and changing.</div><div><br /></div><div>After all, to use RuPaul's wisdom, if we cannot teach our kids to love themselves, how in the HELL are they going to love somebody else... can I get an amen in here?</div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-89616007909571371162021-08-18T14:36:00.001-07:002021-08-18T14:57:20.032-07:00Middle School <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl5RhVi_3ZgI7sGh1ilWQn9qg33rQCs7SZguuIZ0_sU5EdfwveVusaQlws_g63LlHEh9CT22mDvLB-qdJ5ntdrWYCpp3xmVfHPMzYpRrwcHLYd95Cs_-i2KRFrXXHmuK5aT3lllS8A9Ax_/s1187/Middle+School.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1159" data-original-width="1187" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl5RhVi_3ZgI7sGh1ilWQn9qg33rQCs7SZguuIZ0_sU5EdfwveVusaQlws_g63LlHEh9CT22mDvLB-qdJ5ntdrWYCpp3xmVfHPMzYpRrwcHLYd95Cs_-i2KRFrXXHmuK5aT3lllS8A9Ax_/w400-h390/Middle+School.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smack dab in the middle of that awkward stage</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Dear Daughter,</p><p>Tomorrow you start middle school... middle school, the era in which about 97% of adults agree was the worst time in their adolescence. </p><p>For me, it was technically junior high which consisted of 7th and 8th grades, so I was a year older than you when I began the adventure of lockers, changing classes, school dances and... feeling so unfit for the social structure that it made me sick to my stomach.</p><p>My optimistic side is screaming that you will be okay. You will be okay because you are not me circa 1990. You will be okay because you're already more socially adept than I ever was at your age. You will be okay because anti-bullying efforts are as prevalent now as Hyper-Color shirts were when I roamed the halls of Churchill Junior High. And finally... and I hope most of all, you will be okay because I will be there to relate with my personal experiences. </p><p>My pessimistic side keeps breaking through with a bullhorn telling me that the pain of these years is inevitable. You won't be okay because kids at this age are cruel in a way that cannot be cured by a "buddy bench." You won't be okay because you did inherit some of my crippling sensitivity. You won't be okay because some of your friends will mature faster than you, leaving you behind... which will break your heart. And finally, and I hope least likely... you won't be okay because your mom will be unable to cope with your pain. </p><p>While you are more excited than nervous, I find myself dealing with the inverse. But I'm keeping all that shit inside and far away from you. It's not your problem. This transition has been a worry since before I knew you would ever exist. I told myself that if I ever became a parent, don't ever forget what it was like to go through the hell of junior high. Don't lose touch with feeling so incredibly out of place, yet so desperate for acceptance. Don't shut out the confusion of those familiar friends becoming strangers overnight, as if you'd missed a few episodes of your life. And most of all, don't dismiss or ignore the intensity of the pain, because that will only make your kid feel like he or she deserves how helpless they may feel. </p><p>My brain is a mess with the optimism, pessimism and expectations from my past... but the one thing that hangs over it all like an umbrella is my determination to be your emotional rock. If I find myself at a loss for the perfect piece of advice or strategy to get you through a tough situation... I can listen and listen until we figure it out together. That's all I ever wanted at your age... someone to listen so I didn't feel so alone. </p><p>So, my sweet girl... I may not always have the answers and I may not fully understand the scope of how you're feeling, but my arms and ears are open for you always. </p><p>Love,</p><p>Mom</p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>Dear Me,</p><p>You got through it and are stronger for it. </p><p>Love,</p><p>You</p><p><br /></p>Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-21340246153971751972021-04-19T12:47:00.005-07:002021-04-19T12:50:41.081-07:00Dear Fear...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zxKCBXJ45Z0B-AGE3plv2WHRGUE05lZTYB-uyzUubL2Vt3QEkqYd6pZ7eGkctfIyJWhlOsZRH5X9kwhb7nMKd6anWA8E64SAtcfVLN_3jBxw2r2kHhsCq29XiJYT3hDyBf4msNT2ZR0L/s280/Screen+Shot+2021-04-19+at+1.11.42+PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="191" data-original-width="280" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zxKCBXJ45Z0B-AGE3plv2WHRGUE05lZTYB-uyzUubL2Vt3QEkqYd6pZ7eGkctfIyJWhlOsZRH5X9kwhb7nMKd6anWA8E64SAtcfVLN_3jBxw2r2kHhsCq29XiJYT3hDyBf4msNT2ZR0L/w400-h273/Screen+Shot+2021-04-19+at+1.11.42+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Watching Fear the movie is my preferred way to experience fear.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;">~~~</p><p>Ugh, it's happening again. Fear and self-doubt are seeping into my brain and I'm having moments of giving in. </p><p>That f*cking f-word is rearing its ugly head because I've decided to finally start a passion project that's been a couple of years in the making - a podcast. Yup. I figure I've already nestled myself in the blogosphere, so why not delve into another overly saturated creative universe? </p><p>The podcast is dedicated to the genius of Julia Louis-Dreyfus as Elaine Benes in Seinfeld. It's as nichey as niche can get, but as a woman in comedy who has been greatly influenced by JLD, I have no problem with that. </p><p>But oh god... what if I suck at it? What if I cannot figure out all the tech stuff?! Oh shit... people will comment and review and what if they say really mean things?!?!? </p><p>Sigh... everyday as I'm setting up different aspects of the pod (inside term for us podcasters), these fearful questions spring up like those annoying tufts of hair that never stay behind your ears on ponytail days. And while I let the stomach ache set in for a few minutes, I <i>try</i> to remind myself that I am more than capable of figuring it all out and that the fear is part of the process.</p><p>FEAR IS PART OF THE PROCESS.</p><p>I've recruited some contributors to the podcast and gave them a sneak peek to the intro episode I plan to release soon. Immediately after I sent the link, a fresh wave of fear wafted in. Sure, I thought the episode was pretty good, but maybe it's actually the absolute worst thing they will ever listen to? </p><p>A few hours later I received a text from one of my friends/contributors that completely changed my mood. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeTmgT5EgxiAbv6W5TEWy0DQm7vUdPCB93JpPJqYd-D1dwC02VCrvbHmiEh2dkIk4dmrFheMxsqxDfzItq2Ew4V782cg5mBgyQU8G5YrymaKuAnK5GAgXI1lwZFblwBKjRXev6eNin3QY0/s1571/fearmatttext2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1571" data-original-width="1121" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeTmgT5EgxiAbv6W5TEWy0DQm7vUdPCB93JpPJqYd-D1dwC02VCrvbHmiEh2dkIk4dmrFheMxsqxDfzItq2Ew4V782cg5mBgyQU8G5YrymaKuAnK5GAgXI1lwZFblwBKjRXev6eNin3QY0/s320/fearmatttext2.jpg" /></a></div><p>Little did Matt know how much I needed that encouragement at that very moment. </p><p>Along with JLD (fan term for us Julia Louis-Dreyfus fans), another person on my list of inspirational women is Emm Gryner. A singer-songwriter from Canada, I met Emm ages ago when Paul was making an album with his then band. Her then husband was doing the artwork for Paul and through conversations he learned this man was married to one of Paul's favorite artists. </p><p>"Holy shit, guess who he is married to?"</p><p>"His wife!" (insert me laughing like an idiot and Paul humoring me with a fake laugh)</p><p>"He's married to EMM GRYNER!"</p><p>Paul owned all of Emm's albums and I became a fan through him. Fast forward to today... Emm is one of my dear friends. In the process of becoming her friend, I also totally fangirled out and learned how BADASS she has been over the entirety of her career. Seeing her take charge of her own path has had a major influence on me over the last 15 or so years... more than she will ever know. I often look to her when I'm feeling insecure about my own talent or value. </p><p>Emm has a fabulous series, Ciao Monday, that she releases on her social media every... well, Monday. It's to help her fans forget their Monday blues for a few minutes. And those short videos do the trick, believe me. In each episode, she answers a fan question and since I've been entrenched in spirals of podcast fear for the last couple of months, I asked how she conquers her own fear. Well, no surprise she totally crushed the answer in her video and it helped me immensely.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSV6DQSUlnl4ybxwwsgb1e6i_SHEW0C54VkIi5bxfrhE_MqBvrstVMI7neE3sbeI6iFH4oSkGISv_7r0nZFekIX-IdtFeudxcvTNwZAYassfGxRr1ZAN4FBMIf_SK1lTNENsFQIc9pO-vZ/s361/Screen+Shot+2021-04-19+at+12.52.52+PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="242" data-original-width="361" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSV6DQSUlnl4ybxwwsgb1e6i_SHEW0C54VkIi5bxfrhE_MqBvrstVMI7neE3sbeI6iFH4oSkGISv_7r0nZFekIX-IdtFeudxcvTNwZAYassfGxRr1ZAN4FBMIf_SK1lTNENsFQIc9pO-vZ/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-04-19+at+12.52.52+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">Click <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CN2iWZenAua/">HERE</a> to see Emm's Ciao Monday episode about conquering fear.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"When women step into their power, it involves getting brutally honest with ourselves... a lot of the healing comes from figuring out why." ~Emm Gryner</span></i></p><p>Brutal honesty? I'm fearful of putting myself in a position to be criticized. My succumbing to that fear for the better part of my life has left me with an ocean of regret. <b>Giving in to my fear is not worth it. </b></p><p>It is high time to stamp my footprints on the path that scares me because the safe path is well-trodden, pretty boring and gives me regret diarrhea. And nobody wants that. </p><p style="text-align: center;">~~~</p><p style="text-align: left;">For those interested in my podcast, Hot & Heavy: The Elaine Benes Podcast, please follow <a href="https://www.instagram.com/hotheavyelaine/">HERE</a>.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibnXtaPQHkiracRhTAhyphenhyphenrGOD2rXkkS99d5bwJpbjrbBU6l4vvECmFRjKo7NfLIXpLZCBoA53sACKLadX4e-8OdlAHiRHpd_zwDe39bBtiykSS5kzXCik1ay9dA_rlmqTvVXfv_ElMMvNia/s2430/H%2526HPic.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2300" data-original-width="2430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibnXtaPQHkiracRhTAhyphenhyphenrGOD2rXkkS99d5bwJpbjrbBU6l4vvECmFRjKo7NfLIXpLZCBoA53sACKLadX4e-8OdlAHiRHpd_zwDe39bBtiykSS5kzXCik1ay9dA_rlmqTvVXfv_ElMMvNia/s320/H%2526HPic.PNG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-17814211560904264872021-03-19T11:16:00.001-07:002021-03-19T11:31:17.676-07:00The Entertainment Gap<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkwlhAkT0rhJb1jiPXyjztxsmzoWhoAHoeCQRWuEVLpxs6ixqgVMJSv1IPQ0t1I1G4_CZHQPQGI-elWkI0VwK2hzJ0TMS3skFIG3bV5UqRyuqQ4n_jrfg26lwDy7zJWKpp5oYncczYSoUj/s1936/IMG_7874.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1936" data-original-width="1936" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkwlhAkT0rhJb1jiPXyjztxsmzoWhoAHoeCQRWuEVLpxs6ixqgVMJSv1IPQ0t1I1G4_CZHQPQGI-elWkI0VwK2hzJ0TMS3skFIG3bV5UqRyuqQ4n_jrfg26lwDy7zJWKpp5oYncczYSoUj/w400-h400/IMG_7874.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Some of my expressions while I watch my kids' fave YouTubers</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;">~~~</div><div><br /></div>"Oh wow, that's cool!" I force out.<div><br /></div><div>My daughter is not convinced.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Okay, I'll stop bugging you, Mom. I know you're not into it."</div><div><br /></div><div>I look up from the green onions I'm cutting and watch her skip away. My heart sinks as I open my mouth to stop her, but she's halfway up the stairs before I decide not to lie to her. She wasn't wrong... I was 1000% <b>not</b> into it. I am trying. Wait, am I trying? Perhaps I'm trying harder at my act of looking interested rather than actually being interested. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Sigh, this was going to happen eventually... don't be so hard on yourself.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Well sure, I mentally respond to my self-comforting thought, but shouldn't I fight against the stereotype I see on lazily written sitcoms? The oft-distracted mother who cannot be bothered by her kids. Beyond that, wouldn't it be in my best interest to keep tabs on what my kids are into so that I'm not blindsided when I find something upsetting under their beds... otherwise known as the plot of a lazily written Lifetime movie?</div><div><br /></div><div>No matter what gymnastics I put my thoughts through, the bottom line is that it is happening: I can no longer understand nor tolerate most of what my kids find entertaining.</div><div><br /></div><div>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div><div><br /></div><div>Many phases of parenting are universal. Now, the specific elements may change, but the overall experience of these transitions can be recognized by most parents, no matter when they raised their kids. Right now, the separation between what my kids enjoy and what I and my husband enjoy is widening rapidly... and even though I know it's a natural progression of their development, I must admit it is bumming me out. On the upside, I do appreciate the moments to myself after years of curating my days and hours around my kids' interests. I mean, I used to dream about these days a few years ago. But I also find myself reaching for a railing amongst the rumbling wake of my kids' slipping away. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><u>Not Your Mother's YouTube</u></b></div><div><br /></div><div>My kids have favorite YouTubers. Some are gamers and some are reactors. Some have tons of super cars and others do challenges. Some clearly have sponsors and some just post from their basements. All of them are extremely unappealing to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I've certainly considered the route of banning YouTube from the house, but I quickly dismissed the thought because I don't want my kids to be the odd ones who cannot relate to their peers. I realize that may sound trivial, but <i>I</i> was that kid and I know how isolating that can be. We didn't have cable in my house growing up and so the conversations about Nickelodeon or the videos on MTV were completely lost on me. My parents also didn't allow Nintendo, so any chance to bond over Super Mario Bros or Zelda wasn't possible. As hard as I tried, I couldn't really get a spirited conversation going about a riveting ABC mini-series starring Joanna Kerns.</div><div><br /></div><div>In addition to how foreign this form of entertainment is to me, I also worry about the breadth of content out there for them to stumble onto. I take a little comfort that my kids use my account which is on restricted mode, so for the most part, the videos they watch aren't inappropriate. Annoying as f*ck and insulting to my comedic sensibilities? Hell yes. But not inappropriate. However, that doesn't mean something undesirable can't slip in during a video about achieving the perfect drift in a Lambo. YouTube even tells you that when you choose restricted mode.</div><div><br /></div><div>Paul and I see the whole YouTuber thing differently. He's very quick to dismiss the whole phenomenon as 100% awful and as a sign that the world is on it's way to a poo-filled pit of dumbed down entertainment. I'm not quite so negative about it. I see it as the obvious evolution towards which this tech-heavy generation gravitates. These YouTubers are people who have grown up with the internet, so instead of chastising them as the antithesis of true art, I see them as a loud reminder that subjectivity is ever-present... especially as you get older and the art forms that you cherish are becoming all but extinct. </div><div><br /></div><div>I recently downgraded my YouTube subscription which means my kids are experiencing the interruptions of advertisements numerous times per video. It frustrates them to no end, but my Gen-X ass takes great pleasure in the slight overlap of experience. I resist a full on "back in my day we had to put up with 2 minutes of commercials and we couldn't SKIP any of them" diatribe, but I'll take what I can get. I'm certainly not entertained by the actual YouTuber, but the "UGHHHH" from my kid waiting for a 15-second ad to finish is pure gold.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><u>Parental Amnesia</u></b></div><div><br /></div><div>"Remember this feeling. Remember this feeling. <i>Remember</i>. <i>This. Feeling</i>."</div><div><br /></div><div>As a kid, I'd repeat this to myself whenever I felt like talking to my parents was like talking to aliens. Sure there was the whole immigrant parent gap, but it was more than that. While I'm not as dramatic as Alison the Basketcase from The Breakfast Club when she declares that, "your heart dies" when you grow up, I do surmise that becoming a parent injects your heart and brain with a sort of protection serum. All messaging from those organs are filtered through a watchful lens when it comes to your kids. That good intention to protect your kids can blind you to memories of being their mental and emotional age. I have wanted to avoid that blindness for as long as I can remember.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which is why this period of my parental journey isn't consuming me with despair. I have moments of acknowledging the rapid change in my kids and there are flashes of sadness, but because I really dig deep to fish out my own memories of when I was at their stage of discovery, I know that this is just a natural progression for all of us. There's really no point in resenting it. I cherish the memories with my family of sitting on the couch and everyone enjoying the same movie or television show - everyone laughing together. But, eventually there were large swaths of time where I'd be in my room doing what I wanted; listening to music, acting in the mirror, writing in my diary, etc. As I got older, the interactions with my family became less frequent even though we lived under the same roof, but it didn't mean there was any less love there. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm well aware of the differences in the types of entertainment and the impact it may have on this generation versus my own. This isn't a post about screen time or the emotional affects of social media and curated influencers. Believe me, I do have my worries about all of that, but my approach isn't terribly different from what I described above. Every parent goes through their child dealing with circumstances that are foreign to what they themselves went through. New and unfamiliar shit has always been feared by the older generation. The New York Times reported that the telephone would invade everyone's privacy back in the late 1800s. The Beatles and Elvis were going to ruin our kids! Heavy metal was the devil's music! Back in 1989, I remember my parents watching a 60 Minutes segment about how damaging Bart Simpson could be to the youth of America. He's a cartoon who says, "Eat my shorts!" The horror!! </div><div><br /></div><div>Before you scream "it's not the same!!" I am well aware that those aren't analogous examples... I've watched (and acted in, and got cut from) The Social Dilemma. But the fear of the unknown is the same. Again, this isn't a post about the dangers of the internet on my kids, it's about how I plan to approach all the personal unfamiliarity with my kids. And in a nutshell, it's an approach of acceptance, reasonable protection and compassion for their emotional growth. </div><div><br /></div><div>Whenever my parents would freak out about something I was watching or hearing, I remember saying to them, repeatedly, that just because I watched or listened to something didn't mean I was going to emulate it. And that was coming from a young girl who was easily susceptible to influence! However, that susceptibility had a point and that point had been defined by my parents. I very clearly understood their rules and was scared to death of their wrath. So, I'm firmly planted in the reality that my kids will fall under the spell of influence, that's unavoidable, but I plan to instill in them the foundational values we as their parents expect of them... and <i>hope</i> they listen. That is parenting in a nutshell: guide and hope. </div><div><b><u><br /></u></b></div><div><b><u>Common Grind</u></b></div><div><br /></div><div>I was once told in a corporate performance review that the problem with my work was an obvious "lack of effort." Ouch. Now, it didn't come as a surprise since my track record was littered with half-assery - especially with things for which I had zero passion. That moment, sitting across from a manager who was 2 years younger than me but acted 20 years older than me, rattles around in my mind quite a bit. My effort deficiency has always been a source of shame.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I want to spend time with my kids as they get older, I'm going to have to put in the effort to make that happen. My heart aches at the increased time apart as a family. Sometimes I will look around and notice that everyone has been in separate rooms for hours doing their own thing... which on the surface doesn't seem that bad, but for a mother who is adjusting to her babies increased independence, it can be a melancholy realization. </div><div><br /></div><div>Whether it is dinner, a game or a movie we all agree on (after several trailers are reviewed), we spend time together because I make damn sure it happens. I find myself on high alert for any activity that we may all enjoy, which isn't easy since their likes and dislikes are ever-evolving. At present, we all love Conan O'Brien remotes on the Team Coco YouTube page. The kids are tickled that their parents are actually watching YouTube with them and Paul and I are able to enjoy one of our all-time favorite comedians. It's a win-win. Until one of them gets bored of it and then I'll have to figure out the next thing. </div><div><br /></div><div>It can be exhausting, but half-assing family time isn't in the cards for me. If effort is what it takes... then effort is what I'll bring.</div><div><br /></div><div>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div><div><br /></div><div>Ever since I started writing this post a few days ago, I've consciously changed my approach to the way I respond to my kids' new and emerging interests. Retelling the story from the introduction sort of woke me up to my, again, lack of effort issues I've struggled with in my life. </div><div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday, I sat with my kids and watched a few videos with the intention to not say one negative thing or play Crosswords with Friends on my phone the whole time. I really watched and really listened to my kids as they explained what was going on. And you know, an amazing thing happened - I actually enjoyed myself. Instead of focusing on my distaste for the actual content, I focused on the joy it brought my kids and I enjoyed their joy. And what was even more fabulous was that most of that joy was coming from my engagement in their interests. When I asked if I could watch with them, their eyes LIT up. This pocket of time where my kids actually enjoy sharing their interests with us is temporary, I know that... so I need to savor it. After a few YouTube videos, I watched them play their favorite iPad video games while asking questions and making funny comments. We were laughing... we were together. </div><div><br /></div><div>And, I had to remind myself all over again... <i>remember this feeling</i>.</div><div> </div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br />Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-9401922632674246172021-02-08T07:21:00.001-08:002021-02-08T07:21:46.011-08:00I Want the Truth!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIFug7g5kh6BVHU4u_v5-fj88X0FdjU-RtrLoHnLCbmZjjW-yJFPq1rmsbGvSgrK_nN0MsJFJipqvqpgT5dMq_Fz8SjXPnfoAKK1_tgVA9lB-TMCoqbK7gWROunY4ETMWiSE4ViCqeD8T/s1151/IMG_7499.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="971" data-original-width="1151" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIFug7g5kh6BVHU4u_v5-fj88X0FdjU-RtrLoHnLCbmZjjW-yJFPq1rmsbGvSgrK_nN0MsJFJipqvqpgT5dMq_Fz8SjXPnfoAKK1_tgVA9lB-TMCoqbK7gWROunY4ETMWiSE4ViCqeD8T/w400-h338/IMG_7499.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Preach Lt. Kaffee!</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;">~~~</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: medium;">You Want Answers?</span></u></b></p><p>It never gets old. I've done it hundreds of times. But, it is still my favorite part of the day. </p><p>Picking my kids up from school brings with it an energy that I badly need around 3:45pm each day. As they launch themselves into the backseat of my car under hurried pressure by the carpool monitors, they bring with them loud, joyful greetings, violent backpack drops and a couple of annoyed jabs at each other for an unintentional elbow hit. </p><p>A few days ago, my daughter's energy was noticeably different from the moment she clicked her seatbelt. While my son was halfway through his usual onslaught of school news, I could see through the rearview mirror that my daughter wasn't quite herself. </p><p>"What's wrong?" I asked her.</p><p>"Nothing," she responded. </p><p>Having mastered the art of the "Mom Nag" I didn't accept that dismissal since her watery eyes and slumped shoulders were telling a completely different story. </p><p>"Friend stuff?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Are you feeling sick?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"You seem sad, are you sure you're okay?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Are you just tired?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>We stopped at a stoplight and I mentally reprimanded myself. </p><p><i>Let it go, Sheevani! Yes, she's clearly upset about something, but maybe she just needs a minute. Give her space!</i></p><p>Then I remembered she had her math test that day. So much for letting it go.</p><p>"Oh! How did your math test go?" </p><p>"Fine."</p><p>"You think you did okay?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>Sighhhhh. I was getting nowhere and with the rise of frustration in my chest, I decided to really let it go this time. She will tell me when she's ready... or she won't. These days her friends got most of the chatty attention via FaceTime or texts. I begrudgingly accepted her mood and asked my son to continue about the news of his day.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><u><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></u></p><p style="text-align: center;"><u><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Code Dread</span></b></u></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiED-4JGZvszz2nhw1j2wNY9CAvkSBQ_pDr9jlwqY3dWqAzMu6yEaVLQ8n7B5s5thkxk9a0_TGIxlAnmswDQap3ifEdKHcETNKvYHtii1KDrDrTcVBXT4wYCsV1gI96LoTRYup6hnuElGUL/s494/Screen+Shot+2021-02-03+at+11.16.20+AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="262" data-original-width="494" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiED-4JGZvszz2nhw1j2wNY9CAvkSBQ_pDr9jlwqY3dWqAzMu6yEaVLQ8n7B5s5thkxk9a0_TGIxlAnmswDQap3ifEdKHcETNKvYHtii1KDrDrTcVBXT4wYCsV1gI96LoTRYup6hnuElGUL/w320-h170/Screen+Shot+2021-02-03+at+11.16.20+AM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unit, Corp, God, Country... aaaaand Consequences</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div style="text-align: center;">~~~</div><p></p><p>About a half an hour after we arrived at home, I received an email from my daughter's teacher. The subject read, "Incident from Study Hall." A warm wave of panic made its way down my arms. I could hear the shower running upstairs. My daughter was busy washing the day off of her, no doubt scrubbing away what I was about to read. With a deep breath, I clicked on the message. </p><p>My daughter had cheated on her math test.</p><p>The words bounced around in my vision and the phrases "meeting with the Dean" and "detention" and "disappointed in her behavior" jumped out and stung me like hot oil spattering from a pan.</p><p>I took another deep breath. I re-read the email after my heartbeat slowed and I could absorb each word.</p><p>Since she'd been having some issues with her math test, her incredibly kind teacher allowed her some extra time at the end of the day to complete her test. She was given this time during the study hall period which is where students work quietly at their desks. My girl started getting frustrated and visibly upset which prompted a couple of her friends to go over to her desk with the intention of comforting her... which led to them helping her with the test problems. When the teacher saw this, she reprimanded all three of them. </p><p>Okay. So it wasn't a situation where she had conspired to cheat on her test. Whew... it was a relief to know my daughter wasn't a totally different person than I had known for the past 10 years. What happened was sort of... accidental cheating, but cheating nonetheless. She certainly knew she should have told her friends, "Thanks, but no thanks." </p><p>As I let the situation settle into my consciousness, I felt a range of emotions; disappointment, worry, confusion. After I cycled through my initial reactions, I felt... anger. Anger because she had lied to me over and over again in the car and then again after we got home when I gave it one last effort to get her to open up about what was wrong. Her lies came out as effortless as reflexes... and that crushed me.</p><p>Knowing my girl and her lifelong reputation as a people-pleaser, I knew getting in trouble must have been devastating. Every conference or casual encounter with her teachers since daycare never failed to entail some comment about what a delight she is to have in class. My daughter thrives on this. In fact, the previous night was our parent-teacher conference where the same teacher who caught her cheating had clutched her chest when she expressed how much she loved our daughter. "I absolutely ADORE her," she had said. </p><p>The hiss of the shower ceased. She was done. </p><p>No doubt this was brutal for her, but she still lied to me repeatedly. I was experiencing both anger and sympathy, the combination of which left me with an unexpected stoicism as I climbed the stairs to confront her about what I knew. My legs were moving at a slower pace, weighed down by the realization that this was the angriest I'd ever been at my firstborn child.</p><p>"I just got an email from your teacher," I said. She was standing in the tub wrapped in her towel. Maybe I should have waited until she was dressed. </p><p>"Oh," she said and looked down.</p><p>"Yeah," I said. We stood in silence for a few seconds. </p><p>"She said you're going to have lunch detention next week and..."</p><p>My girl buckled at the knees and started sobbing.</p><p>"Oh NOOOOO!" she screamed. </p><p>"Hey... heyyyy. Come here," I pulled her up and wrapped my arms around her, my shirt soaking in the dampness of her hair. </p><p>Her cries came from deep inside her and then she started shouting into my stomach.</p><p>"I'm the worst kid! I'm so sorry! Punish me however you want, I'm terrible! I'm such a bad kid! Everyone hates me! YOU must hate me! Dad will hate me! My teacher hates me!"</p><p>I swallowed hard. She was breaking my heart, but contrary to my usual empathic ways, I felt no tears coming. I was still too mad at her for lying to me. This was uncharted territory for both of us. </p><p>"Stop," I said gently and pulled away, "you're not a terrible kid. You made a mistake. You made a big mistake. I don't want you to think you're the worst kid, that's not true. You're a really good kid who messed up and now you're going to have to deal with what happens..."</p><p>She nodded her head and wouldn't meet my eyes. I saw the goosebumps on her arms and her kneecaps bouncing with chill. </p><p>"Go get dressed and we'll talk about this some more... go. Oh, and no iPad for tonight and maybe the rest of the weekend, okay?"</p><p>For the next few hours, Paul and I dealt with our distressed daughter. After exchanging emails with her teacher, we understood better the next steps and discussed with her how to navigate the toughest challenge in her young life. </p><p>"Look, I'm actually glad you're this upset, hon, " I said, "it makes me feel better that you understand just how serious this is."</p><p>"And we don't hate you, sweetie," Paul reassured her, "we love you so much, we know you, we know you're a great little girl. But when you make a mistake, you have to accept the consequences."</p><p>She was snuggled up in the crook between her dad's chest and chin when I decided to finally bring up what broke my heart the most. I'd kept it at bay until she was calm enough to hear it. </p><p>"So, I have to say the thing I'm most upset about is how many times you lied to me today."</p><p>Her exhausted eyes looked at me with regret. </p><p>"I mean, I asked you at least 10 times what was bothering you on the way home. I even asked specifically about your math test!"</p><p>"I know," she said softly.</p><p>"Honestly, that's the worst part of this whole thing for me. You've lost some trust with me today. That doesn't mean you can't earn it back, but knowing how many times you lied to me during that car ride home, I... I don't trust you as much as I used to," my voice was thin and strained. She was hearing me, but my hurt and anger made me continue.</p><p>"Even if you think I'll get mad, you HAVE to tell me the truth. Believe me, if I catch you lying, things will go WAY worse than if you just tell me the truth in the first place, do you understand?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Please don't lie," my eyes were closed, "please, please don't lie to me. Seriously, it's my number one rule... DO NOT LIE."</p><p>"Okay, I'm sorry, Mom."</p><p>I opened my mouth to say it again, but one more time felt repetitive. Her eyes were fixed on me and I could feel that moment - my voice, my words, my expression - was making an imprint. </p><p>Will she lie to me again? Of course she will. But at least she knows where I stand on the matter. </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: medium;">ARE WE CLEAR!? Crystal.</span></u></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccVq_GOq2-UbCt1Q9DiBO_7LCsyB1flL7rCE3xLx_87Uwo-FwHi7T9MgmStzj6OmPAqDFt_lLfsDoPVUAA7YmyCfq4OW2nPgJyAcQNyYD1QcUwDv3bxOkwkucepsQFMw634yCbNzX4Ydi/s162/Screen+Shot+2021-02-03+at+11.24.40+AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="108" data-original-width="162" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccVq_GOq2-UbCt1Q9DiBO_7LCsyB1flL7rCE3xLx_87Uwo-FwHi7T9MgmStzj6OmPAqDFt_lLfsDoPVUAA7YmyCfq4OW2nPgJyAcQNyYD1QcUwDv3bxOkwkucepsQFMw634yCbNzX4Ydi/w320-h213/Screen+Shot+2021-02-03+at+11.24.40+AM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watch out Colonel Jessup, Kaffee's GOT YOU!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">~~~</span></div><p></p><p>One of the most jarring things to accept as a parent is the pace at which your kids grow. Sure, legs get longer, chubby feet elongate and the tic-tac teeth disappear... but the mental and emotional growth spurts are what keep me out of breath on a regular basis. Parenting my daughter through this experience was both draining and rewarding. For reasons that are so painfully relevant right now, I cannot think of a more important lesson than accepting consequences when you make a mistake. Hang on, I need to state that again...</p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">ACCEPT THE CONSEQUENCES WHEN YOU MAKE A MISTAKE.</span></p><p>Since our children are witnessing too many adults acting in such foolish and shameful ways, I find myself pushing hard on these life lessons. Lessons which used to be so fundamental but are now being treated with suspicion and hypocritical caveats. I mean, it used to be a bad thing to lie. Remember that? Lying would actually get you in trouble. Now, we are trapped in this backslide where all the things that used to make you a bad person can often be rewarded. I have never been more motivated to fight against the normalization of lying and for fundamental ethics. </p><p>Paul and I also made sure to dispel her of any presumption we have of perfection. We told her we expect her to make mistakes, that mistakes were a part of life. Stories were told from our own lives where we'd messed up and had to face tough consequences. </p><p>"The most important thing is that you learn from every mistake," Paul said.</p><p>"Exactly. If you keep making the same mistakes over and over again without learning from them, that's when I'll be disappointed." I said.</p><p>My daughter was in a funk for the next couple of days, and that showed me she was on a path to regain some of the trust she'd lost. She even self-grounded herself from her iPad when I lifted the punishment. At 6:30 Monday morning, I found her sitting on her bed in tears. </p><p>"I'm just nervous to see my teacher," she said, "and I'm nervous about the detention."</p><p>I was expecting this.</p><p>"I know, but this is what we talked about. Today you are facing the music because you were caught cheating. It will be tough, I don't blame you for being nervous. You got this."</p><p>She nodded and laid her head on my shoulder. I kissed her tear-soaked cheek before getting up to leave the room. Then, in a pure Mom Nag moment, I felt an urge.</p><p>"I'm still really hurt that you lied to me, you know. No matter how hard it is to tell the truth, please do not lie."</p><p>"Okay."</p><p>I had to say it again. Because unlike what Colonel Jessup believes, I CAN handle the truth!