I Think I Failed to Get My Point Across

I suspect my previous post may have come off a little harsh, and ended up saying almost exactly the opposite of what I was trying to say.

What I meant was, don't worry about it. Unless you're a total jerk who is 100% caught up in your own needs and doesn't know how to listen at all, you're probably fine. Seriously, you can be up to 70% caught up in your own needs, and you'll still probably do fine. Also that nobody, at any time, is completely divorced from meeting their own needs, so it's an unreasonable thing to ask.

What I meant was, our expectations of what people should say to us during difficult times are too high, and we should take it down a notch. Focus on the intent, not the content.

That's all.

On Saying the Wrong Thing

Because I think it's fair to say I'm above-average neurotic, I want to get a couple of things out of the way before I start.

1. My husband is the one who is sick. I am not. I come at this from the "well spouse" perspective. Being an existentialist, I recognize that, while we can provide each other valuable support, it only goes so far. Other people matter, but ultimately we all face an infinite, unknown void, and although it's a universal experience, every one of us does it alone. Even the people closest to us cannot relieve us of that. I speak for myself because I'm the only person I'm qualified to speak for. 
2. My husband's illness does not, at this point, appear to be life-threatening. I might have drawn very difficult conclusions if it did. We don't know if his illness is a "get your affairs in order" kind of thing, or more of a "gosh, that's a bummer." 
3. I'm not perfect, and may have violated the very rules I'm advocating at times. Of course, nobody wants to be a hypocrite, but I'm more afraid of being judged as someone with no self-awareness, and if I had no self-awareness, I wouldn't know it. So naturally, I worry. 
4. This isn't meant to be a passive-aggressive dig at people who have offended my delicate sensibilities. I hope and believe that, on the off chance they ready my blog - and I have no reason to believe they do - I'm leaving out as much detail as I can while still making my point. I can honestly say that only, like, 10% of me hopes these women recognize themselves. 

So that's out of the way. 

You know what I hate? Those list/articles circling the internet, helping us all out by telling us "the 9 things you're doing wrong and making everyone hate you" and other such nonsense. Look, internet, you deliberately make us all as self-conscious as possible, and when you're done, you tell us we're narcissists. But having to monitor my behavior for any and all possible faux pas doesn't leave me a whole lot of time to think about anything else. So if you have a sincere desire to improve humanity, lay off. 

So why would I write this? Is it a list of the two things not to do? Or am I just venting? It must be the latter. An idea can swirl around in my head for months or years, until one day, I'm seized with such a strong desire to write about it that I won't have any peace until I do. This is one of those times. 

One thing I've never wanted to do is keep a mental record of all the stupid, insensitive things people have said to my husband or me in regards to his illness. Partly because my experience has been that nobody has said anything all that bad, and partly because I'd rather recognize good intentions than get caught up in the details. People aren't perfect, and I like them anyway. I'm not perfect, and somehow I haven't been shunned by all of society. Expecting every attempt at support to be graceful and perfectly executed is the quickest road to having no support I can think of. 

Additionally, I know that my husband being the one with this particular malady doesn't relieve others of their inherent fears. Most of us know making everything about ourselves isn't how you provide support. So we try, we really do. It's better if you don't launch into a story about yourself when you're supposed to be talking about someone else's problem, and keeping your own ignorance in mind is always a good idea. 

All that is true, and remembering it goes a long way. But we're all going to die, and none of us are happy about it. Serious illness in someone else provokes a very real, valid and primal fear in all of us. The fact is, nobody - from your nearest and dearest, to the cashier in the grocery store - wants to hear, "I don't know what's wrong." It removes their ability to figure out all the ways in which they're totally different from you, and therefore not vulnerable to your affliction. If God-knows-what , God-knows-why can happen to me, it can happen to you. If that bothers you, you're right on. It should. 

Without their defense mechanism of trying to distance themselves, people will try very hard to find an answer. Sometimes, they'll go so far as to make something up. I get it. 

Fact is, people are complicated, and they don't stop being complicated even if I'm the one very close to the center of the drama. Life is messy. Other people are whole even when it's supposed to be about me. Keeping that at the front of your mind will spare you much heartache. 

What I'm trying to say is, people have every reason to say clumsy, thoughtless things. Considering the impossible burden they all carry, they do remarkably well. So well that over the past few years, only two reactions have really, really gotten under my skin. If you want to hear what they are, you've come to the right place. 

Getting on my nerves, part 1: 

A woman who had a prepared speech she liked to give regarding the medical field. I heard this speech no less than three times. 

"Everyone thinks you go to the doctor, they figure out what's wrong, and they cure it, but it's just not true." 

There was more to it than that, but that's the gist of it. It doesn't merit further elaboration. It bothered me because she had us dead wrong, and didn't seem to hear this no matter how many times I tried to say so. 

While I can't say I ever thought my husband would be the one with a mystery ailment, I had no trouble wrapping my brain around their existence. We aren't, and never were, doe-eyed simps who expect daddy to solve all our problems, okay? Not because we're jaded by misfortune, but because we're realists. We don't believe in miracles or miracle workers. We do believe in human kindness, however, and find it's almost as good. I have always know doctors can't diagnose or solve all our problems. 

Also, when I said "in sickness and in health" (I don't remember if I really said that when I got married, but it was definitely implied), I meant it. Moreover, I knew sickness was a "when", not an "if." Did I expect it to happen this soon? No. But I've never had that feeling of the universe reneging a promise it never actually made. On some level, I knew it was possible. 

