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Archive for the ‘containing myself’ Category

So, we have:

Woman without her man is nothing.

And also:

Come and eat grandma!

And slowly, even the most stubborn souls begin to see the value of punctuation.

Woman: without her, man is nothing.

Come and eat, grandma!

Oh, what a different a few dots and squiggles can make.

These are famous ones, of course. I was trying to remember a really wonderful one that wound up in print a while ago, and finally found it:

And this is all silly and a good reminder that commas are life savers (I know Ray’s family and dog are grateful for them!) … but there was a story the other day that also proved that a well-placed comma can mean the difference between winning and losing a legal battle.

I’ll admit that I’m a latecomer to the Oxford comma. I was forced to use it in grade school. But I was forced to do a lot of things with my writing in grade school, and many of them I heartily disagreed with and despised. Once I had a little more freedom to write how I wanted, I began to jettison those things I didn’t care for, and the Oxford comma fell by the wayside with the other castoffs. People have argued with me about it quite a bit over the years — which maybe says something about the folks I hang with¹ — but I have remained stubbornly against. I taught English for many years, and I taught the Oxford comma … but also made it clear that a) I didn’t use it myself and b) no one’s grade would be damaged by the decision not to use it.

But then I got my current job. I got this job, and one of the first things I had to do was edit the big, serious report we were producing. And before the editing began, I was asked to put together a style guide so that all of the people who were adding writing could try to have the same set of rules in mind as they worked and so that changes I made to text would all follow clear guidelines.

Making that style guide was, I have to admit, fun for me (which most definitely says something about the kind of person I am!). I saw the guide as my chance to lay down the law, list out my writing pet peeves, make our sleek and shiny report conform to my writing style. (Oh yes, a little power is truly a dangerous thing!)

Pretty quickly in my style-guiding I ran smack into the Oxford comma. And somehow, for reasons I couldn’t explain and can’t explain now, that comma suddenly made sense. Made perfect, why-didn’t-I-ever-see-this-before sense. And I’ve been using it ever since. (Somewhere, my 6th grade teacher is pointing, laughing, and saying, “I told you so!”)



It’s the 10th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head over to Two Writing Teachers to see all of today’s slices

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¹ This wacky-grammarians-on-my-friend-list business did not extend to the guy who came to a party I threw years ago … who smugly diagrammed the sentences of the people who spoke to him. You may think this is a clever party trick. Trust me when I tell you that it really isn’t.

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(While it would be nice to think my Impostor Syndrome was cut down in the Senate chamber today, I’m pretty sure what I’m about to describe is but a temporary leave-taking. Hope your Ides of March passed smoothly!)

I realized in a conversation today that the other person was trying to impress me, was actually a little nervous talking to me. Me. And at first that made me want to laugh … because … well, you know, it’s me.

But then a thing happened.

I realized he was right: he should want to impress me. Because … well … it’s me. And I thought yes, he should be a bit nervous, too. There was no telling how I might respond to what he had to say after all.

That has certainly not happened before, that kind of all shall love me and despair moment. 😉

In truth, I think where I’m aiming is somewhere between the poster child for low self-esteem and the beautiful and terrible queen. But perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to walk around believing I’m stronger than the foundations of the earth. And all that.



It’s the 10th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head over to Two Writing Teachers to see all of today’s slices

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Oh, March. I see you, over here making sure no one forgets about you, takes you for granted as the month when spring starts. I see you. I get it. You want to flex your muscles, remind us that you can be tough. I get it. I do.

But …

But a blizzard warning? A blizzard?

How sway?

We had a mini-storm on Friday, and I was plenty impressed with that. It was much more snow than I expected, certainly much more than I wanted. And it was enough. Gone before I left work. Perfect. Foolishly, I thought that was winter’s last blast. Ha. Apparently, tomorrow night’s storm could leave us Tuesday with up to a foot of snow.

I do not approve.

For a change, however, my house is well stocked. Not because I had the storm in mind but because this whole being-my-own-cabana-boy thing means I’ve been shopping regularly, making sure I have adequate fixings in the house for a variety of meals. Today I made a variation on the yummy rice-nut loaf my sister makes, baked some carrot almond bread and more chocolate chip cookies to take to work tomorrow. There’s not chance we’ll be snowed in, but now there’s also no chance I’ll go hungry or have to trek to Foodtown in the snow!

But really, March. I’m done. I know we’ve had an inappropriately-mild winter, but I’m still done. By the time the Ides roll around, I’m ready for you to be shaking out your tresses in the sun, smiling at the first bloom of crocuses and the beginnings of buds on the forsythia bushes. This blizzard business? Nope. You can keep it. I am not a fan.



It’s the 10th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head over to Two Writing Teachers to see all of today’s slices!

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Still thinking about Impostor Syndrome. There was another, bigger deadline that passed the other day. One I had let myself forget about because I had long ago talked myself out of working toward it. And then suddenly friend after friend on my FB feed was talking about it, about getting the work done so they could submit ahead of the deadline. And I remembered how excited I’d been to think of submitting my work … until I took myself out of the running.