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglwAwJFrO-cTFh9h4vUlGs6HXcsmcxzQ9Izd1bKKpRPng-Njt03j8GhU4vSFoB-VX1iwJwMgmTydI5vvTiG0975kvbv-BkrtwvBxlu_ceuZFAfoqUgPmCORiQp6hvs7e3bzm9AX3gRM3M7/s433/Screen+Shot+2021-02-03+at+11.22.58+AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="370" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglwAwJFrO-cTFh9h4vUlGs6HXcsmcxzQ9Izd1bKKpRPng-Njt03j8GhU4vSFoB-VX1iwJwMgmTydI5vvTiG0975kvbv-BkrtwvBxlu_ceuZFAfoqUgPmCORiQp6hvs7e3bzm9AX3gRM3M7/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-02-03+at+11.22.58+AM.png" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-8954519128323901172021-01-12T14:05:00.003-08:002021-01-12T15:37:34.702-08:00A Love Letter to Taco Bell<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRxMxyn1b_Nvy58iJgKMBLL5W2em-o955QgFDqdaZQcEaDQQ8vRarqvpwlHVHB8tApgF-5X_y5XHZcahiBoCf_gQN4zviTeYpE-y8uCP-wMZvd3dzeqHNfDj_hs-kWiydr8-qB5S12rgoD/s508/Screen+Shot+2021-01-12+at+2.58.35+PM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="508" data-original-width="404" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRxMxyn1b_Nvy58iJgKMBLL5W2em-o955QgFDqdaZQcEaDQQ8vRarqvpwlHVHB8tApgF-5X_y5XHZcahiBoCf_gQN4zviTeYpE-y8uCP-wMZvd3dzeqHNfDj_hs-kWiydr8-qB5S12rgoD/w318-h400/Screen+Shot+2021-01-12+at+2.58.35+PM.jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can smell this sign</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;">~~~</p><p>"Would you like any hot or mild sauce?"</p><p>"Lots of hot sauce, please," my dad said. He paid for our entire order with a $10 bill and change left over.</p><p>"Okay sir, your order number is 44 and it will be out shortly, thank you."</p><p>"Just a second, I forgot something..." said my father with a sly glance in my direction. </p><p>My dad looked up at the menu and gesticulated with his finger as if he was really searching for something. The cashier positioned herself in front of the register, her hand hovering over the labeled buttons. I could tell my dad was teeing up a joke, but surprisingly I couldn't guess what it was. He seemed to be stepping outside of his usual dad-joke routine. He smirked and then slowly looked at the cashier, his eyebrows raised.</p><p>"What is free?"</p><p>The cashier furrowed her brows for a moment and then chuckled. Her co-workers took secondary break from preparing food and turned their heads to look at my dad. All in unison they said:</p><p>"Smiles!"</p><p>Yeah, Taco Bell was our happy place.</p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>A couple of mornings ago, my husband and I were adjusting our eyes and brains to the morning light and yes... as is the norm these days, we both grabbed our phones to see if we missed anything crucial overnight. After deleting the barrage of retail emails and skimming our news notifications, I heard Paul make a "huh" sound without any follow-up. "What is it?" I asked.</p><p>Turned out a columnist had written an article about Arby's... yes Arby's... and the important part it had played in his life. It was part of a childhood routine after church on Sundays and remained a constant comfort to him well into adulthood even as his career moved him to cities where a trip to Arby's required a long drive. Sure, the food wasn't anything more than mediocre, but the pleasures came from the comforts of that uncomplicated cuisine, ambience and moments with his father. Arby's just happened to be the backdrop for many of his childhood memories. </p><p>As I stared up at our bedroom ceiling fan while Paul read the article aloud, I was transported to my own version of what this author was writing about. For me, it was Taco Bell, an absolute staple from my childhood and one that I still indulge in when I need a reminder of those simpler times. To say we were "regulars" at a few Taco Bell locations is an understatement. It was our most frequented fast food choice by far and I felt compelled to write about why we so often ran for the border. </p><p><b><u>Brown People LOVE Mexican Food</u></b></p><p>My first job was hostessing at a Mexican restaurant in high school. Casa Lupita was a regular haunt for our family when we wanted Mexican food that was fancier than our beloved Taco Bell. A few months into my new job, a frustrated server came up to the host stand to peep the lobby and tip potential during the last couple of hours of his Saturday night shift. He did a once-over and groaned.</p><p>"You need something, Scott?" I asked while figuring out the next table in my rotation.</p><p>"I need you to not seat me another <i>Indian</i> table," he said half-jokingly with his voice, but un-jokingly with his everything else. </p><p>I glanced at him and rolled my eyes and then noticed the lobby was full of my fellow brown peeps. </p><p>"That's racist, Scott... get away from me." I retorted lightly. Our rapport had that odd air of an Indian 11th grader and a white waiter dude pushing 30, which is to say, I humored his dumb comments and he saw no flaws in his behavior. </p><p>"What? I'm sick of getting stiffed by them!"</p><p>"Stiffed? They don't leave anything?"</p><p>"Well, no... but it's, like, 12 or 13% at the most when I usually get about 20%! Plus, they are high maintenance. Parties of at least 8 people and tons of substitutions. I work my ass off and only clear a 12% tip, it's bullshit."</p><p>Scott wasn't wrong about working his ass off. He was, by far, our best waiter. And as much as it pained me to admit, he wasn't totally off about his assessment of Indian folks who came to the restaurant. Hell, I had been part of those parties of 8 to 12 people (few families, ya know) and cringed when the parents would hound the server with a billion questions. They would ask them to double check with the kitchen about various things and a few choice aunties always looked at their plates with suspicion before raising their finger to ask the harried server, "This is <i>vegetarian</i> chimichanga, right?" As to the tipping practices by our parents, I had to plead ignorance since us kids were always on the opposite side of the table laughing from the sugar high of our Sprites and fried ice cream. But, speaking for my own parents and their affection for chintz, I cannot imagine they were tipping like Rockefellers. </p><p>"Fine," I shrugged, "I'll skip you. But if they request a table your section, you're stuck with them unless you want to switch with Chantal."</p><p>"Shit... and that's another thing, they are never happy with the table!"</p><p>"Oh my GOD, I get it, you hate Indian people!" I shout-whispered into Scott's face.</p><p>His frustration softened as he looked into my eyes with regret. Perhaps it was the lack of political correctness in the 90s or the fact that I was 16... probably a combo of both, but I wasn't as mad about his bigoted rant against my people as much as I was annoyed with yet another server trying to influence my hosting duties! MY territory! </p><p>"Well... I do love YOU!!" he said in a sing-songy voice while putting his arm around me and laying his head on my shoulder. Again, as most 30-year-olds do with teenagers. Shit, hindsight sure is creepy/creepy. </p><p>"But seriously, why do so many Indians like Mexican food?"</p><p>"They just do, okay? I gotta go check tables." I hurried off to do my job, which did not entail explaining the inner-workings of Indian immigrant eating habits to a grumpy, racist waiter. As my eyes swept over the restaurant to assess the vacating status of the tables, his question did burrow into my brain a bit. We Indians <i>loved</i> Mexican food. Ugh, something else Scott was right about. My thoughts didn't delve too deep into the answer that night, I'm sure they were occupied with traumatic flashbacks to the Rachel haircut I had gotten months earlier, but now I can properly analyze the parallels between Indian folks and Mexican cuisine. </p><p><b><u>Por Que?</u></b></p><p>After she arrived in the United States in 1974, one of the biggest complaints my mother had was with the blandness of American food. Indian grocery stores were in short supply back then, so much so that special trips had to be made over the border into Canada to find any decent Indian ingredients. When my mother gave birth to my brother in 1975, a friend of hers snuck Indian food into the hospital since my mother couldn't choke down the hospital food. Even today, my mother's eyes shine with the same relief she felt on that day when her friend opened her purse to reveal Indian flatbreads and shaak (spicy vegetable mix) still warm in Tupperware. </p><p>"Oh god, she saved me," my mother says. </p><p>One thing you cannot say about Indian food is that it is bland. So a lifetime of tasting bold spices doesn't just go away because you move to another country. Starting a life in a completely different land no doubt includes trying to find any comforts of the home you left while assimilating to the new world around you. Food is such an integral part of Indian culture so I'm sure it was difficult for those immigrants landing in the United States in the 1970s, their tongues longing for familiar bold spices in a sea of bland. </p><p>For that reason, it's not difficult to understand why Mexican food appeals to Indian folks. Here's my completely unscientific analysis:</p><p style="text-align: center;"><u><i><b>Spice</b></i></u></p><p>While the flavor profiles between Indian and Mexican food don't totally match, there is a lot of overlap with specific spices used in each cuisine. The majority of what you taste in Mexican food hits the same taste buds as Indian food and makes them dance. Plus, we especially love the options to bring up the heat of the food. Never did my father go to a Mexican restaurant without asking for the extra hot salsa or a side of pickled jalapeños to amp up his already flavorful dish. We Indians enjoy meals that we can taste long after we've left the table. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><u><b><i>Vegetarian options</i></b></u></p><p>When describing the quintessential American person, one often hears the phrase, "Oh, he/she is a real meat and potatoes type." We Indians, for the most part, embrace only half of that nutritional equation. While I did not grow up in a strictly vegetarian household, many of our Indian friends practiced vegetarianism for religious reasons. </p><p>Mexican food is very adaptable to vegetarian options given that beans are a protein choice. Even if we didn't opt for the beans as a meat replacement, you could get a mix of spiced up veggies as filler in your fajitas, quesadillas, burritos... what have you. Mixing both veggies and protein in one dish is big in Indian cuisine. While Indians may do that with a curry or dahl, Mexicans like to do that and wrap it up in a crunchy or soft package! And again, all dishes adaptable to a meatless version. </p><p>Full of bright flavors and vegetarian? "Done and done," says most Indians! </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i><u>Rice & Tortillas</u></i></b></p><p>A tortilla is like roti, naan, chapatti, etc. Rice is like... well rice. So... yeah. (I told you this was unscientific.)</p><p><u><b><br /></b></u></p><p><u><b>Mane Taco Bell Joye Che (Yo Quiero Taco Bell in Gujurati)</b></u></p><p>Now that I've so precisely proven why Indians tend to love Mexican food... enter Taco Bell. Ah yes, Taco Bell. At the mere mention of the name I can smell and taste a very significant foodtrack of my youth (note to self, try to get "foodtrack" trending somewhere). Besides my mother's cooking, Taco Bell holds up as one of my favorite food comforts to this day.</p><p>In addition to the airtight reasons I provided above, in regards to Taco Bell, you can add another one: IT IS CHEAP and Indians are cheap AF. It's okay, I'm allowed to say this. </p><p>Our visits were so frequent, we got to know the employees at our favorite locations. The one on Crooks Road was our "home" location, on the corner of Livernois and Maple was our "backup home" location and then the Saturday location was near Oakland Mall where my mother worked. At each Taco Bell, they knew to add extra onions to our bean burritos, make sure the tostadas weren't soggy and give my dad a side of green sauce (an elusive spicy sauce that wasn't even on the menu!!). </p><p>We all loved it, but my dad was really our Taco Bell champ. A lover of food in general, my father was an equal opportunity employer between fine dining, chain restaurants and fast food. Every new introduction to a fast food menu was a source of excitement and usually a special trip was made to savor all the processed, salty goodness. I still remember when Taco Bell released the Gordita. My father saw the commercial and immediately said we had to try it. Off we went to our "home" location and a few minutes later my dad experienced a mix of emotions. While the actual Gordita satisfied his taste buds to the highest level, he bristled at how "expensive" it was. Paying over $3 for a single item was UNHEARD of with our usual Taco Bell orders, so he resigned himself to order his beloved Gordita only on special occasions. </p><p>As I reflect now on those days, the thought of Taco Bell takes me back to a simpler time in my life and a time when I still had my father around. For a man who could get a overly serious about many things, Taco Bell brought him such uncomplicated joy. More than craving an enchirito (ugh, which they took off the menu last year) or tostada, I crave those memories of my dad's frivolous giddiness while carrying a bloated bag of burritos, tacos - and if it was a special occasion - a Gordita. </p><p>I rarely let myself enjoy Taco Bell these days, but every now and then I will indulge in all of it's cheap-ass pseudo-Mexican food glory. And I have to say, it RARELY disappoints. The flavor always comes through... and so do the memories. </p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>There are arguably better options out there when it comes to casual Mexican dining, but to me, Taco Bell will always win. As I find myself ascending in years, grabbing hold of those connections to my youth gets more and more elusive and slippery. Thanks to that Arby's article, I've gotten lost in the memories of Taco Bell... many of which aren't even very vivid or linear in nature, but are delightfully all-encompassing nonetheless. </p><p>Thanks for the good times, Taco Bell... now, off to get a pricey Gordita in honor of my Dad. </p>Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-42534989573741657122020-12-14T06:59:00.000-08:002020-12-14T06:59:29.814-08:00Tolerance Cap<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSk09L_gHW-GQWyjycGS_716mpoyD2oTC7-6anXRMxUUHfwF4wesrF7P3-wu1tZJnkqroUAyMlrhzhGyK2XyFnLKh_jSgOakllRrT97gNIFgrFp9bozn0IZ6Px2bZ366_2noOmEpwXAFyq/s543/Pizza+Screenshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="543" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSk09L_gHW-GQWyjycGS_716mpoyD2oTC7-6anXRMxUUHfwF4wesrF7P3-wu1tZJnkqroUAyMlrhzhGyK2XyFnLKh_jSgOakllRrT97gNIFgrFp9bozn0IZ6Px2bZ366_2noOmEpwXAFyq/s320/Pizza+Screenshot.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">~~~</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I read her post again.</p><p><i>What the f*ck?</i></p><p>She didn't specify the dreaded name, but it was pretty clear what she was saying. In the moment, I realized the pounding in my chest and agape expression was probably a bit over the top, but it was an honest reaction. </p><p>We had met a couple of years earlier after our daughters became fast friends at daycare. My daughter's first playdate was at her house. The whole playdate thing was a new, and frankly horrifying, concept for me. I wasn't ready to tolerate little toddler friends and... gulp... their parents, too. Well, the first one was as pleasant an experience I could have hoped for. As our daughters played in a playroom, she and I enjoyed a fun conversation while snacking on Trader Joe's apps and iced tea she had so thoughtfully laid out on her back patio. Eventually her husband joined us and he was just as friendly and warm.</p><p><i>Whew. They are cool and normal.</i> </p><p>Now, serveral months and numerous hangouts later, my eyes kept reading and re-reading a Facebook post that horrified me. Never in a million years would I have guessed this could even be a possibility. I mean, I suppose we had never broached certain topics - the conversation always floating on the shallow end of the mom-chat pool, but given what we had in common with values and morals as women and mothers, I really thought I knew her better. But... there it was... no doubt about it...</p><p>She was a Trump supporter. </p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p> Over the last 5-ish years (campaign and presidency), I've grappled with my intolerance of Trump supporters. Aren't I being a hypocrite if I am not tolerant of their beliefs when I consider myself to be a very tolerant person? Shouldn't I just chalk it up to differences of opinions and move on? What does it say about me if I cannot get along with someone because they are on the opposite side of the political spectrum? Can I not disagree with someone and still respect them? </p><p>Well, there are people with whom I disagree... and then there are Trump supporters. </p><p><u><b>It All Started With Sarah Palin</b></u></p><p>GOTCHA! Oh that Katie Couric with her evil journalism asking a person who could be a heartbeat away from the presidency about her reading habits! The NERVE! </p><p>Man, what a simpler time. </p><p>Back in 2008 when Sarah Palin burst onto the scene after John McCain chose her as his running mate, we got our first taste of how low some Americans were willing to drop their standards for those in power. To me, it was the litmus test of friends with whom I really had to question their judgement. Now, I know there had been plenty of other elected officials to be horrified by before Sarah Palin, but as a casual observer of politics, it was the first time I had seen someone so obviously inept on the precipice of one of the highest posts of our government. </p><p>My in-laws happened to be visiting when Palin made her appearance on Saturday Night Live days before the election. After she danced awkwardly next to a hugely pregnant and rapping Amy Poehler, my father-in-law said, "Oh, she's so cute, I'm ready for her to be President!" </p><p>Sigh. That's when I realized how delicate the American psyche can be and the ease at which it can be swayed. "She's cute so who cares how uninformed she is!" Of course we all know she didn't become our Vice President but instead forged on to get lost in a sea of conservative pundits on Fox News and I think there was a reality show... honestly, I don't really know or care what Sarah Palin is doing and for that, I'm very glad. </p><p><b><u>The Big(ot) Reveal</u></b></p><p>I knew racism wasn't over just because the country elected a Black president twice. But I didn't realize so many of my friends and acquaintances were either racist themselves or super chill about racism. </p><p>As I wrote about in another <a href="https://www.impressionista.me/2020/05/unbitten-tongue.html">post</a>, racism has always been an absolute dealbreaker for me and should be a dealbreaker for any decent person. Among the ocean of reasons to disqualify him, one of the most horrifying is that Donald Trump is endorsed by the KKK. The f*cking Ku Klux Klan... a domestic terrorist organization founded on the principle that white supremacy should be the law of the land... endorses Donald Trump. Pretty sure they exclusively endorse filthy racists. Oh, and Trump has never condemned their (and many other hate groups') endorsement because the man has no standards for whoever supports him. </p><p>The friend from the opening story would often share memes on social media touting that the cancellation of friendships based on political disagreements is the highest form of intolerance. In fact, she'd puff her chest as "the most tolerant" person since she would NEVER cut someone loose because of differences of political opinion. She'd act all high and mighty, all the while supporting a KKK-endorsed man who was enacting regulations which rolled back years of progressive policies <b>made possible by tolerance</b>. </p><p>This woman could certainly quote Rachel McAdams from Mean Girls to me with the line, "Whyyyy are you so obsessed with me? " considering how much I've thought about her over the last few years, but I'm okay with that. I'm an analytical person who is fascinated by human behavior, hell, that is pretty much why I started this blog. </p><p>I'd wonder how the woman I knew to be compassionate and sensible would respond to all the abhorrent things the president would do or say. I'd wonder how she'd respond to one of her 3 daughters asking, "Mom, why do you support a man who says he can grab women by the pussy?" or, "Mom, why do you like a guy who has been accused by multiple women of sexual assault?" or, "Mom, why are you on the same side as Neo-Nazis?" It didn't compute that this same woman who I knew to be a very clear feminist from our many conversations, who championed women ascending the ranks in business and sports, who was disgusted when I told her of a mother at the daycare telling me, "Oh, I don't bother explaining different races to my daughter, if someone isn't white she just assumes they are black," after said daughter had asked me why I was black and my daughter was white.... it did not compute that this friend could have displayed those beliefs and then justify her support of Donald Trump. </p><p>On occasion, usually when I was so tired of being pissed off all the time, I'd revisit her high horse claims about being so tolerant with her friends who disagreed with her, and admittedly, I'd reevaluate my feelings and entertain the possibility that I was being too hard on her. </p><p>The attempts of justification went like this: </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>She's a party loyalist and it would be unthinkable to vote for the opposing party. Shit, I couldn't ever imagine voting for a Republican. </li><li>She's a single or specific-issues voter. Okay, she may not love his personality, but tax cuts and/or anti-choice policies take top priority. </li></ul>So, in my softer moments, I'd give her some leeway. But then I'd see her share a Pride meme or post support about the first African American CEO of some tech company and I'd think... no bitch, you cannot have it both ways. You cannot pick and choose your progressive causes and then vote for someone who will hurt the very people you claim to support. It's like a vegan only eating plant-based foods but then slaughtering cows in her backyard. If you kill cows, you are not a vegan. If you vote for KKK-endorsed Trump, you're not an ally to <b>any</b> marginalized community. <p></p><p><u><b>Long Division</b></u></p><p>I wish I didn't approach people with such trepidation like I do now. When I meet someone new, I try and size them up as a Trumper or Non-Trumper based on various clues. Hmmm, the thin blue line flag on their car, probably a Trumper. Oh, they shared a post about ways to slow down climate change, probably not a Trumper. I go against my instincts and judge people based on trivial clues like a poor man's Jessica Fletcher from Murder She Wrote. It's such a shitty way to be and it enrages me even more since that's exactly the type of division Donald Trump incited and thrives on - to see others as either an ally or an enemy, no in between. </p><p>I saw numerous Trump signs around my neighborhood and Trump support from various friends over the last few months. Yeah, I was disappointed, but I refuse to treat them like my enemies. I still wave and smile at that neighbor, give them a cup of sugar if they need it... I post a heartfelt message to that friend who started her own business... I check in on that mom from school who is struggling with the pandemic. Being true to who I am is not something I can lose, so I will always lead with kindness. Now, will these friends be invited over for a fun movie night and dinner any time soon? Nope.</p><p>Their support of this man has forever tainted my view of them and over the last few years, I've learned there is a limit to my tolerance: When you show me a total disregard for fundamental values to protect the sanctity of human rights for all, I'm not going to waste my time and energy to accept your ignorance. I will not attack you or intimidate you for your beliefs, but don't expect me to respect how you vehemently defended behaviors you would <b>never</b> accept from your child, your boss, your partner, a customer service rep, a person in line at the grocery store, your neighbor... and yet, the most powerful person in the world gets a pass in your book. </p><p>I struggle with feeling this way, I have to be honest. And I have been writing and re-writing this section of the post because I am so uncomfortable that I am offending those friends. But then I remind myself of all the inhumane, treasonous and un-American actions they opened the door to and I know my feelings are valid. If my words offend or hurt you, take all of that emotion and multiply it by 1000 and you'll begin to understand how I feel. Your active role in the dismantling of decency and democracy has consequences and losing some friendships is just one of them. When you decide to stand alongside the KKK, I will never unsee that. </p><p>Currently, I am reading A Promised Land by Barack Obama and there was one part that sort of reminded me of this post on a much larger scale. When Obama had to distance himself from his reverend, Jeremiah Wright, due to the incendiary statements he had made during some of his sermons, the conversation to sever ties was torturous for the former president. While he couldn't deny what Wright had said was wrong, he was also hurting a man who had done nothing but show him kindness and support throughout his time in Chicago. When his communications director, Robert Gibbs, checked on him after the chat with Wright, Obama was distraught with guilt. The following sentence really resonated with me. He is speaking of Gibbs here:</p><p><i>But perhaps because he'd grown up in Alabama, he understood better than most the complications of race, religion, and family, and how good and bad, love and hate, might be hopelessly tangled in the same heart.</i></p><p>We are all complicated humans and nothing can be as cut and dry as we'd like sometimes. Emotions are complicated and my struggles with moving on after finding out the beliefs of those friends will probably go on for the rest of my life. If it's not a Trump supporter, it will be something else. But I do know I want to live in a world where we can treat each other with respect and kindness always... and more specifically, I want to surround myself with those who inspire me to evolve into the best version of myself... I don't have time for anyone else. </p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>To sum up, I want to thank Donald Trump. Seriously.</p><p>Before 2016, my interest in politics was so lukewarm it may as well have been all the take-out food I've ordered during the pandemic. Even though I grew up with a self-admitted "political junkie" father and many family members who were heavily involved with civic awareness, I could never get into it. When conversations would turn to politics, I'd feel like an idiot because I had no idea what anyone was talking about. I was a goddamn POLITICAL SCIENCE major at Michigan State University and yet... nope. Ironically, I think it was my time studying political science that turned me off to that world. Once I saw how broken the system was and that representation only went so far as a secure re-election bid, I mentally checked out. How could I trust anyone in office?</p><p>My lack of awareness wasn't anything I boasted or was proud of, but it wasn't anything I tried to change either.</p><p>That is until I saw the very fabric of our country at risk with Donald Trump as the Republican nominee and then saw how many people were totally on board with his possible presidency. Holy shit that woke me up. It roused me not only from my slumber of political laziness, but to how much apathy I had surrounding me. Friends I cherished were turning a blind eye to a very serious threat to our democracy. </p><p>"Oh, I just don't get into politics." </p><p>Then I realized, oh god, I was just like them. Sure, I voted every four years since 1996 (never in a midterm) and watched a debate here and there, but by no means could I count myself as an informed voter. I now know I was basking in the luxe of my privilege. </p><p>Those days are over. I will never again opt for apathy just because my lifestyle will not be affected by a policy. There was a reason I was always a tad embarrassed about my lack of contribution to political discussions. It was the correct emotion because there is no good excuse to be ignorant about what is going on in your own country, state, county, city, town, neighborhood and backyard. </p><p>Today I'm more aware of issues than ever before. I know a hell of a lot more about a myriad of government processes and I am hungry to learn more. I realize now that all politics start locally and that if you want change, you have to get involved. So yes, if it hadn't been for the nightmare of Donald Trump's presidency, I would never have woken my ass up to the world of politics. You cannot change what you do not know - my plan is to know <i>everything</i>. </p><p>So yeah, thanks Don... BYEEEEEE!</p>Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-61452812523497427692020-09-27T09:49:00.002-07:002020-09-28T06:49:08.045-07:0042<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix5VSFTkjelvQ6IsBV8QqlUdCTmwLna1y489h-LDJEWviTJQat6nVuLKvAwqr1A0K7SfX8Zs_4Dz3Lf14QmtmR55VGbC4fA0VVdecoLZsQz-evlFRqDfHaU5KPX8UqQYQK6l7XOTl361bk/s2048/42.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix5VSFTkjelvQ6IsBV8QqlUdCTmwLna1y489h-LDJEWviTJQat6nVuLKvAwqr1A0K7SfX8Zs_4Dz3Lf14QmtmR55VGbC4fA0VVdecoLZsQz-evlFRqDfHaU5KPX8UqQYQK6l7XOTl361bk/w261-h348/42.JPG" width="261" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Freshly 42.</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;">~~~</p><p>Self-help books have always gotten a bad reputation, at least in my television and cinematic experience. I saw Bridget Jones toss all her advice books in the trash along with her cigarettes and empty vodka bottles as a sign that she was "getting herself together." In an episode of Sex and the City, a newly separated Charlotte approaches the Self-Help aisle at Barnes and Noble (or as Carrie says in her witty narration, "the self-HELL aisle") only to see heavy-handed portrayals of depressed people reading and sobbing in the middle of the store. </p><p>So yeah, my perception of reading a self-help book was anything but positive a couple of years ago when one was recommended to me by a friend. This friend, who I consider an incredibly bad-ass lady hero of mine, sent me a book called, "You are a Badass." We were texting about a very problematic professional relationship I was in the middle of dissolving and she suggested I read it. Since I trusted this person so much, I decided to download the book.</p><p>Since then, I've read a few self-help books and while none of them personally live up to the pull-quotes on the back covers, I have gotten at least a handful of helpful tips from each... all of which have elevated my life experience in different ways. </p><p>Most recently, I listened to the book, "Buy Yourself the F*cking Lillies" by Tara Schuster. Of all the books I've read in the self-help/advice genre, this one was probably the most enjoyable for me personally. Tara is a huge proponent of journaling. She often cites how her bevy of journals helped her figure out a lot of the destructive patterns in her life. One of the first pieces of advice she gives early in the book is to start a practice called, "Morning Pages." This entails writing 3 pages of thoughts, word-vomit style, first thing in the morning. Keep the journal at your bedside table, she says. Wake up, get journal and write 3 single-spaced pages of whatever is on your mind. </p><p>I could do that, I thought. That very day I picked up a cute journal from Target, put a reminder on my phone and waited until the next morning to start my journaling adventure. It's been fantastic so far and I really enjoy the freedom to get my thoughts out in any way, shape or form every single morning. It takes about 20 minutes out of my morning routine, so I get up 20 minutes earlier. Totally doable and totally worth it. </p><p>10 days into my morning pages adventure, I celebrated my 42nd birthday. And well... I had a lot of thoughts about turning 42 that morning. I've decided to share that entry on my blog because it turned out pretty decent. Considering most of my pages have so far consisted of complaining about making school lunches, which Hamilton song is stuck in my head and a list of what I need to get done that day, I was rather pleased to have my best entry fall on my birthday. So, here it is in all its word-vomit glory... </p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>9-26-2020</p><p>Ha! I almost wrote '1978' in the date. 42. I feel so lucky. My life has taken some twists and turns but I'm sure I am exactly where I'm supposed to be. It's funny, you grow up thinking the younger you are, the better life must be and yes... youth has it's benefits. But while physically you are perhaps more tolerant of indulgence whether it be with food, drinks or a more sleep-deprived way of life, emotionally you are most likely a mess. At least I was. As I wake up today having completed 42 years on this Earth, I sort of feel like I've just begun. After turning 40 a couple of years ago, a major mind shift occurred almost instantly. The theme of that mind shift being that <u>I am the one who controls the trajectory of my life</u>. No longer do I default to the stereotypical wife and mom narrative of "my life revolves around my family." That was the story I was sliding into, like being pulled by a tractor-beam into a large spaceship in the shape of a mini-van covered in stick figure family decals. Nope. I still had dreams and goals of my own that only I had the control to propel towards. No more fucking excuses. And I had so many excuses. In fact, I believe I had inherited the excuses trait from my dad. I love him so much, but Daddy sure could think of every excuse NOT to do something and it infuriated me as a kid. I'm sure he had his reasons, but as a kid, all I knew or saw was that my dad never wanted to take a risk or go through any inconvenience for the sake of fun or a better life. That's a short-sighted take, I know that now at the wise age of 42, but even then I knew I did not want to be like that. And what happened? I began to do just that. Finding every possible reason why my dreams were unattainable. Especially in my mid to late 30s it was so easy to say, "Well, I'm way too old now, I blew it." Even though I was doing improv and exhilarated by performing, there was an element of feeling sort of pathetic. "Am I just the older lady that everyone humors?" I really don't think I was, but it didn't stop me from letting those thoughts enter my headspace. Today, I know and more importantly, I believe what I'm capable of. There wasn't one thing that changed my mind either. Like, I didn't have a conversation or read some life-changing book. It was all me and I'm fucking proud of that. My body, mind and soul finally decided I could create the life I would be at peace with whenever I'm taking my final breath. There were small moments of clarity that would wash over me and they were inspired by other moments - hearing an interview with accomplished writers or actors, finally allowing myself to listen to people who believed in me rather than those life-doubters to whom I gave years and years of power. And most of all... I was plain exhausted. It's fucking exhausting making excuses all the time. There's some statistic that says it takes 4x more muscle power to frown than to smile. I'm not sure the actual numbers, but you get the gist. Well, it takes so much more out of you to knock yourself down under the surface of your potential than it does to bounce up and do the work. And yeah, it's fucking work and hustle and figuring out very new paths with almost no information... but the "figuring out" itself is the joy, at least for me. I'm working everyday to give my life some real meaning. Today, as a 42 year old woman, I have never felt more like myself, more sure of what I'm doing and more proud of who I am.</p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>OMG, Sheevani... brag much? I guess I do. I'm never going to apologize for figuring out that I'm worth something and neither should you! Just a little advice for ya... </p>Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-22855260205905476022020-09-20T16:40:00.002-07:002020-09-20T17:19:34.439-07:00All Boys Allowed, Period<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgin8UDQB2JKOgOFuTta1lHDhm9a3hae9AJq2SSk9H9BFon4mHOj-lcrfgl0OXCnddzDgHeK5TkTLLi8fpV7o094SSlpgZyYC_3iyJkdyxL0lLkFf5o3twhrdWm2Cc2WnmJCDlWnLrefkqn/s534/Screen+Shot+2020-09-20+at+6.12.42+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="534" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgin8UDQB2JKOgOFuTta1lHDhm9a3hae9AJq2SSk9H9BFon4mHOj-lcrfgl0OXCnddzDgHeK5TkTLLi8fpV7o094SSlpgZyYC_3iyJkdyxL0lLkFf5o3twhrdWm2Cc2WnmJCDlWnLrefkqn/s320/Screen+Shot+2020-09-20+at+6.12.42+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kristy just moments after her big life moment. Photo: The Babysitter's Club<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;">~~~</p><p>It was a perfect Sunday afternoon, complete with elastic waistbands and bellies full of breakfast pastries only reserved for a lazy weekend morning. </p><p>"Can we watch something, Mom?" my daughter asked.</p><p>"Of course! But you both have to agree. I don't want a fight."</p><p>"Babysitter's Club?" my daughter asked.</p><p>I braced for my son's whine and nasally request for an off-roading YouTube video. </p><p>"Sure!" he exclaimed.</p><p>"Mom, will you watch with us?"</p><p>We all snuggled on the couch as my girl scrolled through the episodes. Since they had both seen the entire first season of the Netflix series, episodes were now chosen based on my kids' personal rankings. Which, thank goodness, seemed to be similar.</p><p>"Oh, Kristy's Big Day!" my son excitedly said.</p><p>"Yeah!"</p><p>The episode, which mainly focuses on the wedding of Kristy's mother, also includes a big milestone for Kristy herself - getting her first period. The moment is treated with the perfect combination of sincerity and humor and then knocks it out of the park with a display of beautiful female support. After Kristy discovers her period has arrived in the middle of her mother's wedding reception, her closest friends are right there with a pad and hugs. I was so lost in the magical girl-power of it all that the next moment felt like a poke in the eye. </p><p>"What is going on?" my son asked.</p><p>"Huh? What do you mean?"</p><p>"That... Kristy's... what happened in the bathroom?" my son said with his index finger pointing at the screen.