No Soliciting!

So my mind works kind of like a puppy playing fetch who sees a rabbit out of the corner of her eye and takes off running around in circles trying to catch the rabbit, only to finally realize the rabbit is gone and then goes back to whatever else is happening at the moment.  I tend to have moments when my mind goes off on random tangents and I sit there for an unspecified amount of time pondering life's greatest questions, until I move on the next exciting thing. Because you have chosen to read this, I'm going to assume you have entered at your own risk and are prepared to go on one of those convoluted journeys with me.  So, sit back, relax and enjoy the show.

Today we shall ponder the idea of unsolicited advice (or opinions, you pick the word).

I'm starting to think that there is some kind of unspoken national holiday that no one seemed to share. Maybe it's more like a holi-month. I tend to get a wave of these particular comments right around the same time each year.  Like some uber secret society where you have to know the door knock and the handshake and the magic word to get in and once in they give you the title of the holiday and ask you to go celebrate. I really should email Hallmark since they seem to be the co-conspirators in a lot of random holidays.  I thought perhaps it was just me and my craziness, but then a very good friend shared that it happened to her too. So now I'm slightly more convinced that August is "National Tell People How to Live Their Lives Because They Seemingly FORGOT to Ask The Other 11 Months" Month. Hallmark should be able to make millions.

There seem to be certain types of unsolicited opinions that people feel way too comfortable in sharing. Please note the key word for the remainder of this blog is "unsolicited" - we're talking about things I don't ask for. Being single I hear it all the time - opinions about boyfriends and marriage and babies and houses and picket fences and dogs and dying alone and blah blah blah.  These opinions are carefully crafted messages designed to be "well-meaninged" but they always seem to put me on the defensive.  For the record: I only have 1 cat, I was not swayed by Disney's idea of romance (they were cartoons), I do not sit at home and eat dinner by candlelight with my pretend-boyfriend (he works late a lot), my life isn't miserable (I have moments, but doesn't everyone?) and no, I do not need you to fix me up with your co-worker's neighbor's brother.

On the flip side, there are some opinions that seem to be off-limits (or at least that you're not supposed to say without being called some incredibly creative names).  For example, what would happen if I walked up to someone and said, "You really should divorce your husband.  He's a bit of a dbag and you would be soooooo much happier single." OR, "You know, if you just shipped that kid off to boarding school you could spend Friday nights at the bar." Or finally this one, "Oh, you had a fight with your husband? I have JUST the person who I can fix you up with! You guys have so much in common!!"

I'm fairly certain that the outcome of any of those sentences wouldn't be all that pretty. (Side note, this actually happened to a friend of mine, and it provided a good excuse to practice all of the words my former Navy-father taught me).

So here's my point - random, well-meaninged, "because I want you to be happy" comments have one fatal flaw - they presume that people are not happy (blog disclaimer: no, I'm not absolutely, positively happy every single moment of every single day - are you?).  And when we make presumptions, we're really just making judgements.  And nobody likes to be judged. I could very easily counter that each one of my comments above was made with the best of intentions, with nothing but love.  But for whatever reason, they're not so easily accepted as "you really should get married" or "we need to find you a man!"or "you don't want to end up at the end of your life, dying alone and lonely."  (Yes, I have actually had that said to me)

Bottom line - we're not all the same, and the same things don't make us happy, and we don't truly know a person's backstory.  It's all just about love and acceptance...

Intro to Pole

Admit it, the title of this blog is the only reason you started reading.  It's ok, I planned it like that.

So for the past month or so I've been in a bit of a funk.  There's been a whole lot going on and life just seemed to keep taking a great big heaping poo all over me.  One of the most useful things about owing the federal government the remainder of my working career just so I can get a therapy degree is that sometimes (just sometimes, mind you) I actually use it for myself.  So I'm perfectly aware of my funks, and I'm also acutely aware that when those times hit I need to avoid people like the plague (please don't report that to the state of California, I don't need my license reviewed just because I told you there are moments when this therapist can't handle people).

Anywho, avoiding people just didn't seem to do the trick this time around and while I'll spare you the play-by-play, let's just say that I'm amazed I didn't drown myself in all of the eye fluid.  One night, in the middle of a particularly horrible looking meltdown (I'm an ugly crier) I was crying so hard that my nose got all stuffed up and I...wait for it...actually gagged at my inability to breathe.  Don't judge me - you know you've been there.

It was in that moment that I got peeved.  Like throw things at the wall peeved.  Seriously, I was crying so hard I couldn't breathe?  That's just ridiculous.  I decided I needed to get up, dust off and do something.  And if you know me, then you know the words "do something" never actually mean anything normal (who wants to jump out of a plane?).

So -

Enter the pole dancing class.

In fairness, I believe it's a pole FITNESS class, but potato-potahto.  It's a pole dancing class.  And the first one that you have to pass is called "Intro to Pole."  I had a blast with that information, but since there are already too many rambling thoughts in this blog we'll just talk about the class.

So there I am, pointing my toes and strutting around a pole in front of a gigantic mirror when the instructor says the word that makes me freeze in a panic. Any guesses?  No?  Ok, I'll tell you - that word is "sexy."  This was the second time in 2 weeks that someone used that damn word  in terms of how I was supposed to be and I'll tell you the same thing I said then - I wouldn't know "sexy" if it came up and slapped me in the face.  Or introduced itself.

I blame my parents.  Well, not really because it seems slightly awkward to blame your parents for not teaching you about "sexy," but I kind of do. And my sister (sorry Kat).  You see, I grew up on a soccer field.  Up until high school, 98% of my friends were guys.  I was usually covered in dirt or grass or mud or some other nature-like concoction.  At 34, I'm still flabbergasted by hairdos and makeup (this is where I blame my sister, because she was a bigger tomboy than I was and we never had those Coca-Cola moments where she was teaching me makeup artistry - but she did teach me how to inflict the most pain on a guy on the soccer field, so I think it was a fair trade-off).  I laugh at the people who do those 2 things for me when they say I can replicate it at home. Umm...ok.  I once had a boyfriend who tried to explain it by telling me to think of myself as a Christmas tree.  Really?  A Christmas tree?

Reader's Digest version - the use of the word "sexy" causes an anxiety attack of epic proportions.   Until "Intro to Pole," that is.  Somewhere, somehow, with all of the toe-pointing and rear-shoving-out-ing and the twirling and swinging and whatever the hell else I did, I found "sexy."

And I introduced myself.

Thank you "Intro to Pole" - thank you.