And I can’t remember what logic I used to convince myself to set that work aside. I remember being so thoroughly convinced of the need to set it aside, however. My reasoning was rock solid, clearly on point … and yet clearly also forgettable today. My forgetting it doesn’t matter, of course, because I know exactly what it amounted to: me telling myself I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t ready, I wasn’t the person they’d be looking for.

Feh.

I’m still picking back through my past trying to find the starting place. Yes, I can look outside myself. Dominant culture has always been happy to tell me all the ways I’m not good enough, the ways I don’t fit in, the ways I need to completely contort and distort myself to conform. And yes, I’ve definitely taken some of that in, taken it to heart. But I’ve also been able to fight back against it, been able to recognize it and change the narrative.

There’s something else going on, though. This Impostor thing is something different. It’s coming from me, from inside me. Yes, compounded by such handy, helpful external pressures as prejudice and misogyny, but starting with a diseased, parasitic little seed I planted myself.

So I’ll keep chipping away, picking back through memories until I find that seed and carefully dig it out, roots and all.



It’s the 10th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!

Head over to Two Writing Teachers to see all of today’s slices!

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I had an important deadline Saturday, had to submit something or I’d miss my chance. I found out about this deadline in January. Jan.u.ar.y. I’ve had many weeks to make this happen. Here’s how I worked on it:

  1. Stared at the information.
  2. Thought about how much I wanted that thing.
  3. Stared at the information.
  4. Wondered why anyone would ever consider me for that thing.
  5. Clicked away from the page, telling myself I couldn’t work on it then because I had so much going on and I had to do some homework before I’d be ready to work on that.
  6. Ignore it for a few days.
  7. Repeat from step one.

Over. And over. And over again.

I finally started working on this on Sunday. Yes, when I had hardly any time left to get my work in order. Of course.

Every night last week, I sat down to work, and every night I pushed away from my computer, telling myself I would never finish and shouldn’t be trying anyway because I’m all wrong for this opportunity.

Needless to say, this is horrifically frustrating.

So what’s my story? Clearly, as is true for so many people, particularly women, particularly women of color, I keep running smack into the solid granite wall of Impostor Syndrome.

There are plenty of reasons to love the amazingly talented Viola Davis. Having her call out Impostor Syndrome just moments after being handed her Academy Award was kind of amazing.

I read  about this thing years ago, maybe as long ago as 2011. I recognized myself then, recognized the ways I tear myself down, doubt myself, struggle against the fear that I’ll be unmasked at any moment. On one level, I was relieved to discover that I wasn’t alone, that there was actually a name for the way I thought about myself. At the same time, it was disturbing to discover the realness of what I was doing. I recognized it, but I didn’t try to do anything about it. I didn’t know what to do about it. Yes, there were things I’d learned about stopping a thought, replacing it with a better, kinder, more based-in-reality thought. I’d seen that work when I tried it with bad body thoughts (it’s a body/fat acceptance thing … fodder for another post). But I don’t seem able to catch myself when I sank into Impostor fears, at least not immediately, not quickly enough to stop myself from sinking. I figure out what I’m doing only after I’ve fully shot myself down.

I may have only learned about Impostor Syndrome a few years ago, but I’ve been letting it hold me back for so much longer. All those times I didn’t stand up for myself, just accepted whatever awful treatment was doled out to me …Yeah, that was me believing I deserved to be treated like crap, that whoever was cutting me down was simply seeing me for who and what I really was and letting me know. When a supervisor lost confidence in me and stopped backing my play, I never questioned it. It made perfect sense to me. Clearly she had finally realized I was a fraud.

I had been planning to write that I’ve been losing the fight against Impostor Syndrome for my whole life. But I’ve been trying to track back to when I first felt unworthy, and it’s definitely not my whole life. But it is easily the last 15 years, and that’s a painfully long time.

I shrugged it off a moment ago, but stopping the thought really does have to be step one here. I can’t fight the cycle if I don’t see it coming and cut it off at the knees. I need to see those moments as they happen and shut them right down.

And, in some ways, this is a perfect time to be pushing myself in this way. I’m about to be putting myself out in the spotlight in a couple of ways that will surely trigger Impostor Syndrome again and again. Ramping up my vigilance now, at the start of this “spotlight season,” will be good for me … and it will be challenging, and exhausting, and demoralizing … and so helpful in the long run.

Yes, I can already see that this has to be part of my Be Your Own Cabana Boy self-care plan. Maybe one of the most important parts. Seeing myself clearly, not putting myself down, not standing in my own way … these things are as important as feeding myself well, as getting enough sleep. It all comes back to that comment I threw in so casually at the end of yesterday’s post: I’m worth it. Those L’Oreal ads were clearly onto something. I’m worth this hard work, so it’s time to put in the time.