</p><p>My 7-year-old son wasn't following the first period storyline. Why the hell would he? I froze in the moment and could feel my knee-jerk response of "it's hard to explain" brimming at my lips when I had moment of clarity. It's not that hard to explain, after all. I mean, I wouldn't have to go into every scientific detail, but I could give <i>some</i> explanation. Before I could utter my off-the-cuff period lesson, my daughter interjected.</p><p>"It's a girl thing. You don't need to know." she said.</p><p>Okay, that was all I needed to kick my ass into gear. Bullshit he doesn't need to know. </p><p>"Now wait a second, actually he should know," I started with my heart pounding and my butthole firmly clenched, "Kristy started her period. That's something that girls get around her age because their bodies are changing. It's totally natural and just means she's growing up into a woman."</p><p>He looked at me with furrowed brows and I knew there were more questions coming. I mean, let's face it, I gave a solid C minus definition.</p><p>"But what did Mary Anne give her? She said to put it on her underwear?"</p><p>Oh boy... well, can't stop now!</p><p>"Okay, so when a girl gets her period, she bleeds. Um... blood comes out of her... (unnecessary throat clear)... her vagina. So a pad is like a protective kind of towel that keeps her underwear and clothes from getting... er, bloody."</p><p>My words were echoing around my brain like a bad remix of a PM Dawn song. Towel? Did I say a pad is like a towel? That was weird. Whatever. While the wording may have been odd, I was glad that I didn't shy away from explaining a period to my son. I looked at him, his big hazel eyes darting around, absorbing what I told him. AH! I should have used "absorb" in my clunky explanation. </p><p>"Feel free to ask me any questions, buddy." I said.</p><p>"No, that's okay," he said, "Hey rewind it! I like when Richard asks if his shirt smells like meat!"</p><p>My son flopped back down on my chest and I wrapped my arms around him. Whew, that was a moment I didn't expect to have with him for a few more... well, wait... I don't think I ever planned on having that conversation with him. How dumb.</p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>My memories of the sex education unit I sat through in 5th grade are sparse to say the least. We watched a video showing 80s, poofy-haired girls talking about hiding their pads and tampons in their jean purses. In between the robotic delivery of poorly written dialogue, we saw animated depictions of our reproductive organs with a little cartoon egg making it's way through our fallopian tubes and so on. I do remember how that 30-minute video showed so much detail, but the word "blood" was never uttered. Instead, I believe the narrator mentioned the "shedding of tissue" or something without any animated visual aid to help us understand. </p><p>After the projector made that flapping noise and our eyes adjusted to the lights, I remember thinking, "What the heck are pads for?" At age 10, I wasn't a believer in the notion that there "are no stupid questions," so I kept my burning query to myself. Luckily, a classmate raised her hand immediately. </p><p>"I don't get it, what are pads and tampons for?"</p><p>The two female 5th grade teachers glanced at each other, shifted nervously and waited for the other to speak. Finally, Mrs. Freeman broke the silence. </p><p>"Well, honey, to catch the blood."</p><p>You would have thought Freddy Krueger entered the room. We all gasped and yelped at the thought of blood coming out of our vaginas! The teachers tried to quell our horror, but it was useless, so they handed out a pamphlet and sent us out to recess. On the other side of the hallway, the boys were handed a pamphlet about boners or whatever and also sent out to recess. By the time we were in our single-file lines coming back in, there were dozens of ripped pages with illustrated pubes, breasts and dongs blowing all over the playground. That was probably the last year they let kids take the puberty pamphlets out to recess. </p><p>I felt dread as I walked home that day... my brain heavy and confused with all the new information. One thought that was not confusing? I was terrified to get my period.</p><p><u><b>Let's Talk About Sex, (my first) Baby</b></u></p><p>My daughter will be going through the sex education unit this year. She's in 5th grade and if I'm honest, I'm excited for her to learn about her body. I feel a strong need for her to understand herself and to not be ashamed of her parts. Growing up, I never felt comfortable talking to anyone about my body. Not that I felt ashamed, per se, but it was more a belief that everything about sex or puberty shouldn't be discussed openly. </p><p>F*ck that. I've already started the conversation a little bit with my girl. She has seen my feminine products and asked me why I need a heating pad on my abdomen sometimes. Without hesitation, I've answered her questions. Depending on her age, I would tweak the explanation, but within the last year, I've sensed her curiosity go from "what's my Mom doing" to "this will happen to me sometime soon." </p><p>Even though my first period wasn't as traumatic as I thought it would be, I definitely did not feel comfortable talking about all the emotions of that day with anybody. So, that's what I hope to be for my daughter - the person she can come to when she sees blood on her underwear for the first time. And not only me, but Paul as well. There is no reason a father cannot help his daughter during one of the biggest transitions in her young life. While he may not be able to give any experiential advice, he can simply be there with an ear or a hug, whatever she needs... and play a very important role in cementing her acceptance of her beautiful body. </p><p><b><u>Got Penis?</u></b> </p><p>Hey men! Chances are you know at least one woman, right? I thought so. Congratulations, you have qualified to learn about what we ladies go through. </p><p>When I think back to my sex ed unit back in 1989, I find it a bit silly that they separated the boys and girls into different rooms. Just because you don't have the parts means you shouldn't learn about what the other gender experiences? That makes no sense to me. Both genders benefit from learning about the others' experience. If I had learned about boy parts, perhaps my penis-ignorant brain wouldn't have imagined that pubic hair grew down the entire shaft. Yeah... I was 19 before I knew a penis wasn't covered in hair from base to tip like a little Alf hanging from men's bodies. That was a big reason why I was scared to DEATH to see a real-life penis for a long time. I think I just heard my late father sigh with relief. </p><p>Expanded education can help de-stigmatize all the changes women experience in their lives. Maybe if a girl bleeds through her pants in class, instead of being grossed out, our boys could serve up some supportive energy and dampen the humiliation for their female classmate. When a new mother is nearing the end of her maternity leave, wouldn't it be fantastic if the transition back to the office could be handled in a way that takes into consideration all of the emotions she may be going through? When a woman is experiencing a hot flash in a meeting, supportive men at that table can take note and give her space to deal all the debilitating symptoms of menopause. Acceptance and understanding by our male counterparts <u>without</u> judgement is the way to move forward and improve the operations of any society. Girls and women should never feel ashamed or penalized for simply going through natural lady stuff. </p><p>From periods to pregnancy to motherhood to menopause... be in our corner, guys. </p><p><u><b>Timing Terror</b></u></p><p>I recently figured out that I will likely be experiencing the onset of menopause at the same time my kids' will be going through their own hormonal rollercoasters with puberty. Ohhhhhh man. That realization stopped me in my tracks... literally. I was on my daily walk when I did the math and my feet stopped receiving messages from my brain since it was processing so much terrifying information. I'll be 42 in a few days, and peri-menopause can start as early as... well, tomorrow. DEEP BREATHS, SHEEVANI. </p><p>Well, since my name isn't Marty or Doc or Biff, I have zero chance of taking a time machine to alter my history, so I have to tackle the hormonal intersection of me and my kids head on. Honestly, I think the awareness of this reality is a good thing. While I'm not sure how I will handle menopause when it arrives, I can hopefully keep in mind that we are all going through some very natural transitions that may cause some tension, bad moods, emotional tirades, physical discomfort, etc. I include Paul in this as well, not that he will be dealing with anything hormonal per se, but he will be dealing with 3 very unpredictable people for a few years. Any help you can send his way is much appreciated, please and thanks.</p><p>Since both my kids are old enough where I can remember myself at their ages, I rely heavily on my own memories from those times to guide my parenting. My mission is to approach them with understanding and empathy. I remind myself how emotional I was in junior high, how sensitive and moody I could be in my teens and so on. So often during my formative years, my feelings were dismissed and invalidated. Because of that, I feel a responsibility to apply my experiences as a guide to help my kids deal with some brutal shit. That's not to suggest that hormonal changes absolve all shitty behavior, mind you... for me or them. My hope is that keeping a constant hum of empathy in my soul will help squash some serious meltdowns over the next 10 years. Seriously... keep Paul in your thoughts.</p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>I'm writing this post in the wake of the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Her tireless work as a champion for women and gender equality is something for which I will forever be grateful. As I think about her life's work as it relates to this post, I'm not sure there's a better way to wrap up my sentiments than with her wise words:</p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #323232; font-family: Charter, Georgia, Times, serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(50, 50, 50); font-size: 19px;">"Women will have achieved true equality when men share with them the responsibility of bringing up the next generation." - Ruth Bader Ginsburg</span></span></span></p>Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-52874853417674262872020-09-12T13:02:00.001-07:002020-09-12T13:02:23.408-07:00The Backslide<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrZ5hyphenhyphenRA8Nc5tAPQvRsj67uTVr0-ff_C6_AJ7rC4Jz9HxRFVdRYaleDn1Ab-LU041rD-B_w1VBZuokmFzfe4VQnkE6VTZlYA3-dP9UNM6vvLxkkgppDI7OeF4stbuxtNz84cl3_RO-hf1n/s774/Backslide+Pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="774" data-original-width="526" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrZ5hyphenhyphenRA8Nc5tAPQvRsj67uTVr0-ff_C6_AJ7rC4Jz9HxRFVdRYaleDn1Ab-LU041rD-B_w1VBZuokmFzfe4VQnkE6VTZlYA3-dP9UNM6vvLxkkgppDI7OeF4stbuxtNz84cl3_RO-hf1n/w339-h500/Backslide+Pic.jpg" width="339" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A dear friend posted this at the exact moment I needed to see it. (Thanks Kristine) <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: center;">~~~</p><p>I checked again even though I had just checked 30 seconds ago. </p><p>"Stop," I exhaled.</p><p>My part of my heart that had healed a little bit started to ache again, and I could feel the worn down splinters re-break with every passing minute, hour and day.</p><p>I reached for my phone.</p><p>"Just let it go," I told myself.</p><p>I leaned back and closed my eyes. Goddammit. All the progress I made is slipping away... I'm giving up that power... again. I'm so mad at myself... again. But, it's just for today. Tomorrow, that power is all FUCKING MINE.</p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>Awhile ago I wrote about needing the <a href="https://www.impressionista.me/2018/12/validation-station.html" target="_blank">validation</a> of people who have shown no genuine interest in me. I waxed poetic about how that was all in the past and how only I determine my self-worth from now on. Boy, had I been living in a paradise. While I still believe in the message of what I wrote, keeping that up is really damn hard. Especially when tested. </p><p>I've let myself backslide and now I have to forgive myself. </p><p>Rather than focus on the person who I am allowing to break me down (I've spent enough time and tears on said person in the last week), I'm focusing on how important it is to allow for these episodes of backslidation (new word alert) while also remembering the progress that has been made. I'm talking putting all that progress on huge-ass mental billboards in my brain so I do not let a couple acts of hurtful indifference consume my mental well-being. </p><p>Part of my refocused energy is to nurture the relationships that bring out the best in me. As someone seeking constant evolution, I need to practice better outreach to those who have shown me nothing but support, love and healthy challenge for my entire life. Why waste my time begging for scraps from someone who has no interest in feeding me when I have a trove of incredible folks tossing me the tastiest items from their emotional kitchens? Is that a taco supreme from my cousins? GULP! Oh, look at that avocado toast from my best friend! GULP! Damn, a big bowl of coffee ice cream (that won't make me fart) from my comedy peers? GULP! I'm gonna let myself get fat with love from those who are worthy. I've wasted enough time starving myself. </p><p>I won't be able to truly leave behind all of these hurt feelings, I know that. It's okay. And one day, I hope to have the courage to have a discussion that could help. I'm really scared though. And that's okay as well. One thing at a time. </p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>If any of you are dealing with similar struggles, I'd love to chat about it! Please drop me a line or comment below. Take care of yourself and remember... rid yourself of toxic people and keep those who make you a better person. xoxo</p><p><br /></p>Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-79200746498559195462020-08-23T15:50:00.007-07:002020-08-23T18:44:57.958-07:00No Pain. No Gain. No Love?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz44C_8KPqw0waLFKnoCEdScxJG2wksytgE1hn0JEQ6qdohQkZB4cJYnu4MT8TjvAoRxf_Mj-L31sltb0M0PUOhonyhW5jyJRyXMHlb9scukyIF9m75lyFhPe_lbCvTGiobYP8XT85nbTr/s2048/https---www.si.com-.image-MTcyNDczNTk3MzYzNzU4MTYz-michael-jordan-last-dance-episode-7.png.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1148" data-original-width="2048" height="359" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz44C_8KPqw0waLFKnoCEdScxJG2wksytgE1hn0JEQ6qdohQkZB4cJYnu4MT8TjvAoRxf_Mj-L31sltb0M0PUOhonyhW5jyJRyXMHlb9scukyIF9m75lyFhPe_lbCvTGiobYP8XT85nbTr/w640-h359/https---www.si.com-.image-MTcyNDczNTk3MzYzNzU4MTYz-michael-jordan-last-dance-episode-7.png.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael Jordan's emotional moment that inspired this post</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;">~~~~~</p><p>"COME ON!!!!!!"</p><p>"Not so loud, Sheel! GOD!"</p><p>"Shut up! We're playing the Bulls! We have to beat them!!!"</p><p>I rolled my eyes at his retort, but fixed my eyes back on the basketball game. Truth be told, thanks to my brother I had gotten very into our "Bad Boys" and hoped they would win their first NBA championship. Through forced viewings of all Detroit Pistons games, I knew enough to know that the Chicago Bulls with superstar Michael Jordan were a huge hurdle to achieve that goal. The weight of the Eastern Conference Finals was palpable in the Desai household in the spring of 1989, and watching game 6 next to my brother was the most tense I'd ever been about a sport in my short life.</p><p>"YEAAAHHHHHH!!!"</p><p>"Well, there you have it folks, the Detroit Pistons have defeated the Chicago Bulls to take the Eastern Conference and advance to take on the Los Angeles Lakers for the championship," boomed Pat O'Brien into his CBS microphone.</p><p>Sheel was running around our living room, jumping and cheering loudly as our father entered from the back of the house.</p><p>"They won?"</p><p>"Yeah!! They won!!"</p><p>Sheel ran over and awkwardly high-fived our grinning dad. We all watched as Isaiah Thomas and John Salley engaged in sportsmen handshakes with Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen. </p><p>"That's right! Take that Jordan!" Sheel roared at the television as if our chunky box RCA television set had some sort of Royal Oak to Chicago megaphone into Chicago Stadium. </p><p>I watched as Michael Jordan hung his head and walked off the court while the announcer said how the championship had, yet again, eluded the best player in the league. Even at 10 years of age, my empathetic side swelled and I felt bad for him. Imagine being the best player in the NBA, but having to walk off a court without a chance to win the big trophy. </p><p>Even though I was so happy for our Detroit Pistons, my mind kept going to thoughts of Michael Jordan. What would he do that night? Will he cry? Does he watch the rest of the playoffs or is it too painful? </p><p>Sheel would go on to watch more of the post-game coverage which would include interviews with the players, including Michael Jordan, where some of my questions would have been answered. As for me, on that early June night, I went back to my room with one big question:</p><p>How does Michael Jordan deal with losing?</p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p><b><u>Bull-y</u></b></p><p>I recently watched The Last Dance on Netflix and was surprised at how much I enjoyed it. In an effort to get out of my nightly Gilmore Girls rut, I tuned in to the docu-series that highlighted the championship-laden era of the Chicago Bulls. The 10-episode series covered a myriad of aspects of the team all leading up to their last Larry O'Brien trophy with Michael Jordan in 1998. The series, through interviews with the notable participants, beautifully showed how each piece fit into a carefully constructed puzzle that built an unstoppable team during the 1990s. The most essential piece, of course, was in the shape of Michael Jordan. The story is very much from his perspective; the what and how of everything he has done in his career with the why simply being his passion for winning. Every old teammate who took part in The Last Dance spoke about Jordan in a very measured way, carefully choosing their words. The one constant? They all respected his drive and raw talent. </p><p>Respect is one thing, but it was also very clear that not one of his former teammates consider him a close friend. I'm not sure any of them would even see him as a cordial acquaintance at this point. I had noticed the disconnect of that sentiment while watching all the interviews with those who were professionally closest to him, but it wasn't until the last 3 minutes of the seventh episode where the question was explicitly asked by the documentarian: </p><p><b><i>Through the years, do you think that intensity has come at the expense of being perceived as a nice guy? </i></b> </p><p>The pause that follows and his subsequent response caught me off guard and, quite frankly, looped in my mind for a couple of days. Just as I spent time thinking about a defeated Michael Jordan that night in 1989, my empathetic side took over as I watched an older, tearful Jordan come to the realization of his unlikable reputation. That despite the fact he helped these guys achieve the highest success possible in their careers, they cannot bring themselves to LIKE him as a person. He almost seemed surprised at the question, but it also appears the question itself confirmed something he had always suspected: he cannot call his old teammates his friends. </p><p>In his response, there wasn't a hint of defending his method as a leader; he knows how harshly he treated his teammates during those games and practices. What seemed to hurt him most was the fact that his motivation was to see them succeed alongside him. Sure he wanted to win for his own glory, but he was also doing it for <i>them</i>. During the last 30 seconds of the episode, Michael Jordan can only choke out that it was his mentality and the way he played the game at that time. Again, there was no apology or regret, but his words were coated with genuine hurt feelings. It was that sheer emotion, after which he announces he needs a break, that led me down a spiral of curious confusion. How could this behemoth of a man, this infamous icon with all his raw talent and success be brought to tears because he's unliked?</p><p>After my husband was finally able to get through episode 7 without falling asleep, we ended up having a long discussion about that moment. Paul expressed how he could understand how MJ felt upset that his persona was not regarded positively by those who he had boosted to greatness. He suggested, and I think he was accurate in interpreting Jordan’s feelings, that the end result should absolve the method by which he used on his teammates. I saw it differently. While yes, those guys all have multiple championships on their list of accomplishments, I can understand why they don’t feel all warm and fuzzy when discussing Michael Jordan. They won, but as many of them described in the documentary, they also had to deal with a very difficult man who verbally abused them if they didn't perform to his specific standards.</p><p><b><u>Push Push Push</u></b></p><p>Our discussion led me to other examples I had witnessed in my own life. Being a first generation Indian kid, you see a lot of pressure-charged family dynamics within the community about achievement; education, career, wealth, family, etc. The optics of one’s life often supersedes actual happiness.</p><p>Thankfully I have just been an observer of that sort of intense pressure. Sure, my parents wanted a traditional Indian path for me; excel in school and achieve success in an approved field (medicine, engineering, law, business), but there wasn't a level of stress where I felt that if I didn't follow that exact path, my relationship with my mother or father would be in jeopardy. I've gone into that in a post about being the <a href="https://www.impressionista.me/2019/04/sheevani-perfect-indian-daughter.html">Imperfect Indian Daughter</a>. What I did see in a few of my fellow peers was an almost militant display of coercion where it was very clear that if a certain path was not followed, he or she would bring shame upon themselves and the family. </p><p>Through the years, I've seen friends of mine follow very stringent rules in order to appease a parent and, many times, avoid psychological abuse that made for very painful childhoods. To follow the rules was survival. Once I attended a memorial for a friend's mother who was notorious for treating her kids very poorly unless they did as she asked. As her kids reached the podium to make their collective speech, I was very curious how they would speak of her. Granted, they were in the throes of grief (after all, she was their mother), but after a lifetime of various degrees of psychological abuse, what would they say? Well, as they spoke, I thought their words were very true and very poignant. All of them credited her for their achievements and success, particularly in their career; that without her high standards, none of them would be where they are today. As I sat there listening to them praising the impact she had on their lives, I found myself wondering: But, was it worth all the pain?</p><p>Here is where I make the leap of connecting that mother to Michael Jordan; if the end result is a win, then the method was correct. With Jordan it was NBA Championships, with that mother it was her kids reaching lucrative careers. Based on what I know, this mother would consider her tactics as completely successful since her children achieved everything she demanded of them. And further, they should be nothing but grateful. And EVEN further, if she knew that her kids considered her to be incredibly abusive she would be shocked and hurt. "But, look at all everything you've achieved? That was MY doing!"</p><p>This led me to my next question: If the relationship had been less tumultuous, would the results have been different?</p><p><u><b>The Softer Touch</b></u></p><p>In the same episode where MJ breaks down, they cover his first retirement in 1993. For the season that followed, Scottie Pippen took over as the leader of the Bulls. Now, the stark contrast of how the same guys talk about Scottie Pippen is clear as day. They spoke about how Pippen had a softer touch and was there with comfort and encouragement. When asked how the team did during that first season without Jordan, Pippen responded without hesitation, "Great. They had nobody yelling at them, they got off plenty of shots." Without Jordan stealing the spotlight, other guys were able to shine under Pippen's leadership which made for a much happier team. But, does a happier team translate to a championship team? </p><p>Well, unfortunately that is impossible to answer for a couple of reasons. One of which was a very tough test of the team's affection for Pippen during the 1994 Eastern Conference Semi-finals. After losing the first two games to the New York Knicks, the Bulls were trying to get back in the series. After Patrick Ewing tied game 3 with about two seconds left, the Bulls needed a surefire buzzer-beating shot to win the game and save themselves from playoff elimination. Phil Jackson gave that chance to newcomer Tony Kukoc and not Scottie Pippen, who felt insulted. In the heat of moment, Pippen chose to sit out the last seconds of the game in protest. Kukoc made the basket and the Bulls won, however, the sting of Pippen's selfish dissent hung heavy in the locker room afterwards. Bill Cartwright made a tearful speech and told Pippen directly that he had let them down. Scottie Pippen broke down and apologized and the guys accepted his apology. </p><p>During this part of the docu-series, I was struck by how quickly the team's emotions shifted from disappointment to forgiveness and then to concern for how this incident would affect Scottie's reputation. The concern for his character could only be attributed to the love he earned from his compassionate leadership. As Steve Kerr expressed, "Scottie's one of our favorite teammates, one of our favorite people in the world."</p><p>The Bulls came together and fought hard in that series, but ultimately fell to the Knicks in 7 games. That incident certainly hinders my ability to conclude that a gentler, softer touch as a leader could propel a team to the same greatness as Jordan's methods. Plus, Jordan came out of retirement to return to the Bulls in the middle of the following season, so it's hard to say that had Pippen been given a couple more years, perhaps he could have built just as strong a team with happier guys. </p><p>Bringing it back to the discussion about that strict mother I mentioned earlier, could she have gotten the same results from her kids with a softer touch? If there were no threat of epic meltdowns and psychological games, would her children have chosen the same fields and achieved the same amount of success? For many reasons, I cannot seek the thoughts of her kids today, but I did talk to a few friends who went through similar situations with a difficult parent. I was so fascinated to learn that they all felt their lives would be even more successful had that parent been more encouraging (these friends are all doing very well in life, by the way). Another commonality with all of the situations, including that militant nightmare mother, was that the other parent countered the negativity. For all the times they were broken down, they had the loving arms of the opposite parent to turn to. So perhaps it's all about balance? Perhaps we all need a Jordan AND Pippen in our lives to succeed?</p><p>Of course it's impossible to know what <i>could</i> have happened in any of these scenarios, but one thing is for sure... those Bulls sure loved Scottie Pippen and those kids have greater fondness for their gentler parent.</p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>I'm well aware I have made some pretty significant leaps in this post. I mean, I see Michael Jordan cry and suddenly I'm on a mission to understand how extremely strict parenting may have affected my friends?!? Ah well, my mind can be minefield of disparate connections. At least I'm not bored. </p><p>Ultimately, I'm intrigued by people who consider themselves deserving of love and praise only based on results, that their tactics of getting what they wanted should not matter because the goal was reached. It's the psychology behind that disconnect that grabbed my mind for so many days. As an empathetic person, I can sometimes get lost in analyzing how I've treated various people in my life, so to see a display of complete disregard for that very significant part of my nature is jarring.</p><p>In watching The Last Dance and chatting with my friends, I feel like striking a balance is key to leading people. You don't want to be too soft and you don't want to be too hard. Sure, you can catch more with sugar than a stick, but sometimes a stick is necessary. Michael Jordan's tears told me that perhaps he wished he'd used the stick less and dished out more sugar if it meant winning actual love and affection from his old teammates. </p><p>For me, I'll be using a sugary stick... or embodying a mashup called Michael Pippen or Scottie Jordan or Michie Jorppen, whatever. Knowing when and how to use each side will be the challenge, but a challenge worth taking on. </p><p>P.S. - Do not look up sugary stick on the internet... it's dirty. #themoreyouknow</p>Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-81274643858576073952020-07-08T09:38:00.001-07:002020-07-08T09:55:53.354-07:00Shhhhhh<br /><div>I looked down at my phone and saw an old friend was calling. He and I had more of a text or Facebook message correspondence, so a phone call seemed a bit odd. Although, I had an inkling about what he may be calling about. After a deep breath, I swiped to answer. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Hey you!" I said.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Heyyyy," he responded, "I had to call you... your comments on Kellie's post were incredible!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ohh, heh.. thanks."</div><div><br /></div><div>I knew it. My stupid Facebook outburst with a mutual ex-coworker of ours made it's way to his feed. Apparently it had really entertained him while I was going back and forth about whether or not I have some serious online rage issues. </div><div><br /></div><div>"First of all, she's a total idiot and secondly, THANK YOU for saying everything I was thinking!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I sighed. My ego was swelling a bit from this friend thinking my tirade was amusing, but I was in full-on regret mode. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Ohh, I don't know... I feel kind of bad now."</div><div><br /></div><div>"WHAT? Do not feel bad. She is so tone-deaf. I'm glad you pointed that out. What a dumb thing for her to post!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah I know, but I should have seriously taken it down a couple notches. I feel like a dumbass."</div><div><br /></div><div><i>A few hours earlier:</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I was on Facebook at the office instead of working on some boring ass Ladder Plans. What are Ladder Plans, you ask? Oh, you didn't ask? Of course you didn't... let's proceed.</div><div><br /></div><div>I see a post from a former co-worker. I should mention that this particular person had a tendency to post very annoying things that basically put her wealthy lifestyle on display; complaints about her housekeeper, seeking advice for St. Barts resorts, pictures of her baby son in Ralph Lauren outfits... shit like that. I'd usually just roll my eyes and roll on by her posts. Today, her post caused my finger to stop mid-scroll:</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Just got off the phone with my manager and was offered a position that requires a move to some city in India for a couple of years. INDIA! Yeah, no thanks. No way (my son) is going to eat naan before eating a bagel!! Any jobs available in Paris or Milan? LOL! </b></div><div><br /></div><div>Okay... I'll admit that the actual post on its own wasn't terrible. Annoying AF which was par for the course, but not terrible. Then I read some of her friends comments:</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Ew, no way. India is filthy.</b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>NEVER!! Bill wanted to go there for vacation and I refused. I hate Indian food and I've heard it's so gross.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>I had a friend move there and he hates it. Stay in America!! Keep your baby safe!</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Not unless you enjoy diarrhea</b><b>!</b></div><div><br /></div><div>I looked to see if Kellie had refuted the xenophobic comments. Nope. Nada. She liked all of them and even threw in an LOL to a few. </div><div><br /></div><div>After a couple of deep breaths I started typing:</div><div><br /></div><div><b>I understand that a move to India is not for everyone, but let's not say insulting things about the country considering there are people, like me, who take offense to such insensitive comments. </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Okay... that wasn't bad, I thought. Gets the point across but doesn't take any cheap shots at anyone. I felt good about it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, what ensued over the next couple of hours escalated into a full Facebook fight. Her friends dug in and defended their xenophobic comments. Other friends chimed in and defended the India-haters. I even think Kellie's grandmother commented in all caps saying that Kellie was "THE SWEETEST SOUL AND IF YOU REALLY KNEW HER YOU WOULD NEVER ACCUSE HER OF SUCH THINGS." </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh man. I engaged and now Meemaw was yelling at me. None of their empty defenses changed my viewpoint, however. At the core of it all, I was pissed that Kellie couldn't even acknowledge that my feelings were at all valid. She just kept repeating herself and saying I was being too sensitive and she was "half joking" anyway. Her friends, she insisted, were the nicest people who certainly didn't mean to insult India. Soooo they accidentally insulted it? My responses went from polite to bitingly sarcastic and nasty. By the end of it all, I had accused her of being a typical white elitist and that it was laughable that she was in the Human Resources field considering her lack of human understanding, not to mention that her first action after being offered a job was to scoff at the notion of said job on "f*cking Facebook." I may have even threatened to warn her manager about her shitty unprofessional attitude. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, I unfriended her right after that. I didn't regret that I had spoken up, but I had let it get to a point where I was saying things out of pure emotion rather than keeping it measured and at a level to keep some integrity. The message I had started out with got lost in a sea of insults that were satisfying at the time, but upon reflection, they were petty and ended up making me look rather unhinged. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Back to the phone call:</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>"Well, I thought it was perfect. Don't waste your time beating yourself up. She needed to be called out," said my friend.</div><div><br /></div><div>I smiled and reluctantly thanked him. The icky feeling in the pit of my stomach would remain for the next couple of days. Never again, I thought, never again will I allow myself to stoop so low and conduct myself in a way that negates the legitimacy of my beliefs. And especially not on Facebook.</div><div><br /></div><div>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div><div><br /></div><div>That Facebook debacle happened over 9 years ago and yet it still informs my online behavior today. If I see some ignorant comments, I definitely scrutinize the who, the what and the why before I choose to engage. Most of the time I deem it isn't worth it... because it's Facebook or Twitter and really, debates on those sites may as well be in an echo chamber where everyone has their own deflector shields. </div><div><br /></div><div>In addition to deciding when I should speak up, I've also seen the necessary choice of keeping quiet, especially lately. My choice to stay quiet is not to take the path of inaction, however, in fact, my silence is to engage in something I feel is just as important: LISTENING. </div><div><font color="#050505"><span style="background-color: white;"><i style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></i></span></font></div><div><font color="#050505"><span style="background-color: white;"><font><font face="inherit"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Believe me, I've seen those who have chosen silence because neutrality seems easier. I've been that idiot. I've also learned </span></font><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">that</span> posting on social media is not the only way to take </font>action. Especially since I feel people use a Facebook post or Tweet as a social record of what they've said, not necessarily of what they've done. </span></font></div><div><font color="#050505"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></font></div><div><font color="#050505"><span style="background-color: white;">Since I'm an improviser, I'm in a community with much younger friends who have grown up in a post-internet world, so their interpretation of involvement is heavily measured by how often you post what you're doing. Not that I'm immune to that behavior just because I was born in the 1970s, mind you. My time spent on Facebook isn't something I particularly like to brag about. As I get older, though, I'm seeing the pitfalls of the medium and am being more selective about how I utilize these sites. </span></font></div><div><font color="#050505"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></font></div><div><div><i>The world's on fire... it's more than I can handle.</i></div><div><i>~Sarah McLachlan</i></div></div><div><font color="#050505"><span style="background-color: white;"><i style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></i></span></font></div><div><font color="#050505"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I'm trying to handle it, oh am I ever. The current state of the world is by far the most divisive in my lifetime and while so much of it hurts my heart and brain, it's also forcing a lot of reflection. In yoga we learn that we are exactly where we should be at this moment in time. With that in mind, I've been in mental overdrive thinking about why I'm supposed to be here... in this moment, with all this strife about so many things. And as I was trying to listen to what the universe was telling me, I realized that listening and, in turn learning, is the answer after all. </span></span></font></div><div><font color="#050505"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></font></div><div><font color="#050505"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">After I saw a post from a friend equating silence to being a racist apologist, I sat back and thought about how she really meant <b>social media silence</b>. That if you hadn't chimed in on a post with your own comment, you'll be seen as siding with racists. This was in reference to a specific movement within the Denver improv community. When I read her post, I realized what an odd requirement we put on ourselves to only express our outrage or ally-ship on Facebook or other social media outlets. Personally, I'd rather show my action in other ways that don't include wasted time on flawed websites. </span></span></font></div><div><font color="#050505"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></font></div><div><font color="#050505"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">With all the issues at the brink (or in the midst) of exploding in our world right now, inaction is not an option. However, bulldozing into issues without the necessary knowledge cannot be the other option. I am listening with wide open ears and mind. Too often I see that comment box trigger finger strike only to show a person spew thoughts without any foundation of understanding an issue. That's the heart of what's broken in the world I see. Even within the communities with which I identify and agree, I see a lot of talking without understanding... reacting without learning... shouting loudly only to drown out the complexities of what we're going through. </span></span></font></div><div><br /></div><div>I've done the Facebook fights and Twitter debates and you know what happens every time? Nothing except it ruins my mood and my internal shame tumor grows because I've wasted my time and energy. Sometimes you have to trudge through the shit tunnel that is social media in order to come out the other side a more enlightened person. I've learned a lot of what I don't want to be through Facebook, Twitter and Instagram... so I do value that. </div><div><br /></div><div>There are times to speak and times to listen. I'm in listening mode right now and when I feel it is time to use my voice, you will hear it loud, clear and informed. </div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-11308737953920296702020-05-29T10:01:00.000-07:002020-05-29T10:01:58.529-07:00Unbitten Tongue"I'm not racist, but those guys were a bunch of n*ggers!" ~Dude from college describing some black students at a pick-up basketball game (who were far better at basketball).<br />
