“To thine own self be true.”
Shakespeare said it best. Of course, he
was a dude, and having a penis seems to make it easier to live by this
sentiment. (Yep, starting of this post with the “P” word!)
I’ve never met a woman of any age who
hasn’t struggled with being true to herself. From the time we are born, we seem
to spend our lives living up to others’ expectations and needs. The good news,
I’m finding, is that with age, we begin to listen to our needs. Or maybe it’s
that our needs ...
Cat calls, whistles, inappropriate under-the-breath
Haven’t we women all felt that sickening
feeling in the pits of our stomachs when we must walk solo passed a group of guys?
We shrink up as small as possible as we slink by, desperately telling
ourselves, “don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact” while
simultaneously praying, “please don’t look at me, please don’t look at me.”
These situations drove me crazy in my
20s and early 30s. I’d taken enough women’s lit classes in college to know that
all of these things were degrading ...
This week I found myself sobbing
uncontrollably in the bathroom. This was unexpected given that I’m not at all a
crybaby. (Friends have told me I’d feel better if I cried more, but isn’t
stoicism so much more productive?)
It seems, however, the transition from
renting urbanite to suburban home owner—and all that entailed mentally and
physically—had taken me down the road toward a pity party of one.
What I’ve learned about transitions in
the past decade is that they are essential to our growth, but they are also
akin to forging through Dante ...
My husband and I have done two things we
said we’d never do (and neither was reminiscent of 50 Shades of Grey). We bought a house and it’s in the suburbs.
Isn’t this the American Dream? Perhaps
for many people it is, but it’s never been our dream.
After a condo-owning fiasco, we had sworn
we’d never own property again. We’d happily fork over cash to a landlord if it
meant trading in home maintenance and a hefty mortgage for more fun things,
like dining out and European vacations.
Plus, our anti-car sentiment has ...
My neighborhood has been teeming with
new blood for the past two weeks—not with babies but instead with baby-faced
The townhouse we’ll be moving from in two
weeks is just blocks from a college campus, and fresh-faced youngsters have
descended upon the area like locusts. The electrifying combo of fear and
excitement radiates off them like summer’s last heat.
The other day as I walked through the
heart of the urban campus on an errand, I couldn’t go more than 20 feet without
seeing another newbie in a “class of 2018” t-shirt walking my ...