Is Impostor Syndrome something you’ve dealt with? If so, what have you done to push back against it? If you’ve never faced this, I’m super happy for you, and I’m also super curious about you! How do you think you’ve avoided it?



In 2017, I’m on my #GriotGrind, committed to writing an essay a week.
I’m following the lead of Vanessa Mártir, who launched #52essays2017 after she wrote an essay a week for 2016 … and then invited other writers along for the ride!


It’s the 10th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!

Head over to Two Writing Teachers to see all of today’s slices!

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If you know me in the flesh-and-blood world, you have probably heard me say more than once that I need a cabana boy. I say that somewhat embarrassingly often. I say it when I’m feeling overwhelmed with all the things I need to carry or all the things I need to keep track of, or all the things that need doing around my house. I say it when I wish I could just sit down — or, preferably, recline — and wave dismissively at some ready, willing, and able soul. To just say, “Handle it, handle it!” in the fashion of Mayor Burnside from Robert Guillaume’s Benson. (And I specifically wish for this assistance in the form of a cabana boy because … why not? Why shouldn’t my “handle it” guy be an attractively-muscled, scantily-clad young man? Seriously.)

Today I sat down to my microwave-reheated lunch, took a taste, and sighed. On Sunday I made a big pot of pumpkin, sweet potato, peanut soup. And last night I made some whole wheat biscuits. And today I put some sour cream in my heated soup and that took the soup from “okay” to “perfect”! It’s not super cold today, but the warmth and crushed-red-pepper-supplied heat of the soup felt like wrapping up in a fuzzy blanket on a cushy couch.

And I thought about what I’m calling out for when I say I want a cabana boy. I want someone to take care of me, want someone to step in and make sure that I’m going to be comfortable and well-fed and that details like bill-paying and tax-filing will just happen off-stage where I don’t have to worry about them. I want to be taken care of.

And of course, what is true is that I have to be my own cabana boy. No one is going to step in and hangle any of the myriad things that need handling.

And that’s exhausting — yes, this is kind of a companion piece to my “wine + popcorn = dinner” post from a few nights ago. It is exhausting. And I get it wrote a lot of the time. Really wrong. I don’t cook, I don’t get enough sleep, I don’t keep up with my chores at home … I don’t and don’t and don’t.

And I feel the difference. In my level of exhaustion, in my disappointment with one more lunch from the Japanese bakery, one more slice of pizza with watery sauce, one more over-priced salad. I feel the difference in how cranky I get.

But today I tasted that first spoonful of soup, and I was hit by the realization that this has to be a big part of what self care means for me. Yes, I need sleep, and I need time with my family and friends and time to write and quiet time at home … but I also need this back-to-basics kind of care taking. Feeding myself is such an obvious thing … but it’s also easy to push aside when I don’t have a lot of time. So lately I’ve been making time. Making time to cook for myself, being sure to bring healthy snacks with me to work, always having fruit in the house … That, as much as I might be grateful to have someone step in and handle things, I don’t need a cabana boy. I already am my own damn cabana boy. I know what I need, and lately I’ve been doing a pretty good job of making sure I get it. It’s still a lot of work — I’m nothing if not high maintenance — but I’m worth it.




It’s the 10th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!

Head over to Two Writing Teachers to see all of today’s slices!

 

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I was never one of those tall girls who stooped over to hide her height. Never. Not even when I had crushes on shorter boys. My height has always been a source of pride … and more than a little vanity.

I was surprised when I learned there were tall girls who tried to make themselves look smaller, tall girls who didn’t love being tall. I couldn’t fathom it. Being tall was like having a super power, winning a lottery, being born with a tiara. Who wouldn’t want that, wouldn’t revel in it?

Well, clearly, lots of girls. Lots. So how did I, the poster child for low self-esteem, not have issues with my height? How did I wind up loving my height?

I credit my cousin Pam, a woman on my dad’s side, a woman I’ve never met but whose signature feature — her fabulous height — was a subject of note in my house.

My father’s family had lots of tall people. My father was just a hair off of 6’5″. His Uncle Ambrose was taller. All those men were tall.

And then there was Pam. The main thing I was ever told about Pam? That she was six-foot-two … in her stocking feet.

(Just like that. No one ever only said she was 6’2″. She was always “six-foot-two in her stocking feet.”)

And it was said with a kind of wonder, an amazement at what she had managed to achieve. And somewhere along the line being as tall as Pam became one of my strongest wishes. Fox, my sister, shared this obsession with me. Both of us running around wishing we could be six-foot-two in our stocking feet. Thank goodness I had Fox for company. I didn’t have to dream myself taller all on my own … and I had someone to commiserate with when I stopped growing before hitting the six-foot mark.

In my stocking feet? I’m just edging up on 5’10” … not short, exactly, but I’ve long-ago had to accept that I’d never get my wish of being like Pam.

 



It’s the 10th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!

Head over to Two Writing Teachers to see all of today’s slices!

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