<br />
"Ugh, why are we listening to this Martin Luther King music?" ~Girl from college upon hearing a group of us listening to rap music.<br />
<br />
"Hey, check this out! N*gger lips!!" ~Multiple kids in grades K-12 curling their lower lip and resting their tongue on their upper lip as a joke.<br />
<br />
"Black people are just dumber than white people, my dad told me." ~Girl from 7th grade in front of a black boy... who stared straight ahead and said nothing.<br />
<br />
"It's not a racist thing, but I just don't find black people attractive." ~Co-worker reacting to a discussion about hot celebrities, commenting specifically on LL Cool J.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry, but I won't be coming to you anymore... it's getting too "dark" around here." ~Client of my mother's who stopped going to the salon where she worked because of the increase of black patrons at the mall.<br />
<br />
"Well, you know, all these black people came out of the woodwork and started voting all of a sudden!" ~Appalled family member reacting to Barak Obama's victory in 2008.<br />
<br />
"If he would have just listened to those police officers he wouldn't have gotten the shit beat out of him, serves him right!" ~Father of my friend watching footage of the 1991 Rodney King beating.<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
I am not a confrontational person. It's one of my personality traits that I think has helped and hindered my life in equal measure. While it has helped me to not overreact in many situations, it's also prevented me from saying many things that have needed to be said.<br />
<br />
I bite my tongue when I don't want to offend or upset another person. There are so many occasions where I've chosen to keep my mouth shut in order to keep the peace, occasions where I have been personally offended by something, but opted to "not go there" because it won't be pretty. In essence, protecting the offender while my night has been ruined from some offhand comment.<br />
<br />
George Floyd is the latest black man to be murdered by excessive force at the hands of police. I watched the footage and once again felt the absolutely nauseating heartache I do whenever these stories emerge. I wonder how the hell this is still happening. I marvel that these cops see people filming and yet continue abusing a non-violent, unarmed black person because they're aware of the historic lack of consequences. I get enraged, and I'm ashamed to say... I haven't done much beyond that. That is going to change.<br />
<br />
<u><b>Check Your Empathy</b></u><br />
In reading articles by black journalists and authors, I've gleaned so many helpful insights into the appropriate ways to address these horrific stories with sensitivity to the black community. The biggest lesson is to not make it about you. This isn't about you. Rather than focusing on the emotions that YOU are feeling, express your sympathy for your black friends. Saying 'I'm so sorry this has happened again' or 'I see you' and lending an ear goes much further than expressing how the event has made YOU feel. Again, if you aren't part of the targeted marginalized community, do not make it about you. <br />
<br />
Part of me thinks, "I can't win! Even if I express my own shame or disgust, I'm in the wrong!" That statement proves the point. I should focus on re-directing my feelings outwardly and make it about the feelings of those in the community. I'm still coming from a place of honesty; it's still the same sentiment that my heart is broken about what happened, but instead of saying how it affects me, I am recognizing that it affects the black community in a way that I cannot comprehend.<br />
<br />
I'm guilty of being that woman who posts my reaction on Facebook and thinks I'm really doing something. I'd feel better since I expressed my disgust and heartache in a wordy diatribe. Again, I made it about me and how I felt. "Oh, people will know where I stand and that I hate when these incidents happen, good for me!" Even though I was being sincere in my words, my lack of action always left me feeling very inauthentic, because it WAS inauthentic. I'd say, "THIS MUST CHANGE!" but without the courage to actually participate in the change. My fear of putting myself in the fight has gone on too long.<br />
<br />
If I truly care about these issues of racial injustice and want to be part of the solution, I must educate myself. I will join/donate to organizations that focus on serving people of color, I will read books and attend workshops about how to be an ally. I won't rely on my black friends to educate me, I will do my own work. I can get up on my soapbox all I want and say all the right things, but this is about DOING the right things. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u>My Lips Are Unsealed</u></b><br />
In a <a href="https://www.impressionista.me/2019/12/religion-and-racism-sweat-inducing.html">previous post</a>, I wrote about how I was always one to speak up against racist comments at school or other situations with co-workers or acquaintances. I didn't let that shit slide. However, when the racist person is my father-in-law, it hasn't been so easy to openly chastise him. Let's just say he and I couldn't be more opposite about many things, but specifically racism.<br />
<br />
I'll be honest, it's been a real challenge to endure his racist comments in the almost 19 years of knowing him. My body tenses up and my heart pounds in my chest when he flippantly says things that make my blood boil. I internally try to calm myself with reminders that he has been a father figure to Paul and a great husband to my mother-in-law after a tumultuous first marriage to Paul's biological dad. While his opinions about black people are gross, I cannot deny that he provided a much needed support system for the man I love since his formative years. <br />
<br />
One Thanksgiving, years into my relationship with Paul, I couldn't take it any longer and we had it out. It got heated. It wasn't pleasant. There were tears on both sides of the table. I needed my father-in-law to have the decency to recognize that his racist beliefs cannot be on display around me. After so many years of biting my tongue, I was glad to express how his words had affected me, but I was afraid that I may have splintered the relationship between Paul and his parents. As anyone who has racists family members, the feelings are very complicated. You love them but absolutely abhor a big chunk of who they are.<br />
<br />
Since that night, we've tried to avoid hot-button issues that could spark a racist tirade. He and I don't have the closest of relationships, but we can be civil. More recently though, he's had the tendency to slip and say offensive things and I bite my tongue. "It's not worth it" I tell myself. "You're never going to change his mind, so what's the use?" I say. "We're only here for a short amount of time, let's not turn this into an argument," my mind screams.<br />
<br />
I recently started examining those situations and the position my silence puts me in:<br />
<ul>
<li>My father-in-law says something racist </li>
<li>I choose to let it go because I don't want to cause tension </li>
<li>He has no idea that he upset me</li>
<li>I hold in my anger and it causes me stress</li>
<li>He moves on completely at peace</li>
<li>I'm on edge and exhausted from putting on a happy face to protect his feelings </li>
</ul>
It's really f*cked up. He's the one who said something awful, yet I put an incredible amount of energy to not upset a man who inflicted all of these feelings of anger and hurt. He continues his ignorance while I have to expend so much mental energy to figure out how to reform my attitude towards him and remember "he's good in other ways."<br />
<br />
Those days are gone. Now, I don't want to turn everything into a heated argument, but a simple, "that is a racist thing to say," can be effective enough. I know I cannot change his mind and it's not even about that. I've always known that wasn't possible, but I cannot stand by any longer and let him say things that are blatantly prejudiced and let him think it is okay. I'm tired of making excuses for him.<br />
<br />
And to echo the point I made earlier, this isn't about me. Sure, my own personal emotions get affected, but this is about speaking up for every black person who has had to suffer from ignorant prejudice. My father-in-law epitomizes the attitude that holds back progress for the black community, and as an ally, I will make sure he knows that. They aren't the problem... he is.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u>Passing It On</u></b><br />
Racism is learned, so I'm not teaching it.<br />
<br />
Once during a Facebook thread about the Trayvon Martin murder, a black friend of mine thanked me for my sentiments and then said something that I wasn't quite prepared for. She thanked me for "raising kids who won't see her son as an enemy because he's black." I hadn't even thought of that as something notable, I mean, I'm just raising my kids to be good and decent people. But to her, I was taking part in forming a new generation with less racism. As she went on to explain, she had seen the prevalence of black oppression through generations of her own family. From slavery to the civil rights movement, she could track how her own ancestors had been affected by each era. I was so inspired by her hope, even in the midst of such brutal violence on the black community by law enforcement (amongst so many other racial viral stories), she still holds onto hope.<br />
<br />
Her words have never escaped my psyche. It is my duty to teach my children to see everyone as equal and further educate them on what has occurred throughout history and what is still happening today. When they see me enraged watching or reading the news, they often ask what it is about. I'm open and honest with them about these issues. And when I don't know something, we look it up together and learn together. I apply this to all marginalized groups. Sure, it's about being an ally... but it's also about doing what is right as part of the human race. <br />
<br />
I'm aware to not to pat myself on the back too much with raising good kids... because as I've already stated it is not enough. Beyond talking about it, I need them to see me put those words into real action.<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
Click below for a comprehensive list of resources for those who want to be an ally to the black community. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1BRlF2_zhNe86SGgHa6-VlBO-QgirITwCTugSfKie5Fs/mobilebasic?fbclid=IwAR1AJkarimiokyBuc1_dG8eEWF9oba5cI2E6ia_2SuPd-6daKeJ7eXBzkaw">Anti-Racism Resources</a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><i>"In a racist society, it is not enough to be non-racist, we must be antiracist.” — Angela Davis</i></span><br />
<br />Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-23835763160172636892020-05-05T19:28:00.003-07:002020-05-05T19:28:24.528-07:00Dear 1996 Sheevani...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmu3eUTS9Z3DC8_d0FsOyOKVttkmup4jiqaoOIb_e8enEt7MnwM-WB4PO8liKGcJxXgbdT8f_z0Jr7_FOw_ocbht1PRpfzZ-oahMAUWtAA2npjTxGtPXuc3bGRjl_AezwwENhi2DOMj8q/s1600/Dear1996Sheevani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1222" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmu3eUTS9Z3DC8_d0FsOyOKVttkmup4jiqaoOIb_e8enEt7MnwM-WB4PO8liKGcJxXgbdT8f_z0Jr7_FOw_ocbht1PRpfzZ-oahMAUWtAA2npjTxGtPXuc3bGRjl_AezwwENhi2DOMj8q/s400/Dear1996Sheevani.jpg" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not sure I went one minute without that dark lipstick on in high school </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~~~</div>
<br />
"Sheevani, you're almost done, huh bheta?"<br />
<br />
I leaned forward and craned my neck to see the auntie inquiring about the end of my high school career. With three tables pushed together at Buddy's Pizza, it was a bit hard to see her. Whenever a few of our Indian families went out to dinner together, the chosen restaurant had to scramble to accommodate all of us. Part of the evening was usually spent entertaining ourselves while waiting in the lobby. We'd nurse hungry bellies until we heard the hostess mispronounce the given name followed by "party of (greater than 6)." At least Buddy's had video games.<br />
<br />
"Oh, yeah. Just a couple more weeks left," I said. This particular auntie always intimidated me. She had an air about her that always made me feel like I was beneath her, which was ironic since her petite stature allowed me to grow taller than her by age 11. It also didn't help that both of her kids were in the academic elite of our community.<br />
<br />
"Very good, bheta. Which college are you going to?" her chin jutted forward and her eyes narrowed. My heart started pounding in my chest. Ugh, WHY does she make me so nervous?<br />
<br />
"Um... I got into Michigan State, so..." <i>Please</i> let this conversation stop. I had barely talked with my parents about a final college decision and I absolutely didn't want to go down that road with Judgy Auntie as the moderator.<br />
<br />
"Oh? Not U of M?" There it was. No, not f*cking U of M. I wasn't smart enough to get into the superior University of Michigan unlike all the other brilliant ass Indian kids!<br />
<br />
"Still need to figure a few things out," my dad interjected. Whew.<br />
<br />
"Bharati and Janak, Michigan State is a party school... <i>Sumbalje</i> (be careful)."<br />
<br />
I internally rolled my eyes at her warning to my parents. Of course she would think any school that accepted me was some second-rate party trash school. Ugh, where was the waiter with more sesame breadsticks and butter pats?!<br />
<br />
"Are you having a graduation party?" The parents were talking amongst themselves now, thank goodness. I pretended not to hear them.<br />
<br />
"No, she didn't say she wanted one," my mom said and she was right. I didn't quite know why I wasn't inclined to celebrate.<br />
<br />
"American people make such a big deal about high school graduation... it's not a big thing!" my dad said.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah, that's why I felt no desire to celebrate. My parents barely considered this an accomplishment.<br />
<br />
"Well Janak, unlike our kids, many of these American kids don't go to college, so this is a bigger tradition for them."<br />
<br />
"Even so, big parties and gifts... family coming from out of town to celebrate? All for just high school?!"<br />
<br />
I wanted to scream but I wasn't sure if they'd be able to hear me from atop their high horses. Graduating high school <i>was </i>special, I thought. Maybe it wasn't some big accomplishment for me, but it certainly was a milestone. Just because it was expected doesn't make it any less significant. But, I couldn't say that. They'd never understand.<br />
<br />
Once our orders were taken, the conversation had moved on and I was ensconced in the latest triviality in which a 17-year-old could revel down on the kids' side of the table. I'd be done with high school in exactly 12 days and I guess I was the only one who thought that was... something.<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
I will admit, at the onset of this pandemic where everything was shutting down and all I could think about was where my next toilet paper roll would come from, I scoffed at the woeful posts, "Oh no, my kid won't get to experience all the last traditions of high school!" In my own personal panic haze, I couldn't fathom giving a shit about missing a prom or a long-ass ceremony. Come on people! THERE IS A RAMPANT VIRUS DEVASTATING COUNTRIES ALL OVER THE WORLD!!<br />
<br />
Cut to now; quarantine life is the new normal and I've had time to adjust and realize we aren't all imminently doomed. Now, I can totally feel that sadness. I also feel fortunate that my kids aren't being robbed of those last special months of high school.<br />
<br />
I'm choosing to focus on the high school graduates losing out on their closure since, for me, that was the one academic rite of passage that was most impactful in my life. My entire childhood I longed to be older and graduating high school felt like that entrance into my adult life... with endless possibilities.<br />
<br />
After watching the graduation episode of John Krasinski's Some Good News show, I was transported back to that time where everything was winding down; last final exams, banquets for all the clubs to which I belonged, my last time on the Kimball High School stage, my last choir concert, prom and graduation followed by the all-night party. In addition to those memories coming back, I could actually feel that indefinable energy that came at the end of high school; a mixture of excitement, relief, sadness and nerves. That collective feeling that we all knew our lives would markedly change after that last day... we all left with different memories of our time in that building, yet we could all say we were leaving as very different people than when we entered.<br />
<br />
In the SGN episode, some lucky graduates got to ask a question to their commencement speaker, of course, not knowing who John Krasinski would present via pop-up screen during their online ceremony. The questions were fantastic and ranged in topic from holding onto your dream to a simple, "Now what?" Each celebrity guest gave very poignant answers and advice as only an accomplished and much older person can. It got me thinking that if I had the chance to talk to myself in 1996 when I graduated high school, what would I say?<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
Dear Sheevani,<br />
<br />
Whoa, you're done with high school. Can you believe it? I mean, doesn't it feel like just yesterday when you'd steal Sheel's yearbooks and study every single page for hours? Now, you've got 4 of your own yearbooks and you're actually IN them! Insane.<br />
<br />
Okay, first of all, great job in high school! I know junior high left you a bit scarred, and your strategy entering into 9th grade was to find friends who were good people and treated you well. And you did just that. I can further tell you as your future self that many of those same people will remain in your life for a long time. Just thinking of them and their impact will bring you to tears, so well done.<br />
<br />
Now I know you think you aren't some academic stand-out, but you did well. Yes, Mummy and Daddy never seemed quite satisfied with your grades, but I know how hard you worked. Especially in all the math classes. While you could have put in some more elbow grease overall, I don't think you should be ashamed of what you accomplished academically. Plus, you rounded out studies with fabulous social experiences. Okay, all of your crushes went unrequited, but don't worry... good guys come to girls who wait. And believe me, I know it was frustrating that Mummy and Daddy were so strict about dating, but you'll thank them in the long run.<br />
<br />
Okay first thing, keep writing. I'm sad to report that you'll give up a lot of things that give you joy pretty soon. Don't worry, you'll find your way back, but there will be long and painful detours. You've been writing in a journal pretty much everyday since age 10, so don't stop. Even when you don't feel like it, WRITE. A lot of what you write will be shit, but write it anyway. Much like Andy Dufresne, a river of shit can lead you to greatness on the other side. Oh wait, you haven't seen The Shawshank Redemption yet. I know the title isn't very catchy, but just know that this movie will be on regular rotation after you see it in college. Ah, back to writing! It has been your therapy thus far and as you get older, you'll need it more than ever so DON'T STOP.<br />
<br />
Also, don't stop acting. That fear thing you've succumbed to a bit in high school only gets more forceful in the next few years. The world is bigger and scarier, so yes, the chances of getting the part lessens dramatically (pun alert), but remember, everything is an exercise in experience. You can grab so much from every experience, including failure. The more you give in to your fear, the more you'll lose yourself and not in the Eminem way (that'll make sense in about 6 years). You are so much more capable than you think, trust me.<br />
<br />
Please seek help when you need guidance. Don't just assume there's no one who will understand your lack of direction, because there are literally people whose job it is to help you. See your guidance counselor regularly, talk to friends, talk to professors. Also, and I know this seems totally impossible, but talk to Mummy and Daddy. <i>I know, I know</i>... serious conversations with them have never gone particularly well for your whole life, but trust me... keeping them in the dark about your struggles will be a regret from which you'll never recover.<br />
<br />
And finally, trust your strength. Okay, I can see the confusion on your face... damn, your face is so skinny and smooth. Whoops, sorry... anyway, YES YOU ARE STRONG. Tell those voices in your head that are comparing you to all the "good Indian kids" to shut up. Their accomplishments do not take anything away from you. You are different and you've felt this your whole life. Different doesn't mean worse or less than those other kids. And believe me, many of those kids are not happy. They are living their life for their parents approval and nothing else. Staying true to your core isn't a betrayal to Mummy and Daddy, but it is a betrayal to yourself. None of this will be easy, Sheevani, but it'll be so worth it.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah... hug Daddy a lot and ask him a lot more questions about his life. Don't leave any questions unanswered... please. And tell him you love him about 1000% more than you do now. Cherish his wisdom and advice. For all his faults and annoying habits on which you tend focus very heavily at the moment, trust that everything he does comes from a place of complete and unconditional love.<br />
<br />
Well, I think that's all I can say, 1996 Sheevani. Congratulations on graduating and know that even if you follow NONE of this advice, you will still be okay. You've got a good head on your shoulders and while things may go in the pooper every now and then, you will pull yourself out and find a new way. All of those nights you stayed in over the last 4 years really served you to become your own rock. You listened to music, wrote in your journal, talked to yourself in the mirror and basically, became comfortable with being you. That's better learning than any math or history class as far as I'm concerned.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh right, one last thing... you meet Depeche Mode.<br />
<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
2020 Sheevani<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
My heart aches for these kids who will not get to experience all the things they have been looking forward to for so many years. It's not fair. But I am sure that so many of these kids will come up with some fantastic way to properly celebrate when it is safe to do so. I'm a strong believer in the "better late than never" philosophy. And whenever you do have your 2020 grad bash, pay no attention to the random Indian woman weeping in the corner... thanks.<br />
<br />
<br />Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-21940266069231075622020-04-01T15:16:00.001-07:002020-04-01T15:16:19.581-07:00My Guilty PleaA few posts ago, I wrote about being too comfortable... about how I needed to get out of my comfort zone and take some chances in my life and career. Well, little did I know how uncomfortable the entire world would get in 7 short weeks. <br />
<br />
While many of us are feeling a lot of the same emotions; stress, fear, impatience, sadness... this pandemic has brought out a feeling I wasn't quite prepared for; <b>guilt</b>. All different shades of guilt, too. From vintage to new-found, my guilt cup runneth over.<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u><b>Security Guilt</b></u></div>
If you're lucky, you still have a job and are working from home. As an actor and freelance writer, I'm on hold with projects. With acting, self-taped auditions are always a possibility, however as most productions have shut down, there aren't any jobs available. As a writer, clients aren't looking to hire for any extraneous writing projects at the moment. So yeah, here I am in limbo from any paid gigs, but my husband has never been busier. He works in a field where his digital solution-based background is pretty invaluable.<br />
<br />
I'm not freaking out about financial security because of my husband. Oh, welcome back vintage guilt about Being Financially Dependent On My Husband! You're always lurking in the shadows, but man did you make a grand entrance recently! I ping-pong between gratitude and guilt, spending more time on the guilt side of the table since I know so many family and friends who are worried about how long receiving a paycheck will be an actuality.<br />
<br />
Even before this pandemic and quarantine, this is something I've wanted to write about for a long time. In a nutshell, I feel very undeserving of the life I have. The house I live in, the car I drive, the ability to not have a traditional job with a regular paycheck... none of it. The reason? Because I do not feel I've earned any of it. Simple as that. If my husband and I purchased our house 50/50 with both our incomes, the guilt cloud would dissipate. If my job was paying for half of all our expenses, that guilt cloud would never reappear. In reality however, my contributions in the financial arena of our family life isn't a blip on the screen. And I know myself enough to know that that guilt will never go away until I have the goddamn bank statements to back it up.<br />
<br />
Now, I realize there are different ways to contribute to a family that has nothing to do with money. You could say that my taking on the brunt of all the home and kid stuff has allowed my husband the time to focus on his career, thus his success is also my success. Yeah well... I can barely balance that pin at the end of the lane before the bowling ball knocks it down. And not without severely pinching my fingers, as well. I've been so conditioned to see money as the equivalent to worth, and now with the financial security of millions in jeopardy, I've never felt guiltier about my lack of worth... and guiltier still that my lack of worth won't be an issue since my husband provides our security. It's a whole guilt tornado that I have too much time to think about.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u><b>Guilt Academy</b></u></div>
This is the second week of e-learning for my kids and it's been pretty smooth so far. Well, because I have the time to spend organizing and helping. On a recent Zoom call with some lifelong friends, all the busy working parents were lamenting about how difficult it is to juggle work and all the virtual school stuff. Oh, hi Stay-at-Home-Mom guilt! You surged after both kids went to school full-time, ebbed after I had accepted my creative purpose, but your re-entrance last week was epic!<br />
<br />
So many of my working mom friends have posted about squeezing in lessons in between conference calls, or after work entirely so it's sort of a night-school situation and some are even saving all the work for a marathon lesson session over one day. For us, the daily work is usually done by lunch and the rest of the day I can focus on my stuff. Only, sigh... my stuff has been neglected and that segues nicely into my next type of guilt...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u>Useless Guilt</u></b></div>
Oh, is that... oh it's you! Hi there No Practical Skills Because I Squandered My Education And I Make So Many Excuses To Justify My Lack Of Motivation Guilt!! Ya know, I had made SO much progress squashing you into a deep dank hole, but the way you just sprung up a few weeks ago was one for the books.<br />
<br />
Besides feeling useless because I cannot be saving lives or making PPE for medical professionals, I've also let my projects suffer because... pandemic. My tendency to let every emotional upheaval affect my productivity has been in overdrive. The old Sheevani stand-by to let projects suffer because of "going through a hard time," couldn't be more prevalent and I feel guilty about backsliding. Before all this madness, I was on a productivity streak of writing, auditioning, setting goals with timelines, etc. But like... the kids need my computer for school, so OF COURSE I cannot do my writing. What? Oh right, they are done by lunch... but like, I just need time to workout and decompress after making sure they turned in everything, ya know? Huh? After they go to bed? I mean... I could... but like... pandemic, ya know?<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
Okay, guilt pity party over. This isn't about feeling sorry for myself, BELIEVE ME. It's just about acknowledging what I'm feeling. One thing I am VERY proud of is the grace I give myself to evolve and learn from the past. I know the things I feel guilty about are the things I should feel <b>gratitude </b>about. I'm so f*cking lucky to feel secure and to have the time with my kids and engage in their schoolwork... and well, taking a break from a project or two doesn't mean I cannot jump right back in with more vigor than before. Which is what I'm doing right now. The guilt I'm feeling is pointless... there are plenty of ways to support those who are truly suffering and I am already doing that. Food banks, neighborhood senior support, reaching out to friends in need... done it, doing it and will continue. If I turn this guilt into action, then I have nothing to feel guilty about.<br />
<br />
In the spirit of gratitude, many friends I made during my formative years have turned out to be brilliant humans who I have the honor of knowing. One of those friends is Dr. Jenna Elwart. She recently posted a video that spoke so loudly to me. I can think of no better way to end this post than with her message:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/drjennaelwart/videos/1586998478133808/?q=dr.%20jenna%20elwart%20%26%20associates%20pllc&epa=SEARCH_BOX">"Living in the Ands" by Dr. Jenna Elwart</a><br />
<br />
Stay safe and stay home, friends xo<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-12680533233160981462020-03-16T15:35:00.001-07:002020-03-16T16:48:24.164-07:00Probably...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOOxEXd4xme_k9lP4rtC1O5A6UesDpKMaYUZ9SkkSGXduj1zrC2HgGTzsax-09h8e-bJbIjVDvsiVNVRI_5bcCZc6NBJxfSXI5_mVait5kfUl63rCEy70l_QMcTXJhAI9br83S58jN_YQd/s1600/Probably.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOOxEXd4xme_k9lP4rtC1O5A6UesDpKMaYUZ9SkkSGXduj1zrC2HgGTzsax-09h8e-bJbIjVDvsiVNVRI_5bcCZc6NBJxfSXI5_mVait5kfUl63rCEy70l_QMcTXJhAI9br83S58jN_YQd/s400/Probably.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad Janak Desai during some fun times.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~~~</div>
<br />
I never really know how I'll feel on the 16th of March. In the last 10 years it has ranged from contentment for all the memories to a blubbering mess at any mention or thought of why the day has such meaning. One thing I never expected was that the mood had no bearing on the proximity to the actual event. If I were to chart my feelings on this day for the last decade, there would be peaks and valleys versus a smooth curve downward with each passing year. Nothing about grief is smooth, really...<br />
<br />
Ten years ago on this day my father, Janak Desai, passed away peacefully at my childhood home in Royal Oak, Michigan. After at least 100 friends and family came to wish him farewell while he laid in home hospice over 3 days, he took his last breath while my mother, brother, sister-in-law and I sat one room away. He planned that, I just know it... he never wanted to be a burden.<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
I've always turned to humor in times of great stress and worry. My father did this as well and while I could always tell his stress was never fully at bay, a small quip or funny face to cut the tension helped all of us... especially him.<br />
<br />
In the throes of self-quarantines and virus dread, the anniversary of my dad's death has steered me to think about all the funny stories about him... many of which entertained my friends for so many years. When he died, I was inundated with messages from friends telling me about those stories that tickled them.<br />
<br />
SO... if you need a laugh right now... I give you some highlights from my life with Janak Desai:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u><b>Member's Only Comfort</b></u></div>
I had moved back in with my parents in the summer of 2001. My time at Michigan State University was over and with no job or real inkling of what to do next with my life, I returned to the familiarity of my childhood home in Royal Oak, Michigan. After 5 years away, the adjustment wasn't too terrible and I could tell my father was thrilled to have me home. As a retiree and empty nester, having his daughter around definitely lifted his spirits.<br />
<br />
One day late in the fall, the weather had made the shift from those waning days of warmth and sunshine to full on brisk and downright icy.<br />
<br />
"Take your coat, Sheevu, it's supposed to be cold today," my dad said as I grabbed the car keys. My unemployed ass had plans to meet up with some friends for lunch and then knock around Best Buy to look for some CDs (like we did 100 years ago).<br />
<br />
"Okay, " I said, "Do you need anything while I'm out?"<br />
<br />
"No bheta," he said while rinsing his plate in the sink. My mom had made some Indian food for lunch before her full day at the salon. Daddy was always good about cleaning up after enjoying his prepared food... that day I believe it was fresh handvoh or spicy lentil cake, one of my dad's favorites.<br />
<br />
After a few hours of being a jobless wanderer around the suburbs of Detroit, I came home to a dark house. Our Royal Oak house was built in the 1950s, so the creaks and cracks from that day's winds gave it an eerie feel. Upon entering, I saw the dim living room empty, a place where my father would usually be sitting and watching every 24-hour news station in rotation.<br />
<br />
"Daddy?" I called out. No answer.<br />
<br />
My warmth from the car heater soon dissipated as I removed my jacket and took off my shoes. "Man, it's cold in here!" I said, "Daddy? Where are you?" No answer again.<br />
<br />
Our house was very small and a call-out from anywhere could always be heard. I started to worry since my father had to be home... he was no longer able to drive and besides, I had the car even if he could. I walked in the kitchen where the tile felt like ice under my feet. Empty. I called out again with more urgency. Nothing. Had he fallen? Was he hurt? Why was it so damn cold??<br />
<br />
I rubbed my arms quickly to generate some heat as I walked to the back of the house. No, he wasn't on the computer or in the bathroom. Finally, I turned the corner into the master bedroom. His eyes were closed as he lay on his back. The darkness caused me to strain and look a bit closer... he was asleep, but was... was he wearing a jacket? Was he wearing his beige Member's Only jacket? Was his beige Member's Only jacket zipped up all the way with the banded collar totally snapped? Was he wearing his beige Member's Only jacket while laying underneath the covers?<br />
<br />
"Daddy!" I yelled and his eyes popped open.<br />
<br />
"Oh, hi bheta!"<br />
<br />
"What's going on? Why are you sleeping with your jacket on under the covers?"<br />
<br />
"I'm feeling very cold," he said with a serious expression and a shiver. I glanced at the thermostat right outside his bedroom and noticed the house was at 62 degrees and the heat was off.<br />
<br />
"Is the heat not working?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"The heat is not working??" he asked with alarm hearing the opposite of what I said.<br />
<br />
"No, I'm asking you... did you try turning on the heat?"<br />
<br />
"Oh," he paused for about 10 seconds, "No," he finally murmured turning his head flat against the pillow with closed eyes.<br />
<br />
"So, you felt cold and you didn't turn the heat on... but you put on your Member's Only jacket and got under the covers??" I couldn't hold in my giggle. Daddy cracked a smile and I saw his shoulders bobbing underneath the layers of 80s fashion and a floral JCPenney comforter.<br />
<br />
Shaking my head, I walked over and slid the little plastic wand to 72 degrees and heard the furnace click on. Soon the vents were exhaling warm air. Daddy emerged out of his cocoon and joined me in the living room where I was turning on the lamps to cease the creepy vibe. He was feeling warmer, but not quite enough to remove his Member's Only jacket.<br />
<br />
"Bheta... warm up some handvoh for me?"<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u>Probably...</u></b></div>
Give my dad a little information and he would expand on it in great detail complete with grand assumptions and unfounded theories. Something as little as a store closing early could elicit a long story complete with a backstory and plot twists. If my dad responded to your comment with a "Probably...." you knew you were in for some confident pontification.<br />
<br />
One day I was taking him to get his blood drawn, something he had to do every week to check his Vitamin K levels since he was on some pretty strong blood thinners. At a stoplight, I noticed a car pulled over on a side street adjacent to the main road.<br />
<br />
"Whoa!" I said.<br />
<br />
"Su thayu (what happened)?" my dad asked.<br />
<br />
"Looks like they are arresting that woman over there!"<br />
<br />
"Where?" he asked. Since my dad suffered from poor eyesight, I had to describe the scene unfolding about a hundred yards away; a woman being handcuffed by a couple of cops.<br />
<br />
"Probably..." he started, "She was drunk driving..."<br />
<br />
"Drunk driving?" I said mid-chuckle, "It's 10am!" The light turned green and I knew Daddy was still thinking about the law enforcement scene as we continued to the doctor's office.<br />
<br />
"You know, maybe she's going through a divorce and drinking a lot," he said with no hint of humor in his voice. I grinned and settled in for a stellar "explanation" of what woes this stranger was suffering from to be arrested so early on a Tuesday.<br />
<br />
"Probably fighting for custody of her kids and losing her house... beecharee (poor woman)," he continued.<br />
<br />
"Wow, Daddy... lots of assumptions about her life," I said unable to keep my amusement from invading my voice.<br />
<br />
"You're making fun of me," he said. My laughter was met with a smirk on my father's face. Then came one of my favorite Daddy-isms he'd throw out when he knew one of us was poking fun at his expense.<br />
<br />
"Slap yourself."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u>Champps Fetish Date??</u></b></div>
Now, I wasn't present for the event that spurred the next story, but it became a Desai Family classic thanks to both the oddity of what happened and the subsequent frustration it caused my father when others reacted to the ridiculousness of his version.<br />
<br />
Many years ago while my mother was away on a trip to India, my brother and father went to dinner at Champps, a sports bar famous for its enormous entrees, huge beers and everything else expected of an all-American sports bar. Now, my brother's version of the story details some very odd service. As he and my dad were eating their meals, their server kept checking on them over and over again, almost too often. Then, the manager came out to chat about how they were doing. My brother wasn't sure why, but it made them uneasy and they felt like something else was going on. The frequency of both servers and managers coming out to check on them was almost comical.<br />
<br />
The following is a paraphrased transcript of my bro and dad's conversation at their table as told from my brother over 15 years ago:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
BROTHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What the hell is going on? So weird how they keep checking on us.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FATHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I don't know.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
BROTHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Makes me uneasy, like maybe they did something to our food?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FATHER</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You never know, maybe they are playing a joke.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
BROTHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It's very annoying... I might say something.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FATHER</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Well... maybe... maybe they...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
BROTHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Maybe what?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FATHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Maybe they think we are... a gay couple.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
BROTHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(furrows brow and blinks rapidly... probably)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FATHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You know... they think we are gay and want to make fun... </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
BROTHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But... what... why would they... WHAT!?!?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FATHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
BROTHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How does being a... a gay couple connect with them checking on us so much?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FATHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I don't know! But probably they think we are gay and on a date!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
BROTHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I, um... I don't think that's it.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FATHER </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(shrugs) But maybe...</div>
<br />
Later when my brother recounted this story to the rest of the family, we all laughed with amused confusion... well, except my dad. He did not like us laughing at his explanation. I'm pretty positive he believed his reasoning until the day he died. Any argument against it, which was mostly by me, would illicit a very temperamental response from Daddy. He wouldn't budge... those servers and managers 100% thought he and my brother were a gay couple and they were making fun FOR THAT REASON ONLY. Once during a retelling of that story at our family Christmas, I kept trying to get Daddy to explain his reasoning only to have him whip his head at me and yell, "YOU WEREN'T THERE!!"<br />
<br />
For my brother, who <i>was</i> there, it was naturally disturbing to think of his dad talking about he and him as a romantic couple... but also, as my brother said as a sort of footnote, "If I <i>were</i> gay... I could do much better than Daddy!!"<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
Sometimes thinking about my dad makes me cry, but today I choose to remember all the times that bring a smile to my face. I'm thankful for so many things he gave me during our life together, but that sense of humor tops the list... no question.<br />
<br />
Thanks for the laughs, Daddy. Miss you always.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-80588387275194372732020-02-25T23:05:00.002-08:002020-02-25T23:05:14.301-08:00Girl Talk<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJfOpjhUuYz4bwNv0w8eZoTQJQcCXmfjDh3lh2ZFByjLnRSspTEBSyAqqpr5xKm4BnV8CMZL5oJe-OG_ulMigbU0LEwv_kIvb21MptTpraoOxJYcSdwhv_tSE5_OmbwSdmkz5FHrOhlN2n/s1600/girltalk.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJfOpjhUuYz4bwNv0w8eZoTQJQcCXmfjDh3lh2ZFByjLnRSspTEBSyAqqpr5xKm4BnV8CMZL5oJe-OG_ulMigbU0LEwv_kIvb21MptTpraoOxJYcSdwhv_tSE5_OmbwSdmkz5FHrOhlN2n/s400/girltalk.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just a few of incredibly inspiring ladies in my life <3</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~~</div>
<br />
"Men, I love you but... there's nothing like a long chat with a close girlfriend. Here's to the unbreakable bonds of sisterhood."<br />
<br />
--Sarah McLachlan introducing her song <i>Good Enough </i>at the Buell Theater on 2/11/2020<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I want to be a fabulous girlfriend.<br />
<br />
For the early part of my adult life, I meant that as a part of a heterosexual couple. Today, I mean that as a fiercely loyal friend to other women. It took me way too long to figure out that close girlfriends are a necessity in every woman's life.<br />
<br />
There was an episode of Seinfeld where Elaine comes to the realization that she has no female friends left. Kramer's response is, "Of course you don't... you're a man's woman. You hate other women and other women hate you!"<br />
<br />
For a long time, I felt like Elaine and I were the same in that regard. I couldn't figure out why I could maintain friendships with many men, but time and time again my female friendships would dissipate. I'd tell myself that friendships with men required less maintenance and since I consider myself low maintenance the dudes just... suited me better. However, that rationalization never totally squelched my shame about the lack of female friendship in my life.<br />
<br />
I've already covered my past of being a shitty friend in another <a href="https://www.impressionista.me/2019/01/im-taking-ride-with-my-best-friend.html">post</a>, so in this post I'd like to focus on what I've learned from all the women I'm honored to call my friends. Since I no longer take them for granted, I've learned how incredibly necessary they are to my survival.<br />
<br />
As I covered in <a href="https://www.impressionista.me/2018/12/validation-station.html">Validation Station</a>, I was sort of burned by female friendships in my youth so I know I tried too hard when it came to keeping gals interested in my friendship.... so much so, I lost my own personality in order to fit whatever mold she seemed to want. I believe "thirsty" is the term now? I don't know... but I do know that when I look back on those years and even through many years as an adult, people could smell my desperation.<br />
<br />
In short, I needed to smooth out my own personality flaws before understanding how to be a worthy friend to other women. As cheesy as this sounds, I needed to become the best gal pal to myself in order to properly friend other women. Once I started becoming more genuine and true to what was important to me, I was able to relax and make deeper connections. Today, I have a keen sense of what brand of women I need in my life and not all of them pass muster. I have a type, ladies, and well... it includes he following:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Genuineness - After 41 years on this earth, I can spot a fake pretty quickly. I have learned so much from the women who own who they are no matter what, and do it in such a way that takes vulnerability and repurposes it into a superpower. </li>
<li>Kindness - Sounds so simple, but after years of giving so much power to a few women who tout kindness in public but shame people in private, I know that my circle of ladies must prioritize kindness. </li>
<li>Supportiveness - In my ridding of toxic friendships, I had to let go of a few women who claimed to be feminists, but turned out they only marched for the women who were like them. For someone like me who didn't live my life according to their rules, they shut me out and judged my life choices as less than theirs. Girl, bye. </li>
<li>Constant Evolution - As someone who believes that we should never stop seeking a better version of ourselves, I gravitate towards women who want to explore everything the world has to offer in order to thrive, contribute and improve.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And that's about it... it's not a long list, but it's weighty. I've learned so much from the women who posses these attributes, but also from the women I had to let go in my purging process. Sometimes the bad can teach you so much about what you seek. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Being a woman is hard... and it's hard in ways that only other women can understand. During that time where I dismissed myself as a "man's woman" like Elaine, there was an enormous lady shaped hole in my heart that ached for that sisterly bond. Today, I'm so lucky to have many ladies just filling that hole right up. No, I'm not rephrasing that. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thank you to the wondrous ladies in my life for constantly inspiring me in innumerable ways. I promise to never take you for granted again. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Hoes before bros, yaknowwhatimsayin?</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-21727946472244279982020-02-10T14:20:00.002-08:002020-02-10T14:20:16.915-08:00Comfy Cozy Blues<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd8SEB1CZ23tiAXuvC50_WUmlIB0CzeOkZbB7LXPShtf3URc3Y6HSpQTzYXy3bFyakAHGY6flTGbS3i7pR6Kx_sgu7mjx-TNLMMGJSTrg5jXarNrl5rIrIDuqjrvyc3VqCi0ILcfqPiaAD/s1600/ComfyCozySign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd8SEB1CZ23tiAXuvC50_WUmlIB0CzeOkZbB7LXPShtf3URc3Y6HSpQTzYXy3bFyakAHGY6flTGbS3i7pR6Kx_sgu7mjx-TNLMMGJSTrg5jXarNrl5rIrIDuqjrvyc3VqCi0ILcfqPiaAD/s400/ComfyCozySign.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, inspirational sign, I'm doing that! So why is my soul so blah?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Text from Paul:<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Were you annoyed with me this morning?</i></span><br />
<br />
I read his text and sighed. It wasn't a mystery why he was asking... I had snapped at him a couple of times during the morning routine. Not only at him, but the dishwasher, refrigerator door and peanut butter jar were all victims of my wrath. And yes, my kids got an earful about their usual offenses during the morning routine; not packing up in time, forgetting socks, wanting the jacket that was in their rooms rather than the one right next to the door. After the house was empty and the kids were off to school with Paul, I took a deep breath and regretted all my brattiness from the previous hour and a half.<br />
<br />
My response:<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Eh, I'm just kind of feeling down lately... a bit lost so I'm easily annoyed. Trying to figure it out... </i></span><br />
<br />
And that was and still is the truth.<br />
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
To be blunt, I feel pathetic again. Yes, after all my big talk about being proud of my choices and career direction, I'm questioning it all. After a particularly horrendous callback I had a few months ago for a high-profile television commercial, I've noticed the auditions have slowed way down. There is zero evidence that one has to do with the other, but my mind is screaming that I ruined my reputation as an actor and casting agents are avoiding me like the plague. Before that cringe-y experience, the frequency of auditions were very steady and encouraging. I felt like I was making very significant progress. But what was once a steady stream has slowed down to a trickle. Along with that (probably) imagined drama, my love for improv is waning. Or rather, my dedication to improv as a totally volunteer gig is wearing on me. I never expected to make a living with improv, that's laughable. Most of the theaters are barely making ends meet (or so we as students/performers are led to believe), but I'm not ashamed to say that for as much time and money I've invested in becoming a solid improviser, it should not be a volunteer gig <b>all the time</b>. People don't go to school and get degrees in order to lose money on the field they studied. Look, if I were in a big city where I had a chance to be plucked for bigger and better things, I'd be investing the time and stamping that stage all I could, but the reality is that here in Denver, that ain't gonna happen.<br />
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This is a familiar feeling. I've felt pathetic for a myriad of reasons throughout my life... only now, as much as I hate to admit it, the intensity is much higher because of my age. My search for direction didn't feel so urgent at 27, but at 41? Yikes. I'm in a constant battle to turn my mind's eye away from the rearview mirror reflecting my lack of accomplishments. Also, once that vulnerability door is slightly ajar, the rest of my insecurities barge through in an organized march and just exacerbate my despair. Everything from ancient career blunders to the voices of my life-doubters resurface at deafening decibels.<br />
<br />
The other morning as I drove my kids to school, the core issue of why I'm feeling lost sort of hit me in the gut. Apropos of nothing, it was as if the words in my head were being announced over an intercom:<br />
<br />
<b>You need a challenge.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>You aren't seeking anything outside your comfort zone.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>YOU ARE TOO COMFORTABLE.</b><br />
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It was as if a blinding light had just flipped on. And, to be honest, I was sort of shocked. While I love watching a contestant on Project Runway struggle with making menswear when she has always been a bridal designer, I've always considered myself to be a permanent resident of the land of comfy cozy. As I've written about before, my past is filled with me bypassing opportunities because they require too much work or appear too difficult. I've made progress with that flaw and I'm proud of how far I've come. But lately, it's as if I'm finding some allegorical bed sores from all the comfiness and well, I'm anxious to heal them before the pus starts.<br />
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Another reason I'm surprised by this recent discovery is that I had believed that if I were pursuing my passions, I would never feel pathetic. Back when I wrote about being an average (at best) employee at my various corporate jobs, I felt so woeful because I had no love for the work. I thought my sadness about my career was fueled by my nagging desire to be a part of a creative community. I just knew that if I ever got on that path to being a professional actor/comedian, my emotions would be sailing on smooth seas with Yacht Rock blasting tranquil hits.<br />
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I suppose the most recent venture that launched me into a scary space was starting this blog... and it continues to serve that purpose for me. As I've said before, this blog has saved me. I gave myself permission to do it and prepared myself for the worst... only to find it's been the absolute best. There are very few personal accomplishments that I'm more proud of than Impressionista. So, it's not going anywhere.<br />
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I'm really grateful for this life lesson. And no, I'm not giving up on acting or comedy. I'm just tweaking my dreams. In the process of writing this post, my brain has been on overdrive with ways to put myself out there that will both challenge me and fulfill my evolving goals. Along with evolving as a person, I have found that what I want out of my career is also developing in very surprising ways. What's also incredibly cool, is that I'm looking to get out of my comfort zone in areas that have nothing to do with my career. Areas which may not increase my income, but will contribute to becoming a better person.<br />
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Here I go... I'm ready to scare myself out of this fluffy place. There are many things that will take me out of my comfort zone, and I'm looking forward to the risk and certain reward. My little rut was like a punch in the gut, or a kick in the butt and so deep like a cut, but... I've climbed out and will find a new route so I can be proud... no doubt. Hmmm, slam poet perhaps?!? No, no, no... that would just be incredibly scary for everyone else.<br />
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<br />Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-38392843481455872002020-01-22T08:00:00.002-08:002022-07-03T15:04:35.662-07:00Team Jillian Lizzo!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCW4Og7HhAOU7gSChlCAiKjR3A9480GIoKzYUCATegxXQG8wF5cMq18offvs6VFVj6-9gT_MfaDvfzgH3c-VKEuuPm4p2rKZ2bLSEXrUiASS84whf2hKMilIXF97jEs5S9F4PrN9VmTXr/s1600/TeamJL.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCW4Og7HhAOU7gSChlCAiKjR3A9480GIoKzYUCATegxXQG8wF5cMq18offvs6VFVj6-9gT_MfaDvfzgH3c-VKEuuPm4p2rKZ2bLSEXrUiASS84whf2hKMilIXF97jEs5S9F4PrN9VmTXr/s400/TeamJL.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I LOVE body positivity! I LOVE endorsing a healthy lifestyle! I HATE offending people!<br />
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~</td></tr>
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"Feelin' like a stripper when I'm lookin' in the mirror, I be slappin' on that a-word, gettin' thicker and thicker..."<br />
<br />
~My six year old son singing Lizzo's "Scuse Me" while playing with Matchbox cars<br />
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Spotify recently informed me in my year-end usage report that my most played artist of 2019 was Lizzo. I was not surprised. I've had that playlist that includes her latest record along with previously released tracks on a JUICY LOOP. I love her. I follow her on social media and marvel at her posts. For this aging mama who rarely comes up from the ocean of 80s and 90s synth pop, Lizzo has been a breath of fresh air. I'm a fan, pure and simple, and I absolutely love all the success and accolades she has been receiving. <br />
<br />
In addition to so much adoration, she was recently criticized about her weight by fitness guru, Jillian Michaels. The gist of Jillian's comments was that she loves to celebrate Lizzo's music, but cannot get on board celebrating her being overweight. My first reaction was, "OH MY GOD! I CANNOT BELIEVE SHE SAID THAT!!" But, a few seconds later I thought, "Although... I kind of see what she's saying..."<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u>Back In My Day...</u></b></div>
I think about the size of my body waaaaaayyyyy too much. And that's not a natural instinct, it's 100% due to the images and messaging I grew up with. As a child of the 80s and teen of the 90s, it was all SKINNY GOOD, FAT BAD. Simple as that. Fat people were the butt of jokes and if you were underweight and fit into sizes 0-4, you were to be celebrated. Oh, and health had nothing to do with it. The overweight weren't picked on because they were unhealthy, they were ridiculed because not being skinny was seen as ugly and less-than. If health was of any concern, pictures of starving actresses whose bones were protruding out of their skin would have been seen as obscene rather than the height of glamour.<br />
<br />
During the heyday of the "waif look," I was a slim girl... and not because I was trying. My genetic make-up gave me a body that just didn't put weight on very easily. When I think back to those days when I could easily pound a huge burrito smothered in cheese and ranchero sauce without the need to loosen a pant fastener, I get a bit sad. Alas, those days are long gone... but not forgotten. While I was enjoying the pleasures of youthful metabolism, I witnessed many of my friends who became obsessed with losing weight. Every single friend of mine who saw themselves as fat were unequivocally <b>not overweight</b>. They just weren't Kate Moss skinny. I would try to tell them they looked just fine, but why the hell would they believe <i>me</i>? All we saw in the media were images of sickly looking women who were being presented as the standard of beauty. At the time we were all so brainwashed that it didn't even occur to us that another type of body could be seen as attractive.<br />
<br />
Since those teenage years, I've heard some heartbreaking stories from those same friends about what they would put themselves through when it came to their weight. The amount of self-hatred they expressed was both heartbreaking and infuriating. Impossible standards of beauty have been around long before magazines had the audacity to print "Too Skinny?!" on a picture of Calista Flockhart after they had perpetuated so much of the content to cause her skeletal frame. I remember buying that issue only to find ads for weight loss pills 14 pages from the article about the "fear for Calista's health!" Assholes. The concept of extra weight being the enemy isn't a new thing, so our mothers and grandmothers have been feeding us a lot of these messages as well. Who can blame them? They were told to eat 3 grapefruits a day and smoke cigarettes to "stay trim."<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u>Team Lizzo</u></b></div>
Today, I love what I'm seeing with body positivity and self-love. To me, that's the best thing about Lizzo's music and overall message; LOVE YOURSELF. We as human beings waste too much time feeling inferior for a myriad of reasons, but mostly about the way we look. At my age, I feel this dumbass pressure to "look good for my age," because apparently after 40, we're all supposed to resemble that lady from Throw Momma from the Train. We've all heard the notion of "aging gracefully," and while I love the sound of that, I struggle everyday to not cringe at what I'm discovering in the mirror. So yes, listening to Lizzo sing soulfully about owning yourself and loving everything, flaws and all, gets me pumped!!<br />
<br />
Lizzo's message is so important because we are bombarded by content that shows unrealistic standards for the everyday person. Which is why I also applaud Jameela Jamil, actress and activist, for calling out celebrities who endorse those detox drinks, diet supplements and lie about their plastic surgery. She works tirelessly to end the ever-present curated perfection that influences young girls into thinking they need to look flawless all the time. As a woman who suffered from eating disorders in her youth, Jameela is passionate to show the reality of these products.. so much so, she posted a picture of herself on the toilet having diarrhea as a result of those "miracle" detox drinks. Apparently the miracle is that your butthole survives the explosive barrage of liquid poo. She also started the "I Weigh" campaign on Instagram, which was a movement to define one's worth by factors other than body weight. Jamil's I Weigh included loving her job, standing up for women's rights and being financially independent among other things.<br />
<br />
So, when I hear Lizzo's lyrics, watch her Insta stories proudly showing her body and speaking so openly in interviews about her struggles with self-love and self-acceptance, I think about those friends from my past who needed to hear and see what Lizzo is putting out there today. My brilliant, kind and funny friends who reduced their self-worth down to nothing because their mirrors didn't reflect a trim waist or thigh gap would have benefited from everything Lizzo is about. Her message is powerful to the young women and men who have been told they are less-than... she's an incredible role model.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u>Team Jillian</u></b></div>
Back in my 20s, my energy was shit. Sure, I could easily fit into size 6 pants no matter what I ate, but I was basically trudging through my daily routine longing for the next time I could be horizontal on a couch or bed. My internal voice just told me I was lazy and I accepted that. At age 26, after spending an entire day watching an Intervention marathon on television, I thought, "I think I'm just getting old." Oh young Sheevani, you were so delusional.<br />
<br />
That lack of energy was a result of my poor habits, I know that now. My pathetic workouts barely raised my heart rate and my diet mainly consisted of fast food or huge restaurant meals. As I wrote about in my blog about finding my love for <a href="https://www.impressionista.me/2019/06/bod-squad.html">fitness</a>, my intention to get into better shape about 5 years ago was for a number of reasons, and losing inches and pounds off my bod came in 4th or 5th on the list. Of course I wanted to look better, but I also wanted to feel better. Today, my body is fuller than those days in my 20s, but I have 1000% more energy, clarity and motivation about life. I'll take a bigger ass if that ass can move faster, longer and be more productive.<br />
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Sigh, okay... I'll be honest and admit I'm a bit nervous to defend Jillian Michaels here. Look, at a distance, it's easy to pin her as the villain; the rich, fitness guru white woman calling out the rags-to-riches black woman who appears overweight. My progressive instinct is to subscribe to that narrative, but I cannot deny that I tend to agree with her on some level. Her statements expressed some of the concerns I've discussed in private with my friends and family; can body positivity go too far and result in a disregard for bodily health?<br />
<br />
As much as I see the immense value in body positivity, I am afraid of the pendulum swinging too far to the other side where we aren't able to say something factual without being accused of "fat shaming." You don't have to be a health expert like Jillian Michaels to understand that being overweight leads to so many dangerous health issues. The obesity epidemic in this country has been an issue for several years and now even our kids are being diagnosed with obesity-related illnesses that were once only associated with older people. It's a very scary and real issue. Just ask Michelle Obama! #letsmove<br />
<br />
All I know about Jillian Michaels is she was a trainer on The Biggest Loser who struggled with being overweight herself. She has dedicated her career to health and fitness, so whether you love or hate her, she's an expert in this field. Also, she was asked a direct question: "Do you celebrate Lizzo being overweight?" I mean, could she really say yes? That would be against everything she believes in. Now, she didn't say that because Lizzo is overweight she should hate herself, not be included or be deemed unworthy of success. In fact, she applauded her talent and celebrates her music, but what could be more off-brand for Jillian Michaels than to say, "I love that she's overweight!"<br />
<br />
Soooo yeah, I'm Team Jillian when it comes to endorsing health and wellness. I put it in terms of my own kids... if I notice my kids adopting some really unhealthy habits, I'm going to make it a priority to help them figure out healthier options. That's my duty as a parent which is why I do my best to lead by example with my own choices. One thing I know for sure is that my message will always be about health and not about body size or shape. After I'm long gone, I hope to have left behind a strong message to my kids about honoring the one body they've been given.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<u><b>Big ASSumption</b></u></div>
Hang on a second, why do we assume Lizzo is unhealthy? Oh right, because of the size of her body. Tsk Tsk. If there's one thing I've learned through all the fantastic content that has been released in the name of body positivity, it is that you shouldn't assume someones health status by how they look. I'm a yoga nut and for so long I assumed only a Gwyneth Paltrow or Jen Aniston body were how true yogis looked... then I discovered Jessamyn Stanley or "Fat Femme" on You Tube and that just blew all my previous stereotypes out of the water. Holy shit can that woman bend and stretch in ways I can only dream of! One of the most beautiful realizations I read about Jessamyn was how when she looks at pictures of herself in complex yoga poses, instead of hating her fat rolls (which she always had), she recognizes how incredibly strong her body is... if that's not empowering, I don't know what is.<br />
<br />
As a subtle retort to J-Mikes, Lizzo posted a video on Instagram from one of her live shows that featured what she calls the Big Girl Dance Break. The choreography is fast, intricate and would increase the heart rate of anyone regardless of fitness level. The caption expressed how she does that routine every night on tour. That's relevant! I see plenty of women at the gym who aren't sporting size small Lulu pants, but they can run for miles and lift way more than I can. Seeing all sorts of body types at the gym has taught me that I'm inspired more by ability than I am a perfect figure.<br />
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<br />
Body positivity and bodily health are not mutually exclusive. People like Lizzo help me to embrace my changing body. I see her, listen to her lyrics and feel so much better about myself. She's taught me to be my own soulmate and teaches my kids that they are so much more than what they look like. People like Jillian Michaels remind me to make my health a priority because I know it will not only help my body, but also my mind and soul. I see her and get motivated to find the healthy balance in my life so I can stick around for many years.<br />
<br />
In this age where we read a headline and take a side instantly regardless of the deeper facts, I choose to reflect and realize that so many issues aren't black or white... well, in this case I guess Lizzo is black and Jillian Michaels is white, but you know what I mean. I don't think it's fair to pin either of these women as a villain or a heroine... but it is possible to grab inspiration from the core of each of their messages. If we did that... we would all be empowered and <i>unstoppable</i>... and smokin' HOT, by the way.Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-63401792395386735572020-01-02T10:23:00.000-08:002020-01-02T10:24:59.000-08:00New Decade, Ongoing Me"I hope I get pregnant, I hope I get pregnant, I hope I get pregnant."<br />
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--My thoughts circa January 1, 2010<br />
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(Spoiler alert: I got pregnant that same month)</div>
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<div>
According to social media, I'm supposed to reflect on the last decade since we are starting a new decade. Okay, I'll bite. </div>
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In the last decade I became a mother and lost my dad. Paul and I went from being married and free to married and child-trapped (by both love and obligation). I saw my mother become widow and marveled at her strength. I discovered what it felt like to be an "EMBA Widow." Paul and I built 2 houses. I went from working mother to stay-at-home mother... back to working mom... then finally to SAHM. I saw the worst in myself. I saw my potential. I saw Depeche Mode 3 times. My marriage was a roller coaster, but we survived. I celebrated my 20th high school reunion... and I survived. My kids have propelled me toward constant evolution. I found my inner activist. I moved away from my home state to start a life in Colorado. I learned to ski and, to my shock, loved it. My body got bigger. My face got fuller. I fell in love with fitness. I figured out it's not always my fault. I loosened my grip on the power of other's opinions. I became an improviser. I became a sketch writer and comedian. I became a working actor. I got closer to my true self.<br />
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I also started this blog. The entire decade lent itself to a lot of personal growth and major transitions... as most decades do, but this past year of writing so much about myself and my thoughts has been remarkable. The re-ignition of my love for writing has been both surprising and necessary. I learned how beautiful vulnerability can be and how mandatory it is to move past a lot of bullshit. This blog has given me a purpose... something for which I was searching for years.<br />
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All of the introspection for Impressionista has given me a healthy dose of peace but also opened my eyes to how much further I need to go. I've pulled at threads only to unravel many more loose weaves that need repairing. Furthermore, I've learned that a click of the Publish button doesn't mean the subject matter itself is buttoned up. There are days where I feel the opposite of things I've written and it's maddening. Nevertheless, there is zero regret for putting myself out there.<br />
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Staying positive is a tricky thing. In fact, the last couple of weeks have been filled with doubt. Maybe it was all the cookies and carbs over the holidays, but my body and mind have been sluggish and sad. However, one of my most important lessons of the past decade is that I have the absolute power to control my life. Plus, as I wrote in my post about <a href="https://www.impressionista.me/2019/10/every-pity-party-is-shitty-party.html">Pity Parties</a>, I give myself permission to feel shitty, but not for long. I'm well on my way to changing course.<br />
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In 2030, I'll have a daughter in college and a son in high school. I hope I'll have found more peace. I hope Paul and I will have plenty of empty-nester trips planned. I hope my career as a writer and actor will have flourished and I can be proud of myself. I hope to be healthy. I hope my body and face won't change at all... okay, that's ridiculous. I hope I can embrace the further saggy body and face changes. I hope to have played a part in making the world a kinder place. I hope to have seen Depeche Mode a few more times.<br />
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Most of all, I hope to be around in 10 years... because I have a lot more shit to get done.<br />
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Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-35518387175133614992019-12-15T13:37:00.001-08:002019-12-15T18:56:29.575-08:00Religion and Racism: Sweat-Inducing Chats With My Kids<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfodfKHmNUt8brCdS383zfcV48N_K-S53-AaZsTNJyw_Fis0NfYWO07qnRcgkVI7MCpHY6Iw-reHE4mGeueoO3iijO1rGV0ymWTbtGoB6Pgx6GR4r52jQ4jpSJk1RZsMRqhaxwgvgLDvn1/s1600/IMG_4123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1399" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfodfKHmNUt8brCdS383zfcV48N_K-S53-AaZsTNJyw_Fis0NfYWO07qnRcgkVI7MCpHY6Iw-reHE4mGeueoO3iijO1rGV0ymWTbtGoB6Pgx6GR4r52jQ4jpSJk1RZsMRqhaxwgvgLDvn1/s400/IMG_4123.jpg" width="348" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was sitting at this exact desk when I called out a classmate for being racist. Also, the yearbook caption writer greatly overestimated my interest in physics class.<br />
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"What do you get when a black woman gets an abortion? A CRIMESTOPPER!!"<br />
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I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly as the other kids uncomfortably laughed. Still giggling, Kelly looked over at me and my blank stare.<br />
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"Oh Sheevani... that's just the way I was raised," she said with a flippant wave of her hand.<br />
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This was her go-to excuse whenever she made a racist joke and I sat stone-faced. A group of us in the back of Physics class were often subjected to her racist comments and "humor." Before class started or when we were supposed to be doing in-class work but the senioritis was too strong, she'd educate us on her ignorance and always just say, "Well, it's just how I was raised," as if that excused her behavior.<br />
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"Why do you get so pissed anyway? You aren't black!" she laughed and looked around for expressions of agreement, "It's not like I'm making fun of... you know... Muslims?"<br />
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"I'm not Muslim either," I said with my stoicism acting as a shield for my increasing rage.<br />
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<i>Don't freak out, Sheevani. Don't. Freak. Out.</i><br />
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"Well, whatever... I grew up with those kind of jokes."<br />
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"Those jokes are racist and NOT funny." I said opening my Physics book. Perhaps today I could distract myself with the thermodynamics chapter we were covering. I looked up to find her glaring at me with a look of disbelief.<br />
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"OH my god, Sheevani... I am NOT racist!"<br />
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I stared back... partly because I didn't know quite how to respond and partly because I was taking some pleasure in offending <b>her</b> for a change.<br />
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"They are just JOKES. God, just because someone makes a joke doesn't mean they are racist!"<br />
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"If you weren't racist, you wouldn't tell them or find them funny." I said.<br />
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Mr. Schultheis began class and the room quieted down as bodies shifted forward and books were opened. Kelly's eyes lingered on me before she turned around. Her face showed genuine hurt and for a moment, I felt bad for calling her out. I looked over at my friend Tom who grinned and gave me a thumbs-up. Lucas glanced back and mouthed, "Thank You," to me. Whew, I wasn't alone... although, those same guys laughed at her joke. I may have had supporters, but I was the only one who spoke up. In that moment my momentary guilt dissolved and I knew I had done the right thing.<br />
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Lately, my kids have been bringing up some heavy topics that I should have seen coming, but naively assumed were a few years down the road. Namely, racism and religion have had top billing around our house for the last couple of weeks. The innocence with which my kids ask questions and share things they have heard from friends is just that - innocent. These topics are ones about which I want to be very thoughtful. That thought has forced me to once again be reflective about my own experiences with both... and as always, I try to provide my kids with open and transparent conversations. Admittedly so far, the conversations have been a bit clunky because I've been so caught off guard, so the imperfection of my response is where I'm struggling. I didn't expect parenting to be easy by any means, but I also wasn't prepared for such complicated conversations at this stage. Nonetheless... they're here.<br />
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<b><u>The Worst Word</u></b></div>
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Earlier this week, my daughter told me that a boy said the n-word at school. We were driving home from carpool pick-up and my stomach dropped. She explained how in history they were learning about the Niger River, but this boy said it the "other" way. For a moment I unclenched and asked if she thought he said it by accident... just pronounced it wrong, but she said he has said it before. I had about 47 more questions but asked only a few more; Had the teacher heard him? Did he laugh when he said it like it was a joke? Did other kids join in saying that awful word? Turns out, my daughter had heard the story from a friend since she was in a separate history class, so she didn't possess the details about which I was inquiring. While inside I was horrified, I tried not to show too much of my emotions while driving home. </div>
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"Well, that's an awful, awful word and I'm disappointed to hear he said that," I calmly said as I drove past the town Christmas tree. </div>
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"I know," my daughter said. </div>
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"If... if you were there when he said it... what would you have done?" I asked trying not to lead her to any specific answer. </div>
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"I would have said he shouldn't say it and it's very hurtful to black people," she said and my shoulders relaxed with relief and pride.</div>
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Truth be told, I had talked to my kids about that word months ago because of.... well, Beyonce. Both the record and Netflix film, Homecoming, were in heavy rotation for a few weeks at our house and Queen Bey lets the n-word fly. And yes, I let my kids listen to uncensored music. Look, music is one of those constants in my life that has served many purposes from inspiration to healing. I would be lost without my favorite music and I just cannot subject myself to Kidz Bop. I hold absolutely no judgement if that's your jam for your kids, I certainly understand why, but I'm selfish. I can handle the occasional Disney soundtrack, but I cannot handle Kidz Bop. I'm an original artist purist and I'm won't apologize for that. </div>
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Since my daughter seems to memorize lyrics after one listen, I felt it necessary to tell her that she shouldn't be throwing around that word while singing along to Beyonce. We had a very frank discussion about it and why it wasn't a good word to say. She had even noticed that when I sang along, I'd skip that word.<br />
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"There are bad words and there are WORSE words... to me, that word is the worst word. It really makes me sick to my stomach when I hear it used as an insult," I said.<br />
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"But, why does Beyonce use it?"<br />
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I knew this question was coming. Since college, I have been a part of many debates about black artists using this word in their comedy or song lyrics... how "they" are allowed to say it but "we" aren't. And yes, all the uproar came from white people who thought the black usage of the word was hypocritical. I never understood why this bothered some of my white friends so much. I'd retort with, "Do you WANT to say that word?" To which they would be horrified and say of course they didn't, yet they felt somehow repressed by this societal rule. I explained to my daughter that since I had never been victimized by that word, I have absolutely no right to judge how those who have been oppressed by it choose to use it.<br />
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"Not every black person uses that word and some don't like that black artists use it in their work, so even amongst themselves there are disagreements... but for us and other non-black folks... we should never say that word." I told my kids.<br />
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After discussing the incident at school, my daughter could see I was distracted and asked what I was thinking. I dismissed her concern, but after a few moments I decided to share some of my experiences with not only that word, but all sorts of more racist occurrences in my life. I even shared how her own grandfather, my dad, was denied housing back in the 1970s because some apartment building owners didn't rent to Indians. "They ruin the place with the spicy cooking," he was told. There were times when I'd hear the n-word thrown around casually at school or by a friend's parent. My daughter listened intently and wondered if I had spoken up, and I was honest about how it took me many years before I'd openly chastise people for using that word. Often times I would get scared to say anything because I thought if someone was ignorant enough to use that awful word, they may turn their racist venom on me. But that as I grew older, I knew that if I didn't say anything, I was telling the offender his or her actions were okay.<br />
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I chose only a few stories and held off on telling many more offensive details - I'm not sure they are ready for that yet, but the message was clear. Based on how my daughter felt about the incident at school that day... I know the message was received.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0M9905k37p5nkvPeVV3bO9XpgUA9M7HCGQ3HKBu4rRj6ASa6YUxK4qBV2kbHav4zumgj7mfkla-n4oHBRroc0ef99VaHwNtLyAKEN3-4BGsVynNwU5zaqa-Yzj_hhfJUNNZruEz4Bvyj7/s1600/IMG_4125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="501" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0M9905k37p5nkvPeVV3bO9XpgUA9M7HCGQ3HKBu4rRj6ASa6YUxK4qBV2kbHav4zumgj7mfkla-n4oHBRroc0ef99VaHwNtLyAKEN3-4BGsVynNwU5zaqa-Yzj_hhfJUNNZruEz4Bvyj7/s400/IMG_4125.JPG" width="277" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Praying with my Dad at my pre-wedding Ganesh puja</td></tr>
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<b><u>I Don't Want To Start Any Blasphemous Rumors</u></b></div>
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My son loves to chat. And I love that he loves to chat. Part of his daily oratory abundance is a rundown of what he's learning at school. He's at the age where everything is interesting, and he cannot wait to tell us about things like ancient Egypt, sound vibrations and even punting a ball. He's so proud of how much he's learning and I eat it all up.</div>
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"Mama, the Star of David is the symbol of Judaism," said my son out of nowhere while eating his after-school snack. </div>
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"Yes it is! Wow, how do you know that?" I asked.</div>
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"We're learning about it in school. Also, they celebrate Hannukah and it lasts for 8 days!" He licked his top lip leaving a key lime yogurt mustache I'd have to wipe off later. </div>
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"Very cool, bud... I'm glad you're learning about that," I said. </div>
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For the next few days, he brings up different tidbits about Judaism, Christianity and Islam, all the topics of their World Religions unit. I was so focused on my delight that their school is exposing them to different religions, that I didn't see a very obvious question coming. One night while we were watching The Great British Baking Show, my son asked what religion we were.</div>
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"Umm... well, I'm Hindu. I mean, I was raised Hindu... and Daddy was raised Catholic," I sputtered.</div>
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"So, we're Hindu and Catholic?" My daughter inferred.</div>
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"I mean... I guess? So, I tend to be more of a spiritual person versus religious and Daddy really isn't religious at all... but, that doesn't mean we aren't... I think there are certain parts of Hinduism... like, some people are very religious and we aren't... not that I don't believe in God, but... (sigh)... it's, um, complicated, I guess."</div>
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<i>Oh God.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Yyyyeaaaah, needless today my kids stared at me blankly and turned their attention to the technical challenge on GBBS since it was easier to understand. Paul and I looked at each other and sort of shrugged. But, me being... well, me, I have been thinking about my clunky response for days. I didn't want to confuse my kids but at the same time, I don't know if I'm very clear about where I stand on God and religion. </div>
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"How are you guys going to handle religion when you have kids?" </div>
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A co-worker of mine asked this during a discussion about her own struggles with her husband. I sort of shrugged and said we would "figure it out." She sighed and said how lucky I was. Her husband was insistent that their kids be raised Greek Orthodox - no debate, no question. He insisted on this because my friend wasn't religious. Since religion wasn't important to her, but very important to him, his logic was that the kids should be brought up with his faith. However, being a headstrong, intelligent woman, she couldn't accept that as a sound reason. The topic had gotten so heated and contentious, that it was delaying their attempts to start a family. I felt relieved not to deal with such a hot topic in my own relationship.<br />
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While we were dating, religion was barely on the radar. I suppose it was at it's height as a subject when we got married. We had heard about a non-denominational "priest" who could perform the ceremony and thought that was best since both of us weren't very religious. But I did want the presence of the Hindu ceremony because I've always imagined performing some of the elements I had seen at countless Indian weddings. Paul was very supportive of that and I knew it would make my mother happy. So we combined a Humanist and Hindu priest to perform our wedding. Done. Easy Peasy. </div>
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Growing up, my mother prayed every single day. After she bathed, she immediately performed her <i>puja</i>, or prayer, at our home <i>mandir</i>, or shrine. I'd watch her as a young girl and sometimes sing along to the Hindu hymns, or <i>shlokas</i>. My favorite part was seeing her eyes open after the final meditation. Her calm was blindingly apparent. On the other hand, my father had more of a scientific mind and deferred to logic over religion. While he'd show doubt, I knew he wasn't a complete non-believer. Almost every summer, our family would take a road trip to a temple in Pittsburgh. During our visits, I would see my father, our resident skeptic about all things, press his head against his clasped hands and close his eyes so tight that I could almost feel the importance of his prayers. </div>
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Paul is an Agnostic with a pinch of Atheist. On the rare occasion where we have talked about religion, he's expressed strong opinions about the Catholic church as an entity (given the rampant pedophilia and the lack of consequence for that pedophilia), but he's sort of ambivalent to the concept of God. He doesn't proclaim there is absolutely no God, but he's not willing to submit to a "fact" that God exists. For me, I have issues with believing only one religion has it 100% correct. Whether it's Hinduism, Christianity, Islam or Buddhism, there are elements to every religion that serve humanity in their own ways. I wouldn't say to a Christian that they are wrong since they don't believe in Lord Shiva, nor would I want to be persecuted about polytheism by a Catholic.<br />
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It seems I have inherited a combination approach about religion from my parents; a good amount of faith with a healthy dose of logic. I feel a comfort when I enter a Hindu temple, yet I'm not willing to subscribe to all that Hinduism has to offer. While I cannot prove there is a God, I cannot bring myself to tell my kids that God doesn't exist. During tough times in my life, I have prayed in private for some guidance, but I've also found strength within myself to take things head on... but did God give me that strength? I don't know.... I just don't know.<br />
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A few days after the inquiry about our family's beliefs, my son asked a more pointed question, "What is God?" Once again I found myself to be incredibly inarticulate. So, I did what I've done whenever my kids ask about shit I cannot answer; I Googled it.<br />
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"God is a supreme being or creator. An all-knowing, all-powerful, all present being."<br />
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My son stared at me.<br />
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"Like... like a superhero who helps you figure out your life," I said.<br />
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"Oh, cool!!"<br />
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I chuckled at my kid-friendly translation and knew it wasn't quite enough. Later, I spoke to my kids about how everyone has different beliefs, and how those beliefs must be respected. My own approach to faith, I told them, was a bit complicated and I was still figuring it out.<br />
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"But one thing I <b>do</b> know is that no one should be picked on because of their religion, and no one should force their beliefs on other people. Respect what others believe and move on."<br />
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I'm pleased with how I handled this religion stuff, but I know I'm not done. No doubt there will be more complicated topics to tackle in the future... and I can only pray there is a Pinterest board to help me out.<br />
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I want my kids to be good people. It's that simple. The challenging discussions were perfect occasions to talk about diversity and respect. When I told them stories about racial and religious strife throughout history, they couldn't fathom how people could be so cruel to one another. To them, it didn't make any sense. I hope that view strengthens and permeates to their friends, colleagues and, one day, kids of their own. But, telling them to be respectful isn't enough... I am keenly aware how my actions will go much farther than my words, which is why I'm very conscious of how I conduct myself. After all, I want to be a better person, too.<br />
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God knows I'm trying... or maybe it's just Wonder Woman. </div>
<br />Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-18899670025968729492019-11-21T07:28:00.000-08:002023-11-21T07:01:02.974-08:00Mr. Husband, TEAR DOWN THAT WALL!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj065PlJ6aP8Wppa_YbYSDGcoxJ4R_Yna4sxyN7Q68xFwGhIWRjRMzpqeGtH4K4VjeIvzRaQokD1xbuoX8zD_hykzm_C3Ow0NLZXLlea6h4UvUDv7dA9PJxyjJKIhDoDJo9dqrzp846fj_i/s1600/Paul+and+Me+DEH.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj065PlJ6aP8Wppa_YbYSDGcoxJ4R_Yna4sxyN7Q68xFwGhIWRjRMzpqeGtH4K4VjeIvzRaQokD1xbuoX8zD_hykzm_C3Ow0NLZXLlea6h4UvUDv7dA9PJxyjJKIhDoDJo9dqrzp846fj_i/s400/Paul+and+Me+DEH.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can't see it, but there's a wall there</td></tr>
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~~~<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Click <a href="https://impressionista.libsyn.com/site/mr-husband-tear-down-that-wall">HERE</a> to listen to this post</div>
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I feel my blood pressure drop as we hug. Why do we always do this? We always feel better after we talk, yet we both have to get to the point of diarrhea level stomach aches before we actually say what's on our minds.<br />
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We head to the bathroom to do our pre-bed routines; his being much longer than mine since I'm too lazy to commit to a full brushing and flossing routine. Hey, my dentist hasn't shown concern, so I'm not going to mess with my unbroken system. As I pull out a make-up remover wipe and brace for the cold moisture on my face, I think about how we didn't delve into all the issues on my mind. Sure, we tackled what was freshest on the surface, but what about the stuff that's buried?<br />
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I glance over at him hunched over the sink, 3 minutes deep into his 8 minute brushing session, and wonder if he is thinking the same. What am I even saying? Of course he isn't. For the entirety of our relationship, I've been the deep thinker when it comes to our emotional well-being. He probably thinks everything is 100% clear and fine. We shall coast on this false clarity for weeks or months until the next set of concerns come up. Then there will be a few days of awkwardness, snippiness, avoidance and disingenuous pleasantries. Finally one night, after the kids are asleep, we'll do this all over again.<br />
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Back in college, a roommate of mine would pull her comforter over her bed and say it was "made." However, she'd never fix the fitted sheet that was half off the mattress, or smooth out the flat sheet that was wadded up on one side and her pillow was almost always wedged between the frame and wall. At a glance, the bed looked tidy, but a closer examination would show so much messiness underneath the top layer.<br />
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I long to break the pattern of pulling the comforter up over our issues... it's time to fix those sheets. <br />
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Lately I've been feeling really helpless when it comes to my husband's happiness. Everyday I see him experience a range of emotions from heartfelt joy when he sees the kids come down for breakfast, frustration, impatience and anger in his home office, back to happiness after work with the kids, ensconced in sappy love as he puts them to bed, distracted annoyance as he opens his laptop again and then total exhaustion that causes him to pass out 15 minutes into our alone couple time. It's work shit. It's ALWAYS work shit. <br />
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I remind myself that it's easy for me to say things like, "Just don't let it get to you so much," or, "It's not the end of the world." From my vantage point, the level of discontentment he reaches every single day seems unnecessary, but I have to remember that it's not about me "getting it." The dichotomy between our typical days is pretty extreme, so I have no right to get judgemental about his moods. Also, we are different people. His approach to career and success is and has always been vastly different than mine... it's not wrong, it's just different.<br />
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My main struggle, however, is seeing him build this emotional wall around his career dissatisfaction. He is a master at compartmentalizing his life. When we lived separately before we were married, I would only see this happy-go-lucky side. Since being married, however, I've been privy to many other sides. Mostly, I've noticed an unfulfilled career pattern... company after company, role after role. In an <a href="https://www.impressionista.me/2019/01/the-good-wife.html">earlier post</a>, I wrote about how I've made certain choices in order to cut a clear path for his career to flourish, which I believed would make him happy. In fact, I banked on it making him happy. And while he's a successful person by anyone's standards, I know he is still very unfulfilled when it comes to his career. At times, I get so annoyed and think, "You are a white man in America with an MBA and executive salary! What more could you want?!"<br />
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Ah, there's that judgement again. The one constant in our marriage is that my husband has stood by me through all my struggles and never once shown any judgement. He listens quietly, sometimes because that's what I need, other times because he doesn't know what to say... and at other <i>other</i> times, I'm sure, he is biting his tongue. His patience and support for me throughout our marriage has been rock solid, so I want to reciprocate. Only, we've always differed in our capacity for patience. Paul's tolerance tank for me is that of a robust SUV while mine is comparative to, say, a lawn mower. <br />
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I've spent years pushing away my desire to obliterate his emotional wall, but now I'm starting to really fear the effects of all these repressed emotions... for both of us.<br />
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<b><u>Got Time to Lean, Got Time to Clean</u></b></div>
It's only been in the last 5 or so years that I've learned what really makes Paul tick. Of course, I had known the trivial things; likes and dislikes when it came to movies, food, cars, etc., but in relation to big picture stuff, I had to do some very uncomfortable digging. Considering we've known each other for almost 2 decades, I realize this may sound pathetic, but it's our reality. He's not a big sharer and I've been too scared to force it. The painful discoveries from his past came out during very emotional and trying times in our marriage. I needed him to open up or else our relationship may not have recovered.<br />
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One very significant door that Paul opened revealed a strenuous start to his relationship with his stepdad. From what I had seen during our time as a couple, it seemed perfectly amicable. While more formal than affectionate, it never appeared to be more or less than a typical father/son bond. Paul even called him 'Dad' instead of by his first name, something his older sister chose not to do, so I assumed it had been a smooth transition from life with a single mom. But, one day during a serious discussion about some issues in our relationship, Paul told me about those first few years.<br />
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When his mother remarried, his new stepdad did not hesitate to take on an authoritative role when it came to Paul and his sister, especially when it came to helping out around the house. Now, it wasn't like Paul was at all lazy. In fact, during her years as a single mother, Paul's mom had instilled a pretty rigourous set of chores for him to get done daily. But now this man, who was new to his life and home, did not hesitate to order Paul around and make him feel bad about taking any kind of break; watching television, listening to music, playing a video game, etc.<br />
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"What are you doing? Why are you just sitting there?"<br />
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The nature of his urging wasn't overtly aggressive or violent, Paul clarified, but with all the new adjustments of that time; mom's married again, we have a new man living in the house, he's telling us what to do like a dad before we've even gotten used to him... it took an understandable toll. And Paul being the affable kid that he was, he didn't want to bring his discomfort to his mother's attention and stress her out. So he followed orders. The effects of that time are what Paul still deals with today; a persistent sense of being on edge and never feeling like he can sit still without a nagging guilt about being unproductive. There are other lingering affects as well, many of which he still won't discuss with me.<br />
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I sat there listening with tears in my eyes as he revealed what he went through. It felt like an enormous crack had spidered down Paul's impenetrable wall. He even looked a little different to me. Feeling his vulnerability after assuming a trivial reality for so long was like breathing fresh air after being trapped. Talking about it was painful for him, but it was the first time I felt like I was peeking into the inner core of who he was. I am someone who is attracted to a person's energy, so seeing a truly genuine side was so beautiful and, quite honestly, a relief. It was the closest I had felt to Paul in years.<br />
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<u><b>The Theory of Evolution - Marriage Edition</b></u></div>
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As an avid listener to the Armchair Expert podcast, I've heard the word "evolved," thrown around quite a bit. When Kristen Bell was a guest, she applauded Dax (the host and her husband) for how <i>evolved</i> he was. What she meant was that Dax has taken the time to really understand himself and deal with his issues; the good, bad and ugly. And that information fosters a personal environment to grow into a better person. That doesn't mean his faults go away completely, but when they do arise, he has the backup data to inform the <b>why of his actions.</b> That understanding allows him to course correct. To me, this is the most important thing we as humans can do for ourselves. Understand the why. It's f*cking hard to do, but I'm a believer that if we are not evolving, we are shrinking into the worst versions of ourselves.<br />
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One of the greatest gifts this blog has given me is the self-reflective journeys I've been on for my posts. I've had to really dig deep into who I am and why I've made certain choices, and while it hasn't always been a pretty picture, it's been incredibly enlightening. I realize both how far I've come in certain ways, but also how much father I have to go in a lot of ways. But, I'm so fortunate to be in the practice of always looking inward and figuring out how to steer my way towards some semblance of personal fulfillment. </div>
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I wish the same for my husband. I'm not suggesting he hasn't evolved at all, but I know there's much farther to go. After learning about a few issues from his past (the stepdad stuff was just one of many), I'm worried about him holding in all that pain. Within the last year, I've realized through my own personal rumination that <b>I can only do so much.</b> I've had to repeat this to myself over and over again, both in my thoughts and out loud in the mirror.<b> He needs to figure this out himself</b>. Some days I wholeheartedly believe that... other days I want to search and search for the magic button that shoves him toward a path to contentment like it's my job. Because for so long I considered it my job... I'm his wife. I should be the one to make him happy. But just as I discovered a few years ago, the only person capable of taking steps to improve their situation... is you. </div>
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<b><u>Don't Worry, Be Happy - ALL THE TIME!</u></b></div>
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I once heard a report on NPR that delved into the quest for happiness. In it, the reporter talked about how happiness is approached in different countries and I was struck by how the French view the concept. Rather than a destination, the French consider happiness as temporary stops along the way. In fact, they see a state of perpetual happiness as ludicrous, unattainable and setting oneself up for failure. I nodded along in my car as if I was in the audience of a Ted Talk and the speaker could see me from the stage. </div>
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This idea that we need to keep trying to make ourselves and others happy starts so young. Oh, the baby is sad! Give her a toy! Our forefathers even included happiness as a pursuit in the Declaration of Independence. My Google search of "happy songs" came back with 935,000,000 results. Last time I was at Barnes and Noble (yes, I still enjoy physical books, thank you very much), there were at least two tables of self-help books, 85% of which touted some advice about how, why and what you must to do achieve HAPPINESS. Hell, this whole post is about my husband's happiness and my desperation for him to find it.</div>
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It's hard for me to change that destination happiness mindset, though. Ever since I can remember, I've been trying to solve the issues of my life with the sole purpose of being happy. <i>If I could just change A, B and C... then I'll be happy.</i> But as I think about that NPR report and seek a more spiritual side of existing, I can see the damage we do to ourselves when we feel this expectation to find our bliss, always stay positive, seek our passions, make the MOST out of every day! </div>
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Look, I'm not saying I'm trading in my positive attitude for a new bitter town address, but I do see the value in recognizing that being happy all the time is not at all realistic. I do not expect Paul to suddenly find the perfect formula and he'll never be unfulfilled again! For me, there is no clear answer about whether or not happiness should be held as a persistent intent... but self-improvement sure is. Maybe if we focus on being the best version of ourselves, the happiness is an accidental side effect?</div>
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Every single day, Paul and I marvel at our son and how that little boy can find joy in pretty much everything. At least once a day, we catch each other's eyes, smile and shake our head at the beauty of it all. Paul will say, "Oh that kid..." But lately, he's been following that up with, "I hope I don't screw him up." To which I say, "Huh? How would you screw him up?" Paul then responds with a shrug and dismissive, "I dunno..." I ask him the question even though I think I understand what he means. He's not unaware of the wall and he's well aware of the damage it could do to our kids if the reasons for that wall aren't dealt with.<br />
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My life has been an open book to my husband. I met Paul almost 19 years ago, and since then I have revealed the hardest struggles and the darkest secrets of my life to him. Even when he has shared some past struggles, the emotional scope feels very abbreviated as if there is so much more he is not telling me. Do I feel an imbalance of emotional vulnerability? Am I scared that the truths on the other side of that wall will hurt me? Am I scared that this wall will have a negative impact on our kids? Yes. Yes. YES.<br />
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There has been a new addition to my recurring dream repertoire. Paul and I will be having a serious discussion and, suddenly, he will have an outburst... telling me so many things he's been holding inside for years! And then he breaks down in tears because he feels so much better. The dreams usually end with us in a sobbing embrace feeling an ocean of relief. Then I wake up and the pit of my stomach aches because it wasn't real. Ugh, why couldn't I have just dreamed about Tom Hanks being my best friend again??<br />
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My love for Paul is so incredibly deep. No one has helped me become a better version of myself more than him. There are things he needs to let out and I only want that for his own benefit. I know it will be tough for both of us, but I'm prepared to trudge through that pain to make my recurring dream come true. It's time to smooth out those sheets... I just hope I can find the courage to start the discussion. Definitely something I <i>still</i> need to work on.<br />
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Anyone have Kristen Bell or Dax Shepard's contact info?!?!<br />
<br /></div>Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-52347592880715266342019-10-23T13:58:00.005-07:002023-08-22T16:19:12.566-07:00Every Pity Party is a Shitty Party<div style="text-align: center;">Click<a href="https://five.libsyn.com/episodes/view/27825396"> HERE</a> to listen to this post!</div><div><br /></div>I read over the post I was minutes away from publishing and I had to stop my own fist from punching my own face. The overarching theme of the post was about my tendency, for much of my life, to equate a slow social life with being a total loser. When I thought of this topic and how I've often felt "out of sight, out of mind" in social circles, it felt relatable and worthy of my blog.<br />
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My nose scrunched as I read story after story of being left off an Evite or not getting invited to a wedding. The whole point of the post was to share these feelings, but also illustrate how I've evolved into accepting my tendency to be a loner. I do believe that. I'm perfectly at peace with my social activity and inactivity. However, as I read over the post I had spent days writing, I sounded like a whiny bitch.<br />
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After a huge eye roll, I pressed down on the trackpad, dragged my finger up over the text and with a disgusted exhale... and hit DELETE.<br />
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In that now defunct post, I wrote about a few parties that were thrown without me, but the one party I refuse to attend or host is a pity party. As an eternal optimist, I cannot allow myself to go too far down the road of despair because there are too many things to be thankful for. Every single day I try and surround myself with positive energy because, as I get older, negativity sucks the life out of me. Seriously, I would be like a dried fruit version of myself if I succumbed to all the bummer stuff around me. For my own mental health, I have to literally and figuratively turn off sources of doom. It is especially hard right now with the current climate; both political and well, actual planetary climate, but I make it my mission to focus on all the beauty around me. And yes, there is plenty to find.<br />
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<u><b>The Woe Is Me Club</b></u></div>
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At my very first job out of college, there was a group of men at the office who were miserable. Naturally, they were all friends; you would see them congregating at each other's desks, going out to lunch, huddling together at happy hours (ironic). As a fresh-faced woman in my early 20s, young and excited about life, I had no idea why they insisted on being the office wet blankets all day, every day. Today I am older than those men were then, and I still don't get it. During those years of working together, I had learned quite a bit about each of them... they all had families, all were relatively healthy, they had college degrees in viable fields and well, obviously they were employed. I'm sure there was plenty I didn't know about them, but learning what I did during the years we worked together, it was pretty clear these guys were bound and determined to be miserable. </div>
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I sound pretty harsh here, I realize, but I'm not even going to try and sugarcoat how little patience I have for people who have SO much to be thankful for, but choose a life of whining and misery. To be clear, I'm not talking about folks who are clinically depressed or suffer from other debilitating mental health conditions. I'm talking about chronically negative, privileged people who have lost perspective. </div>
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One day, I was sitting in the cafeteria with one of the Woe members and he was bitching about being passed over for a promotion. </div>
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"Story of my life..." he exhaled shaking his head. </div>
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"Well, it doesn't have to be," I said biting into my turkey sandwich.</div>
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"What do you mean by that?" His eyes bored into mine as if I'd just accused him of saying something racist.</div>
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"Well, I'm just saying if you're so unhappy here, maybe you could find a better job somewhere else," I shrugged.</div>
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"Ohhhh, the naiveté of someone who's been here for 2 years," he leaned back with a snarky smile and folded his arms over his chest. </div>
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"Ohhhh, the bitterness of someone who hates his job but won't look for other opportunities," I said mimicking his body movement.</div>
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He laughed. We were acquaintances at best and he seemed surprised by my bold response to his insulting statement. That day, I was in no mood for his negative crap and I had no qualms about telling him.<br />
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"Look, I'm just saying that this isn't the only place to work... if you hate it so much, make a change. At least see what's out there." I felt odd giving someone 8 years my senior such advice, but I also felt like the more logical one at the table given his attitude.<br />
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"It's not that simple," he said shaking his head.<br />
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"Why not?" I asked.<br />
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We went back and forth as he made up flimsy excuses about having put in so many years at the company, established relationships, probably nothing better out there right now, etc. I would deflect each of these with simple statements like, "But, you hate it here," or "If you haven't looked at other options, how do you know nothing is out there?" Frustrated, he finally retorted that I wouldn't understand because I was too young and inexperienced.<br />
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"Believe me, when you're my age with a family, you'll see things the way I do," he held his hands up to signal the end of the conversation.<br />
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<i>Nope</i>, I thought, <i>I'll be sure to never see things the way you do.</i><br />
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<b><u>TCBW</u></b></div>
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This isn't to say that I haven't had dark periods where I've fallen into "the world is against me" despair. When I look back on those times, I realize now how trudging through that emotional sludge was so necessary for me to appreciate all the fantastic things in life. And that mental shift didn't magically fall into my lap. I had to want it and find it. One thing I've learned over and over again is that finding the proverbial silver lining is <b>work</b>. I wish it was more like, WERK... but no, it's solid WORK. Ask Oprah... she probably has about 4,000 gratitude journals at this point.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>BREAKING NEWS: THINGS COULD BE WORSE!</b></span></div>
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I live by these words and have for a long time. Do they always work to salve my pain? Not always, but again, I'm willing to work at it. Some of TCBW thoughts are:</div>
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<li><b><i>Yeah, my baby is fussy and not sleeping, but given that my dear friend just had her 2nd miscarriage, I'm going to cherish this healthy, fussy monster.</i></b></li>
<li><b><i>Okay, it's not ideal that my husband travels a lot, but he is supporting our family. He also listens to my concerns about feeling like a single parent at times and never dismisses my feelings.</i></b></li>
<li><b><i>Fine, my face and bod look old and fewer people understand my references, but at least I'm around to look old and bore people with my stories of the 90s. I didn't lose my life to cancer at 37 like my friend Amy, I didn't suddenly die in my sleep like another friend last year, or get killed by a drunk driver like my husband's dear friend in college. </i></b></li>
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These are trivial things, I realize. But I also suppose that's my point. My life hasn't been rife with tragedy and drawn-out struggles, so therefore, I refuse to let myself ignore the fortune of living a pretty charmed life. Nothing irks me more than privileged people finding shit to complain about. Yeah, it hasn't been all smooth sailing, but I'm also not a refugee or an abandoned child roaming the street. I don't live in poverty or in an abusive household. I'm not suffering from a debilitating mental or physical illness that limits my independence. But here's the thing, there are tons of stories of people overcoming those types of injustices or personal tragedies. Those badass tales are all around us! Read <i>Educated</i> by Tara Westover or any of Maya Angelou's memoirs among others. Those types of inspiring stories certainly knock my perspective back in place. Look, this works for me and I'm not saying it's what will work for everyone. I'm just glad that I have this nagging gratitude reminder in which I fully engage if I smell a personal pity party going on for too long. </div>
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An area where a TCBW thought is harder work for me is with my relatively new migraine condition. Back in 2008 when I got my first one, I thought I was having a stroke and went to the ER. The doc that day gave me my first TCBW moment when she came back with the results of my CAT Scan. She told me I had "nothing scary" in my brain, but instead seemed like I suffered a migraine with aura which was both common and treatable. Since then, I've gone through ebbs and flows with those damn things, and there is constant worry that I'll get one. While I had an extremely hard time with it at first, I've learned to deal with them as best I can. I live with the possibility that they could get a lot worse as I get older... but I never forget to remind myself that they could get better as my hormones level out with menopause (good GOD). Below is the TCBW work I need to do and, admittedly, isn't always easy to do when I suddenly can't see half of someone's face. </div>
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<li><i><b>I get these migraines once every few weeks while some people get multiple migraines per month. I do not suffer from chronic migraines and for the most part, I've figured out some of my triggers. Some people have to be hospitalized or prescribed strong drugs while I can treat mine with OTC pills and recover relatively quickly. I have quite a few friends who have offered to help me if things do get worse, including using medicinal marijuana, which sounds super cool and would make 15-year-old Sheevani blush from how edgy I've become in my 40s. </b></i></li>
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My common theme here is to never forget that life is hard and while sometimes my own shit may seem awful, a ton of other people out there have it a lot worse than I do. That's something I will always work to keep at the forefront of my thoughts.</div>
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<u><b>Wah WAHHHHH</b></u></div>
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I will sit and watch Debbie Downer SNL sketches for hours, but as for a real-life Debbie? No, that's a swift drop-kick right out of my life. All that complaining and seeing the gloom-and-doom in life is draining to be around. Now, I'm not talking about listening to a friend going through a hard time or providing a much-needed shoulder to cry on. I love to be that person of comfort. But, even those friends can overstay their welcome, especially when they are doing zero to help themselves. I'll refer you back to the gentlemen of that Woe is Me club from my first job. They all sat around having the exact same complaints for at least 7 or 8 years as if somehow the Gods of Whining would dump some good fortune on their cubicles.</div>
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My father educated me about a lot of wonderful things during my life, but the most important, albiet unintentional, lesson he taught me repeatedly was how I never wanted to view the world like he did. I'm not talking about politics or religion, but more the cynical lens through which he saw almost everything. I'm pretty sure a lot of us can relate to having an elder tell us they are just being "realistic," but to me growing up, I just saw my dad wallow in negativity so much that I know it affected far more in his life than just sharpening his gift of snark. My father did have real stress, from his career to his health... all pretty major and tough to deal with, however, he certainly didn't make it better for himself or any of us in the way he dealt with the challenges. I remember feeling this unfair burden of emotions due to his unwillingness to address his issues properly. Once, during a summer back home from college, his emotions about his own issues had boiled over to the point where he wasn't allowing me to spend the day with my then boyfriend. His arguments were absolutely nonsensical, so I said, "Why are your issues the reason I cannot go out? Can't I just have fun for a day and not deal with YOUR issues for once?!" My words sort of snapped him out of his rage. "You're right," he quietly responded, "This isn't your problem... go, bheta. Have fun with Greg." </div>
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Now, would I go back in a heartbeat and sit with him to understand what was troubling him so much? Absolutely. But, that's not the story. The story is about a father taking out his issues on his 20-year-old college girl. Here is another lesson he accidentally taught me as well; that I never want my own issues to distress my kids. This doesn't mean I will never show them vulnerability or emotion. Give me a break, they see a range of that every single day. But, as they grow up and develop their own problems in their own little bubbles, they shouldn't have to deal with my shit on top of it. In order to be the best possible mother to them, the least I could do is figure out how to properly address the issues of my life. If they ask me why I'm sad or struggling, I'll happily open that book for them because I know I'll have a chapter in there titled, "In Progress," or, "My Plan." </div>
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Obviously I have no clue what sort of battles our family may endure in the future, but I never want my kids to feel I'm not working on myself at all times. For me, it's about transparency at all levels, from the onset anger or despair to picking myself up, wiping away the tears and figuring out how to see a path forward. While my dad didn't really put that sort of thinking into practice during my lifetime, I know he'd encourage my approach during his grandkids lifetime. </div>
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Please don't let the theme of this post suggest that I do not understand how therapeutic a good old fashioned bitch session can be. I LOVE to bitch, WE ALL NEED TO DO IT. Life is hard and the alternative to venting to our friends is bottling up that shit and I don't know about you, but my blood pressure is not equipped for that. But, just as I tell myself with strawberry cheesecake and baked macaroni and cheese, <b><i>everything in moderation</i></b>. You do too much of any of that, including the bitching, your insides will hurt and those toxins released from your body holes will alienate a lot of people. </div>
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Whether a bitch session or pity party, I choose keep mine short, poorly planned and with shitty food. Like the Fyre Festival of pity parties... except with much less Ja Rule. </div>
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Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-21995348709950988142019-09-23T14:10:00.005-07:002022-12-29T14:03:32.568-08:00Welcome Week - The Real Story<div style="text-align: center;">Click <a href="https://directory.libsyn.com/episode/index/id/25459668?_ga=2.260618509.1235455399.1672326351-1290507015.1661273056">HERE</a> to listen to this post</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>My last post featured a short story inspired by my first night away at college. When I started writing it, my intention was to tell what actually happened, but as I typed away I realized I wasn't quite ready to share the true events of that night. So instead I wrote about what I <i>wished</i> had happened. This week, I'm still not ready to share, but for some reason, I feel compelled to do so.<br />
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This account of that night from 23 years ago is as accurate as my memory will allow. It certainly wasn't my ideal way to start my college life at Michigan State University, but it was certainly a lesson in poor decision-making, speaking up and healing shitty first impressions.<br />
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The following is a true story.<br />
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<span><b><u>Co-Ed Expectations</u></b></span><br />
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<b><u>Party Time</u></b></div>
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I breathed in the humid night air of East Lansing as I walked across Grand River Ave. The feeling was a mix of guilt and relief; guilt because I truly didn't think I deserved this gift of going to away to college and relief because I finally felt like I could make up for the years of social stagnation that my 18-year-old self had deemed unacceptable. I was sick of being the odd one out and now I could just blend in with the rest of my peers... at least on a social level. No more, "I can't go," or "I'm not allowed." For the first time, I could actually make the decisions for myself.<br />
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Back in 1996, Welcome Week at Michigan State University was a full week. I have since learned that it has been reduced down to a weekend shortly after I was gone from campus, so I feel lucky that I was one of the last to enjoy an entire week of familiarizing myself with the various aspects of scary college life. That first night, I tagged along with Kavita and her friends to a few house parties off campus. I couldn't think of anyone better to usher me into the college party life than my best friend of 9 years. She was starting her sophomore year, so she could show me the ropes.<br />
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We were one of many large clumps of co-eds crossing over to the party streets; Charles, Division, Bailey among others. Flashes of various party scenarios appeared in my head, no doubt an amalgam of tv shows and movies I'd watched for the last 5 years. People making out everywhere, lampshades on heads, loud music and dancing, keg stands, rounds of shots being passed around. Basically, if it happened on My So-Called Life, Beverly Hills 90210 or any John Hughes teen movie, it was swirling around in my head as a trailer of what I was in for later that night.<br />
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The beer was gross, but Kavita had assured me that I would acquire a taste. "It won't be so bad after you have a buzz going," she said. After achieving said buzz, I was having a great time. While not every party trope I'd seen on screen was happening, I was relishing the freedom of it all... I didn't have to watch the time or figure out an excuse to tell my parents. The night was as young as I wanted it to be, and I loved every minute of this new normal.<br />
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<u><b>Post Party Time</b></u></div>
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The group had splintered into a few pairs and triplets, but eventually we all made it back to Holmes Hall. Since I was already with her and her friends, I had decided to crash with Kavita that night instead of going to my own dorm room, which was all the way across campus. Besides, I barely knew my roommate yet, so spending my first night with a familiar face was the perfect way to start my college life.<br />
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It was decided that a bunch of us would go to the brother floor and hang out. All the rooms had the bareness of the just-moved-in quality; boxes half emptied, beds barely made, closets adorned with a few hanging garments. Holmes Hall was one of the dorms on the far east side of campus affectionately called, "The Projects" since it was one of many high-rise residential halls that lined a divided road, each of them looking exactly alike with their beige brick and sterile design. Kavita had been a bit horrified that I had been placed in the West Circle side of campus, with the old architecture and dorms that resembled more of a tudor style aesthetic. She insisted all the fun happened in The Projects.<br />
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Kavita and I were hanging out with a couple of her friends in their room. One of the friends, Carl, was a guy I'd heard quite a bit about during our long distance conversations the previous year. Kavita told me all about how complicated he was, but also how smart and sensitive he could be. I had built him up in my mind to be Troy Dyre from Reality Bites.... Ethan Hawke's portrayal of a smart but damaged guy who lets his potential slip away in order to avoid becoming a yuppie seemed the perfect imagination match for Kavita's stories.<br />
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Sitting on the dorm-issued couch next to Carl was sort of thrilling. He wasn't exactly warm or friendly, but again, my knowledge of his nature allowed me to excuse his iciness. In fact, I wasn't sure he knew I was even in the same room... that is until Kavita and the other guy left, and all of a sudden Carl reached his arm around my back and hoisted me on top of him. Completely surprised and unaware of how to do... well, anything, I let him sort of take the lead. My heart pounded... first at the surprise at what was happening, but also feeling a bit flattered that THE Carl wanted to make-out with me?! I couldn't really say for certain that he knew my name.<br />
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<b><u>Uncharted Territory</u></b></div>
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Before the night began, I was hoping to kiss a guy. I feel no shame admitting that. A full make-out? Okay sure! Sex? No way. I knew better than to go straight to rated-R before getting comfortable in PG-13. Ever since I hit puberty, I was a boy crazy, rom-com loving, hit teen-show watching dork who longed for my over-romanticized first boyfriend, kiss, couch make-outs, etc. Much like the Nancy Reagan "Just Say No" campaign worked on me to avoid drugs, episodes of my favorite teen shows scared my unskilled libido into submission with pregnancy scares and HIV/AIDS tests. I was eager to start, but I was in no rush to enter the world of condoms, birth control or going to the free clinic for tests. </div>
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We made it back to Carl's room and onto the top bunk which he had claimed. His roommate wasn't arriving for a couple of days, so we had all the privacy we needed. Laying beneath him, kissing in the dark, hearing his breathing and feeling his hands on me, it felt... okay. While my experience level was pretty much zero, I could tell Carl wasn't a master at the art of making out. His movements were urgent, sloppy and totally devoid of the romantic rhythm I had seen with Dylan McKay and Brenda Walsh. He wasn't aggressive or scary, just clumsy and clueless. As it was happening, I distinctly remember the thought, "I'm sure this will get better," crawling through my brain. </div>
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At a certain point, my shirt was off and his attempt at unbuttoning my pants was met with a clear "no" from my mouth. "That's cool," he panted and returned his focus to everything above the equator. I felt very shy being topless with a guy, but given that the room was dark, I wasn't as self-conscious. It was exciting and scary at the same time. Carl never made me feel unsafe, mind you, but there were moments where I wondered if I was actually enjoying myself. These moments occurred when he'd be giving a lot of attention to my virgin nipples with the enthusiasm of a newborn baby. That's as detailed as I can get without wanting to melt into the floor. But yeah, let's just say that Carl had a fixation on two very specific parts of my body that night. </div>
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I'm not sure how long the make-out lasted, it could have been 30 minutes or an hour. We were done after a knock on the door from Kavita wondering where I was. Carl hopped down from the top bunk and cracked the door open slightly. I heard some muffled talking and Kavita's signature giggling.</div>
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"Having fun in there?!?" she yelled.</div>
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"Uh, yeah!" I responded half embarrassed, half lying.</div>
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"Haha! Okay, I'm going to bed now Sheevs... you coming with me orrrr....?"</div>
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"Oh yeah, hang on! I'll be right there!"</div>
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My first make-out was done, I had decided, and it was a solid 5 out of 10. Eh, maybe 4. I re-dressed, jumped down from the bunk and asked Carl if I could use the bathroom. He nodded and yawned as he pulled his shirt back on. After peeing I looked at the mirror in horror to see purplish patches all over my neck and chest. ALL OVER. It was like a strangulation of hickeys. I opened the door and Carl stood there, bleary-eyed and waiting to use the bathroom himself. He took one look at me in the light and his eyes grew large.</div>
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"Oohhhh shit... I'm so sorry."</div>
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I fake laughed, said some semblance of a farewell and sped-walked to the other side of the building to Kavita's room, thankful to not see anyone else in the hallway. She was the one and only person to whom I could show my complete humiliation. Along with her roommates, they commiserated with me and called Carl an asshole. I didn't totally defend him, but I also kept saying, "I had no idea it was even happening!" The entire session was just a jumbled mess of kisses from my mouth down to my... well, Carl's favorite points of interest. His apparent "passion" lended itself to higher than average suction settings. </div>
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<u><b>Turtleneck in 90 Degrees</b></u></div>
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The morning after, Kavita's roommate let me borrow an ill-fitting white mock turtleneck that only covered half of the affected area. The combination of that shirt along with the expensive concealer my mother had ordered for me was how I masked my neck for the next couple of days. I could see the looks of consternation at this weird girl wearing a white turtleneck in peak August heat. The edge of the white collar eventually got stained with a ring of beige concealer as I sweated the days away. The worst part of my make-out aftermath happened under that marred shirt and was only known to me. Carl's prolonged fixation on my nips that night caused the skin to crack and bleed. In the days leading up to the start of classes, I'd feel sharp pains from the peeling skin rubbing against my bra. With every stab of nipple pain, my eyes would flush with tears and not just from my physical malady. I just wanted to have a fun make-out with a guy... but I ended up an ashamed idiot with a neck full of hickeys and bleeding nipples. College was supposed to be where I could start fresh as a confident young woman who was eager to explore her freedoms. Well, that first night certainly wasn't the way to make that idealistic impression.</div>
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<u><b>They All Knew</b></u></div>
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It wasn't until about a month into the semester when my new dorm friends were comfortable enough to address what they saw of me that first week. </div>
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"Oh my god, it was so obvious! The more you tried to cover it up, the worse it looked!"</div>
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I would bury my face in my hands with a muffled, "I know!!"</div>
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"I felt so bad for you, but I didn't know you at all, so I couldn't really say anything!" said the girl in the next room over.</div>
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I finally explained what had happened and how it was basically a cautionary tale for any other sheltered girl looking for too much excitement the minute they leave the nest. </div>
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"It could have been worse... believe me," another girl said with a serious expression.</div>
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"Oh, totally," I said, understanding her implication,"A lot worse, I know."</div>
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Contrary to what Kavita had said, my side of campus was just as fun as hers. It may have not been the mecca of secret kegs being snuck up to dorm rooms, but there were nights spent chatting with some incredible friends, who really became my saviors that first year. After they learned more about who I was as a person, that first impression of me from Welcome Week seemed to be an alien who had invaded my body. After some time, I could joke and laugh about that ugly turtleneck. While it took longer than my nips, I eventually healed from the shame and embarrassment of it all. </div>
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So, that's what really happened that first night away at college. This wasn't easy to share, but at the same time, I feel it sort of encompasses a lot of my identity struggles in a single night. When I find myself cringing at this story, it's not so much about the hickeys and nip abuse, but more about my inability to distinguish who I was and who I was supposed to be. </div>
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Look, at age 18, most of us don't know who the hell we are yet, but for me, I rushed to be what I'd seen in others rather than figuring out who I really was. Back then, I was sure my parents rules were to blame for my stagnated experiences and well, that <i>is</i> true, but I had also built that up as what was "holding me back." From what exactly? Oh, all the stuff that parents are supposed to protect you from. "You'll understand when you're older," has never rang so loud and true in my ears. </div>
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This is a story about succumbing to an urgency of identity and not following your gut. It has served as an example over and over in my life of what happens when you covet an experience or lifestyle that may not be what's best for you... or even something you'd enjoy. </div>
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I'm happy to report that eventually I did experience my fairytale moments complete with movie-like magic and true love romance. They happened when I wasn't trying so hard to be someone I wasn't... they happened exactly when they were supposed to. Go figure. </div>
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Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5416170848838716974.post-11076295203720452802019-09-09T12:35:00.006-07:002022-09-28T11:30:12.437-07:00Welcome Week<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Listen to this post <a href="https://directory.libsyn.com/episode/index/id/24519144?_ga=2.38840043.970432582.1664380643-1290507015.1661273056">HERE</a></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My freshman year roommate at Michigan State University took her oldest son to college a couple of weeks ago. Cortney's eyes were misty and her smile conveyed a mix of pride and heartache as she hugged her handsome boy in front of his dorm. I smiled as I clicked through the photos, imagining what Cort must be going through and thankful that her current experience is still 9 years down the road for me. My social media feeds have been full of posts about freshmen college kids going away, but this was Cortney, the first person with whom I lived in college and well... seeing her post knocked me sideways by a tidal wave of memories from that first week in East Lansing. Moreso, the first night.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The following story was inspired by true events.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I-96</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meera watched the speedometer with restrained excitement.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Don't speed! You don't want to get a ticket today!</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The winding highway seemed endless, and she was half thankful, half exasperated for the seemingly glacial pace of the drive. As the signs for unfamiliar roads whizzed above her head, her mind would get sucked into reservoirs of wonder. How often would she make this drive? When would it start to feel routine? Does she deserve all of this?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That last question ached in her heart the most. For the last 2 years, she had fantasized about this very drive, but always shrugged it off as a non-possibility. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There's no way, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">she'd tell herself. Given the mysterious nature of her family's finances coupled with her father's immediate need to change the subject, Meera had resigned herself to other options. When the decision was made, she felt an aura of euphoric instability... as if at any moment it could all change. For the last month she had braced herself for the impact of the rug being pulled from beneath her feet.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But, here she was. She glanced in the rear view mirror and caught her mother's face in the reflection. Meera's heart lurched as she saw the sadness in her mother's eyes. Gita's chin rested on her knuckles, her mind a million miles away from the Nissan Altima in which she sat. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Don't, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Meera thought. She didn't want to have to worry about her mother today. Today. This unforeseen day. The day her life would change forever.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her first day away at college.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The Pit</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"So dark!" Mahesh exclaimed upon walking into Meera's dorm room.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Ugh, DAD!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"It's like a basement! Just one small window!? For how much we are paying??!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Like I had a choice? Seriously, can we NOT? I really don't need the stress!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Gita shot Mahesh a look. Seeing the worst in any situation was sort of Mahesh Gupta's specialty. His passion to always zero in on the empty air in a half-full glass was only matched by the deep love for his daughter. This was a hard day for him as well. Harder than she'd ever know. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Looks like Lauren has already been here," said Meera. There were 3 suitcases and some boxes neatly tucked in the corner of the room. The lower bunk had been made up with hunter green sheets and a plaid comforter. A stuffed cat rested on the pillow. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meera only knew her roommate from a letter she had received 3 weeks earlier. Lauren was from a small town in northern Michigan, a star basketball player who would bring a tv and computer for the room. Oh, and she was sheepish about sleeping on the top bunk, so it was decided that she could have the lower bunk during an awkward 10 minute phone conversation the two shared about a week earlier. That same conversation was when they decided that Meera would provide the dorm room staple mini-fridge. Mahesh wasn't happy about that. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"What, Dad?! She's bringing a tv </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">computer! A computer she said she'd share with me for schoolwork!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Do you even know how much this fridge will cost? Did you even think about that? You don't know this girl, she may be taking advantage!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Dad, they are like $100, it's not a big deal." Meera's older brother chimed in with the hopes to squash yet another shouting match between his dad and sister. He was watching tennis, the US Open, and didn't look away from the television. Unlike Meera, Maneesh didn't go away to college, but instead commuted 40 minutes to a satellite campus of a big university. Meera never knew if that was his choice or because their parents couldn't afford to send him away. He never told her and she never asked. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Well, then I can pay for it," Meera said, "I have money saved up." </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mahesh slowly closed his eyes and exhaled. Meera could see the tension in his jaw and knew this was the end of the conversation. He would later take her to Meijer to buy the mini-fridge, which was on sale according to the Sunday circular he perused earlier that day. As Meera took out her cash, he silently handed his American Express to the cashier and put his arm around her.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Olive Garden</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As a child, there were countless sleepovers where Meera's father had to come rescue her after nightfall. The horror of her parents being far away in another house never failed to consume her as the sleeping bags were being set up. She had wondered if going away to college may awaken those dormant emotions, but after the last few hours of unpacking her room, meeting her RA and walking around campus, Meera couldn't start this new chapter fast enough. She loved her parents, of course, and figured she'd miss them at some point, but she had to admit a sense of relief when there was no panic setting in as their departure was approaching.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I'm so scared I'll get lost on campus!" Meera said as she tore a parmesan breadstick in half.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh, everyone is so friendly! If you lose your way, just ask anyone... they will totally help you!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nisha was Meera's best friend who had already spent a year in college... the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">same</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> college. Something they dreamed about as pre-teens. If pressed, Meera would have no choice but to admit that she had chosen this particular college because Nisha was there. All the years of their friendship were spent a few towns apart in different school districts. Their bond was kept alive by short conversations every evening along with the occasional weekend sleepovers (Meera never needed her dad to get her from Nisha's house). Meera was gutted when Nisha had left the year prior for her freshman year. As a lowly high school senior, she was afraid their friendship wouldn't survive. It did.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Bheta, just practice walking to your classes this week," said Mahesh, "That's why they give you this week. So you can familiarize yourself with the campus."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I'll come with you!" Nisha squealed. She and Meera had barely touched their fettuccini alfredo. The butterflies in Meera's stomach had consumed any hint of an appetite. Mahesh, on the other hand, seemed to be drowning his emotions in mouthfuls of spaghetti bolognese.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"We should go soon, Mahesh, I don't want to drive back in the dark," Gita said.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mahesh's face grew somber and he nodded. A twinge of sadness leapt in Meera's stomach. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There it is,</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> she thought. She needn't feel guilty about her numbness for leaving. She </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">will</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> miss her parents, but... only a little.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"You can just drop her off at my dorm," said Nisha, "We're hanging out tonight and you're staying over, right?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Yup!" Meera and Nisha exchanged knowing glances.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Good-Bye</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Good luck, bheta, wish you all the best," Gita said as Meera bent down and touched her mother's feet, a sign of respect she had done for years to older relatives when they visited from India. Today, it felt right to pay these same respects to her parents. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Thanks Mummy," she said, "Drive safe."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She turned to her dad and began to reach for his feet, but he stopped her by the arms and pulled her in for a tight embrace instead. With her face pressed against his cheek, she could hear him swallowing down his tears, a feeling all too familiar to Meera. Although, today her tears would remain at bay. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Bye, Meeru Bheta," Mahesh choked out, "Study hard, ok?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I will, Dad."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He turned and walked away quickly as if the pain of leaving his only daughter existed in the one foot radius around her. She waved and watched them drive away in a parade of other cars full of parents and siblings leaving their own precious person behind. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Their car rounded the corner out of sight and Meera turned to Nisha. They hugged and jumped up and down. Let the festivities begin. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Party Time</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">God, this is gross,</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> thought Meera.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She had tasted beer before. At the age of 10, she snuck a sip from one of the ancient bottles of Lowenbrau that had seemingly taken permanent residence in the back of her parent's fridge. Both Gita and Mahesh never drank, but they kept the beer "for guests." Those poor guests would suffer the consequences of their hosts not understanding that beer has a shelf life. On the rare occasions where Meera found herself at a high school party, she preferred to be the keen observer of the cooler kids getting drunk while watching the clock to make sure she wasn't late for her 11:30 curfew.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, she had no curfew. Now, she had no scary parents waiting up for her. Now, she could be one of the cool kids getting drunk. Well, that is if she could only choke down this disgusting brown liquid that assaulted every bitter tastebud on her tongue. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Sooooo, you're Meera?" The guy running the keg looked at Meera with familiarity. In the dim of the back porch light, she could make out that he had thick, dark hair, smiling eyes, and a wry grin that gave way to deep dimples low on his cheeks.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Uh yeah! I'm Meera!" Ugh, she said that way too excitedly. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jesus, play it cool, idiot!</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I lived on Nisha's brother floor last year... and this year, too. I'm Colin."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh my God, it's COLIN!!</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Nisha had told her about Colin last year during their weekly phone conversations. Colin was sort of a player, Meera had learned, but also super smart with a complicated family situation. He plays guitar in his dorm room, prefers reading to video games and according to the girls who've hooked up with him, a totally amazing kisser. Meera immediately got nervous.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Ohhh... yeah, I think I remember Nisha mentioning you... Colin... from her brother floor." These were the words that she said, but her mind was still processing everything Nisha had told her. She was seeing them scroll on a screen like the Terminator data download as he searched for Sarah/John Connor.</span></span><br />
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<li><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Colin hooked up with Nisha's roommate, Jillian</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Colin and Jillian tried to date, but it fizzled</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Colin got his stomach pumped last year</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Colin looks hot with his shirt off</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Colin writes songs that he will sing after smoking pot</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Colin's mom died when he was young and he hates his step-mom</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Colin was on the Dean's List</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>IMPORTANT DATA - **Nisha has absolutely no interest in Colin**</b></span></li>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Nisha saved me last year, man... she's an awesome friend. I know she's so excited for you to be here. All of us on the 4th floor heard so much of 'MEERA THIS' and 'MEERA THAT!' You're a legend!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He raised his red Solo cup that was overflowing with foam and quickly put his mouth on the rim to suck up the white sea of fermentation. She watched his mouth, his sharp jawline and those dimples... oh, those dimples that flashed quickly in rhythm with his lip movement as if to tease her.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Ohh.. pshhhhh, "Meera forced a laugh, "Yeahh... I mean, we're pretty close, I guess. I mean... like, I'm excited to be here too... totally." She's flustered. Colin was almost famous in her eyes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For the next hour of the party, Colin kept finding Meera. A couple times in line for the bathroom and at others he'd just appear next to her on the couch. As she choked down beer after beer ("Trust me, you just have to develop of a taste for it,"</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nisha had said), her body felt more relaxed and the edges of her nerves dulled with an almost purring sound that made her feel warm inside. Buzzed. She was buzzed. For the first time in her life. The warmer she felt, the more she wanted it to last, so she kept making trips to the keg, finding more confidence and less social awkwardness with each trip.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"MEEEERAAAA!!" Nisha said as Meera made her way to the keg for the 4th time, "You guys!! Don't you LOVE my best friend?!!" Nisha turned to Meera,"Are you having fun?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh my god, this is the BEST!!!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meera and Nisha hugged and tumbled to the poorly maintained wooden deck, spilling beer everywhere and cackling with the delight.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Whoa whoa!" Colin appeared again and took Meera's hand. He lifted her up and against his body. She looked up into his eyes and smiled.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Youuuuu doing okay?" he asked.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I'm soooo good... how are you, Colin Foster?" Meera's buzz had stripped away her usual self-consciousness. He didn't stop looking into her eyes and she matched the intensity of his stare. Colin placed his hand on the small of her back, pressing her hard against him. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">YES, FINALLY, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">she thought.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Choke</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"First time being drunk, I presume?" he asked. Colin escorted Meera into the kitchen. The tile was sticky and the countertops resembled a 1970s vibe. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I PRESUUUUME! Who are you? Sherlock Holmes??" Meera laughed too hard at her own quip.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Ohhhkay, I think that answers my question. Let's get you some water."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Colin handed Meera a bottle of water from the cooler. He twisted the cap open and put it to her lips. She looked into his eyes as the cold water met her lips.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I'm okay, really," she said, trying to sound normal, "I mean, I'm definitely buzzed, but I don't think it's only from the beer. I'm just soooooo glad to be away from home!! Oh my god, you have NO idea!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh yeah?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I mean, I loooove my parents. Totally love my parents... but, like, I could never just go out. It was always such a big deal... going out with friends," Meera dipped into an impression of her parents, "Who are you going with? How do you know them? Who is driving? Where is this place? What time will you be back? Blah blah blah... it was exhausting!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I can imagine," Colin leaned against the counter next to Meera, their arms gently touching. He gestured to her to keep drinking the water and she obeyed. A couple was kissing in the entryway.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I could never do THAT!" Meera said gesturing to the passionate pair. Colin laughed at Meera's incredulous expression. She stared at them and shook her head, "I mean, I wanted to... I can name at least 4 guys I wanted to do THAT with, but... it wasn't worth my parents finding out. I just figured, it will happen eventually." Meera shrugged.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Have you... never kissed anyone?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Suddenly Meera was very aware of what she was saying and, more importantly, who she was saying it to... this was </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Colin. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">COLIN!</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh.. yeah! I have... of course I have!" Meera wasn't making eye contact.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"It's not that big a deal if you haven't, you know."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">YES IT IS,</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> thought Meera. Of all her friends, Meera was the least experienced. She had once shared a sloppy kiss with a drunk soccer player at a school dance, but it was more a smashed mess of tongue and teeth than anything else. She refused to count that as her first kiss. Her virginal path was yet another thing that set her apart from the friends she grew up with... friends with whom she had seen in pre-school crying for their moms to high school talking about refilling their birth control prescriptions. Everyone around her seemed to have lived those romantic tropes that Meera relished from tv shows and movies. Meanwhile she was forced to use her imagination to appease her prudish existence. No more. Tonight, she would put an end to that era. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Well, I mean... we can't all be COLIN FOSTER!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"What does that mean?" Colin asked. Meera looked up afraid she had offended him, but the look in his eyes suggested more of a sly curiosity. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Nothing... nothing.. I'm sorry... I..."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I guess Nisha's told you a few things, huh?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Meera tightly smiled as Colin looked forward and slowly nodded. He took the water bottle from her hand for a long sip. It was weirdly intimate and she felt a heat building on the back of her neck. Meera's eyes were glued to the motion of his mouth on the perforated plastic. The gentle movement as the water flowed through his perfect lips that closed as he swallowed. His tongue made a quick appearance to lick up an errant drip. Her gaze moved down to his Adam's apple then traveled over the smoothness of his neck up to his earlobe. It looked so soft and kissable. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">GAH!! OMG!!! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I better go find Nisha," Meera suddenly said and pushed herself off the counter. She swayed at the change in position and was annoyed by how she must look to Colin; naive and sloppy. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I think she's out front," Colin said. She half expected (wanted) him to stop her from leaving, but just as his reputation preceded him, Colin rarely did what was expected. He just smiled at her with each of his dimples piercing her racing heart.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: underline; white-space: pre-wrap;">BFF</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Meers! You okay? Are you wasted? Feel sick?" Nisha said when she saw Meera's pained expression on the front porch. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"No no, I'm fine. Just had some water."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Good! Yes! Make sure you drink a lot of water!" </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Yeah, Colin got it for me," Meera said looking at Nisha. Since the age of 10, their telepathy was one of the best things about finding each other.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Dude, go for it! I can tell Colin totally likes you!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"You think?? I totally froze in the kitchen with him... ugh, but I wanted to kiss him SO bad!!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"You will NOT be disappointed, trust me!" Nisha said shaking Meera's arm.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Wait... you... did you two?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Ohhh no no no! I've heard! Jillian practically failed her Sociology quiz the morning after she and Colin hooked up! Said she couldn't stop thinking about kissing him!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meera took a deep breath and was more determined than ever. This non-kissing life had gone on long enough! There was just one thing...</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"You're </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">sure</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> he'd want to... with me, I mean?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"POS-I-TIVE! Now GO! HAVE FUN!" </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nisha laughed and said the rest with her expression. Her bright brown eyes were a window into all those years of endless chats about being in college together, experiencing this next phase together... not only in proximity, but an adjacency of support, guidance and love. Meera needed Nisha at that exact moment and Nisha was exactly there.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The First Make-Out</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Meera charged back into the kitchen. Her mind was clear and her steps solid and steady. Colin wasn't standing where she had left him. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shit, I blew it. He must have left. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She continued through the back of the house where a few people were sitting on the couch passing around a joint. Nisha's suite mate, Audrey, smiled at her and asked if she was okay. Meera nodded and kept walking. The stairwell to the bungalow loft was backed up with people in line for the bathroom. She peered around laughing faces and impatient sighs to catch a glimpse of Colin, but he wasn't there either. Meera exhaled and walked back toward the porch to tell Nisha she had missed her chance when a warm hand caught her wrist. She turned around and looked into Colin's smiling eyes. He said something smooth and adorable then clasped his fingers between hers and led her outside. The August air was warm and damp which matched how her body felt at that moment... a lifetime of anticipation was finally going to be answered. She was the girl in the movie living the magical scene where the lighting is perfect and the music tugs at your heartstrings. Meera had felt those scenes in her bones so many times, yearning to jump through the screen so it would be her feeling everything. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Colin walked her to the side of the house where no one was around. The soundtrack of house parties up and down the street was in the air, but all Meera could hear was her heartbeat thick in her ears. She leaned against the brick and relaxed her shoulders. The adrenaline surprisingly gave way to calm as she looked up at Colin. He ran his fingers through his wavy hair and tilted his head. Was </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">he</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> nervous? Meera grasped his waist and pulled him against her and lifted her face to his. He said something funny, they both laughed and before she knew it, he was kissing her... soft, but with an urgency behind it... as if waiting for permission. Meera was in no mood for slow and steady wins the race. She'd lost this race a long time ago and only wanted to make up for lost time. She was hungry. Ready. Set. GO.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Over the next 20 minutes, Meera and Colin were entangled against the house, lips and tongues dancing together, hands all over each other, nails digging into backs, necks bathed in hot breath and kisses. Much to her relief, Meera felt like a natural and it was clear Colin was enjoying himself just as much as she was. He pulled back and asked if she was okay to which she just pulled him back to her mouth as an answer. He let out a gentle moan as her lips moved to his earlobe. It was just as soft as she had imagined. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the distance she heard her name... Nisha was calling her. Colin pulled back and they stared at each other... lips parted and breathless. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I better go," Meera said, "I really don't want to, but..."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"No, I get it," Colin reassured her, "You heading back to Borden?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Yeah, I'm staying with Nisha tonight," she said. Nisha called out her name again. "YEAH! I'll be right there!!" Meera responded, desperately not wanting to go.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I'll walk back with you guys... if you don't mind?" Colin was still pressed up against her and Meera loved the weight of him. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mind?! Yeah, like I could mind!</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> she thought.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh, I don't want to make you leave if you don't want to," she was trying not to sound needy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Eh, I'm kind of done with partying tonight anyway... let's go."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Colin turned to walk to the front of the house and Meera realized this could be the last moment they would be alone together for the rest of the night.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Wait!" she called and pulled him back to her. They kissed for another minute or two when Nisha called out for a 3rd time not at all hiding her impatience. She wanted breadsticks, "NOW!" </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Okay okay... sorry, we better go," Meera said gently pushing Colin away. "COMING NEESH!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Yeah," he said, "You know, my roommate doesn't get here until Wednesday, so... I have the room to myself."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh, um..." Meera's eyes darted down and around, "I don't know... I mean--"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh man, sorry, that was stupid... I was just saying. No pressure or anything... ugh, I'm such an asshole," Colin's mild panic flattered Meera. After all, he was Colin Foster and could get any girl he wanted. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"No! You're not an asshole! It's just Nisha and I agreed to spend this first night together... it's kind of, I don't know how to explain it..."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"You don't have to explain. I just... well, I was having a lot of fun," Colin held Meera's cheek in his hand and melted her insides with a dimpled grin. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Me too," Meera said shyly.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"OKAY SERIOUSLY MEERS!! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE NOW OR YOU CAN FIND YOUR OWN WAY BACK! BREADSTIIIIICKS!!!!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Buzzkill</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The rest of the night paled in comparison to those lustful minutes she had spent with Colin. A large group of 4th floor Borden residents all walked together to get Nisha's breadsticks then slowly back to the dorm. Everyone kept getting distracted seeing other friends and acquaintances who Meera didn't know. She started to get bored and just wanted to go to bed. The buzz was totally gone and the aftereffect of all the beer and excitement exhausted her. Colin would catch her eye every now and then to deliver a sexy smile, but he would get sidetracked by some dude asking about weed or some other dude telling him about a band he should see. She so wanted to be back against that brick wall with him again, but the moment had clearly passed and sleep was a far more attractive scenario. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They finally arrived in Nisha's room around 2am and Meera's feet felt like aching stumps. Partying in college involves a lot of walking, apparently. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh shit, I forgot to set up Jillian's bed for you!" Nisha stood in the lamp light dejected.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Honestly, just give me a blanket and a mattress and I'll be fine."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I hear you. OH! So tell me about Colin!!" To Meera's amazement, Nisha seemed to have a lot of energy left. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh, um.. yeah, it was fun. We hooked up a little... he definitely knows what he's doing," Meera said tiredly as she clumsily pushed her shoes off one heel at a time. She saw a blanket on the couch and pulled it to the bottom bunk and laid down. Her feet throbbed so hard she didn't even care about her face touching the bare mattress. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"YAYYYY!! I'm so happy for you!" Nisha was changing into pajamas and Meera felt jealous that she didn't have the energy to change out of her jeans and t-shirt.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"He.. he actually invited me to go to his room tonight," Meera looked at Nisha and smiled with her eyes widening. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Whoa! Seriously?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meera nodded and buried her face under the blanket. In the darkness she was immediately transported back to Colin's body pressed against hers, his hands in her hair and his lips everywhere... oh yeah. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"You didn't want to?" Nisha asked. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I mean, I did... kind of, but we agreed to spend tonight together, so..."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh, Meers! If you want to, it's totally fine! He's just the next hallway over... room 412, and I'm sure he's still up... he can never sleep anyway." </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meera lowered the blanket off her face and stared at the criss-crossed frame of the upper bunk. Tonight had been amazing and while the thought of being alone with Colin without the chance of interruption excited her, she knew it would be an unnecessary epilogue to an already perfect story. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Nah, I'd rather be here! Neesh, can you believe it? We are here... at college... together!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I know!! This is just the beginning of so much fun!!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nisha turned off the lights and climbed up to her bed. The girls talked in the dark until each of them fell asleep... same as when they were 12 years old. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The Morning After</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, holy shit. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Meera stared at her reflection with horror. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nisha was still fast asleep, but the sun woke Meera at 6:15 as did her full bladder. After what seemed like a 4 minute pee, Meera glanced at herself in the mirror. At first she thought there was a weird shadow or smudge on the glass. But as her eyes adjusted from her slumber to the fluorescent light of the bathroom, there was no mistaking what she saw. A fucking hickey. It was right above her left collarbone, clear as day and dark as night. She pressed her finger against the jagged purple mark as if she could somehow wipe it away like magic marker. Meera frantically tried to pull her hair over it, but unless she glued it against her neck, it was hopeless.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She wanted to wake Nisha in her panicked state, perhaps there was some college secret to hickey removal? Her v-neck shirt was of no help and besides, only a turtleneck would cover the damn hickey and it was going to be at least 90 degrees for the next few days. She decided to leave Nisha be and crawl back into her pathetic sleeping arrangements. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is what I get! I shouldn't have made out with a boy last night. This is my goddamn karma!</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When Nisha finally woke up 2 hours later, Meera had showered, read all the campus literature that was distributed to every dorm room and done 12 crossword puzzles out of a random book left in a desk drawer. She was sitting on the bench seat next to the window staring at the campus. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Hey... morning," Nisha said mid-stretch, "How long have you been up?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Couple hours... couldn't sleep," Meera said.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh... you okay?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Umm... well, not really."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nisha looked at her quizzically. Meera exhaled and walked to Nisha's bunk. She stood there for a few seconds staring at Nisha with an expectant look on her face. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Well? Notice anything?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nisha looked at Meera confused. She studied her face and was about to say something when her eyes traveled 5 inches south. Nisha slapped her hand over her mouth as both an expression of shock and to stifle a very loud laugh.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"OHHHH MY GOD!!" </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I know!! I'm so embarrassed!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"It's... it's not that bad!" Nisha was still laughing, but Meera had yet to find any humor in the situation. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Serves me right! I bet my parents sent down little angels to curse me while I was making out with Colin!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Do Hindus have angels?" Nisha asked.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meera glared at her and couldn't help but twist her lips into a smile. Sure, this was embarrassing, but Meera had to admit, after 18 years of living a boring life in the corral of her parent's rules, a hickey from a glorious make-out session with a hot guy was pretty damn thrilling. She full out laughed then, bending over and shaking her head. Nisha joined her and sat up, giggling her perfect giggle that hadn't changed since they first met at an Indian weekend party over 8 years ago. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Come on, let's go to the caf and get some breakfast," Nisha said hopping down from her bunk. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"You know, I think I'm just going to walk back to my dorm. I still haven't even met Lauren!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh right! You sure you know how to get back?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I'll figure it out," Meera said, "Thanks for taking me out last night... I had so much fun!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Like I said, this is just the beginning!" Nisha hugged Meera and made loud sucking noises.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Nice To Meet You, I'm Not A Slut</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meera wasn't quite lost, but she also couldn't say she was 100% sure where she was on the sprawling campus. She knew if she kept walking toward the tall clock tower, she'd eventually get to her dorm. At any rate, the leisurely pace was preferred as she digested her first night away. Unlike her father, Meera liked to focus on the positive. After all, 99.99% of her body was NOT marred by a temporary collection of bursted blood vessels. The hickey would fade away, taking with it the evidence of her experience with Colin. Well, physical evidence anyway. Meera knew she would never forget her first make-out... at a college party... with a hot, considerate guy who did everything right. In fact, she considered herself lucky. There were cautionary tales floating around the Indian community about kids going away and getting raped or alcohol poisoning soon after leaving. Meera always brushed those off as standard Gita Gupta exaggerations, but they seeped into her brain nonetheless. Even though she'd rather die than have her parents know what she did last night, she knew that things didn't get too out of control because of them. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meera held her breath as she approached her dorm room. The door was slightly open and she could hear the television. It was a rerun of Friends where the gang is at the beach and Monica gets stung by a jellyfish. Lauren had seen the cheerful note from Meera telling her she was staying with Nisha last night. But was that rude? Should Meera have spent the night getting to know Lauren? She was second guessing everything and wanted to turn around. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Don't be ridiculous,</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Meera told herself, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">just go in there and introduce yourself.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Hi Lauren!" Meera peeked in with a broad smile.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh hi! Meera!" Lauren was in the middle of hanging up some of her clothes. "Sorry, I sort of claimed this closet, but if you want it, I can take the other one!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"It's fine! Take it!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They both stared at each other for a bit, smiling and nodding. Lauren thanked her for letting her take the bottom bunk and Meera thanked her for bringing the tv and computer. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh, my brother is coming up today with the fridge. Sorry, we couldn't fit it into the car with everything yesterday."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Cool!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meera's expression changed at the thought of Maneesh seeing her hickey. He wouldn't tell their parents or anything, but the thought of her big brother knowing she had a guys lips on her neck was beyond mortifying. Lauren noticed the pained look on her face.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Everything ok?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Um," Meera sighed, "Okay... I'm super embarrassed and feel like a complete idiot, but... can you help me cover this hickey??"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lauren leaned in and assessed the situation. She smirked, looked up at Meera and gave her a tight hug. Shocked, Meera stood perfectly stiff. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Don't worry, some concealer and red lipstick will do the trick!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh my god, really?!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Totally. My middle school boyfriend used to give me hickeys all the time... as a joke. He was such an asshole, so I got pretty good at covering them up! Yours is tiny compared to what I had to deal with! It'll be easy!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meera watched Lauren rifle through her cosmetic bag. This girl was basically a stranger, yet here she was, in crisis mode to help her keep a pristine version of herself for her big brother. Meera suddenly felt the need to explain herself.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Look... I had no idea it was happening and well, yeah, I had just kind of met him, actually... I knew him through my best friend, so he wasn't a total stranger and... okay, so my parents were strict growing up...I've never really dated... I felt like the last girl on earth who hadn't... you know, I, um..."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lauren was looking at her, amused and trying not to laugh. She held her hickey concealing tools in one hand and held up her other hand to stop Meera's babbling.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Hey... no judgement, trust me."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Sorry," Meera buried her face in her hands, "I just... I just didn't want you to think I was a slut or something."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Neither was I back in middle school! Hickeys don't make you a slut, Meera."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Yeah... yeah, you're right, they don't!" Meera avowed. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lauren sat Meera down on the desk chair and faced her toward their sorry little sliver of a window. She went to work smearing, dabbing and blending. From the confidence of her application, she certainly had done this many times before. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I really appreciate this, Lauren. Not really the first impression I wanted to make with you,"Meera laughed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh please. I just wanted a normal roommate and well, making out with a guy and getting a hickey is just about as normal it gets!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">thought Meera, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'm finally normal. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's to all the college freshman starting their adventures away from home. May you all find a Lauren to cover those hickeys. </span></span></div>
<br />Sheevanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13468486445322837181noreply@blogger.com0