When I tried to explain to this woman what she was getting wrong, I hadn't yet articulated the nature of my dissatisfaction with the doctors who told my husband, "your tests are fine; go home and wait for something worse to happen." So although I'm fairly certain I told her no, we do not think doctors are magicians who can wave a magic wand and make all one's problems magically disappear, I didn't yet have the words to drive my point home. I do now, but that's its own can of worms, and hopefully she isn't reading this anyway. 

Getting on my nerves, part 2: 

I don't believe in unselfish good deeds. Which isn't to say I don't believe people are good and well-intentioned. I do. I just think we're all trying to get out needs met, all the time. A desire to help is usually at least partly sincere, but there will always be a bit of a self-serving element. That's fine. Advice either pans out, or it doesn't. Kind words of support resonate, or they don't. It doesn't matter. I see your good intentions, and I'm not going to subject them to a purity test. 

I'd prefer your attempts at support be at least, say, 30% genuine, which leads me to the other thing that bothered me. 

A friend made an armchair diagnosis. This happens often enough, and it's fine. Well, I wouldn't blame my husband if he was sick and tired of it, but at this point, you can still bring your guesses to me. You're probably wrong, but probably is a far cry from definitely. 

What offended me about this particular armchair diagnosis was that a) it was very dire, and b) I knew this woman's MO. She loves proving how intelligent and knowledgeable she is so much, she would have been fucking thrilled to have been proven right. Not because she wishes us ill, but because that's how much she loves being right. I could elaborate, but can you see why I didn't appreciate that? 

That's pretty much it. If you want to support us, don't use our misfortune to stroke your own ego, and please refrain from implying we're stupid or naive. You might think we are - that's none of my business - but if your aim is ostensibly to be supportive, I would ask that you keep it to yourself.  I'd say it also didn't help that, as far as I knew, neither of these women had actually earned the wisdom they were so generously sharing with me. 

Also, how lucky am I? The fact that these are my only two complaints are a sign that my family and I know a whole lot of intelligent, kind people. I thank you for it. 

It's a Metaphor

My latest tattoo, designed by my son, immediately after I got it. I already had one of my daughter's art work, and had been waiting for quite a while for my son to authorize the use of his art. When he finally did, I chose this adorable bat. His name, as chosen by my son, is Alex.

Not that I'm especially tattooed, but I do have four. A fairy on my back, obtained soon after college. I imagine it hurt, but some 16 years later, who remembers? I wanted a cute little goblin, but a domineering friend talked me out of it. It's become a symbol of weakness, and I've grown to hate it. But it's on my back, so I rarely see or think about it. The belief that tattoos are permanent used to bother me, but now I'm more bothered by the truth - they aren't permanent. They are only there until I die, which, in the grand scheme of things, will be pretty soon. 

Jenny Linsky, the cat, on my ankle. That one is fine. 

A parrot designed by my daughter on my left bicep. I love it! The way I remember it, getting that one wasn't especially painful. 

Still, I was nervous about this one, located on my inner right forearm (the picture is at a weird angle, making it difficult to tell what body part that is). Since I was very fond of the fellow who did my parrot, I went back to him for this one. 

"This is going to hurt, isn't it?" I asked, right before he got started. 

"Aw, you'll be fine," he said in a deliberately dismissive tone. Tattoo artists discourage theatrics. 

He got started, and, well....motherf%$&r! 

In addition to being stoic, tattoo artists are excellent conversationalists. Dave that tattoo guy deftly kept the conversation going - we talked about dogs (his passion, not mine, but if someone loves something enough, they can probably get you at least temporarily interested), exotic animals, science, and being in a persistent vegetative state. There was never an opportunity for me to point out that this was quite an uncomfortable procedure, or to demonstrate the bravado I had all prepared. 

"I've given birth. Twice!" I would have said. "This is nothing." 

It was a half truth. I have, in fact, given birth on two separate occasions. But this was not nothing. My logic was severely flawed, and within hours I was thankful I'd been prevented from saying something so ridiculous and stupid out loud. Giving birth hasn't caused me to laugh in the face of lesser physical pain. I don't care for having my body carved up with electronic needles any more than I ever did. Same goes for migraines (those things are no joke), stubbing my toe (mother of GOD!), or dislocating my rib while coughing (it's happened twice). 

The 30 Rock celebrity benefit to get Jack's dad a kidney might be the funniest song ever written, and "if you had two dogs attacking you, you'd wish it was just one," might be the funniest line. But even as I laughed myself silly, I knew it wasn't true. If I had two dogs attacking me, I'd wish I had no dogs attacking me. Perhaps more importantly, if I had one dog attacking me, I would not take the time to be grateful it wasn't two. 

What's the most painful thing in the world? What is happening, to you, right now. 

Eleven

“And the child, Francie Nolan, was of all the Rommelys and all the Nolans. She had the violent weaknesses and passion for beauty of the shanty Nolans. She was a mosaic of her grandmother Rommely’s mysticism, her tale-telling, her great belief in everything and her compassion for the weak ones. She had a lot of her grandfather Rommely’s cruel will. She had some of her Aunt Evy’s talent for mimicking, some of Ruthie Nolan’s possessiveness. She had Aunt Sissy’s love for life and her love for children. She had Johnny’s sentimentality without his good looks. She had all of Katie’s soft ways and only half of the invisible steel of Katie. She was made up of all of these good and these bad things. She was made up of more, too. She was the books she read in the library. She was the flower in the brown bowl. Part of her life was made from the tree growing rankly in the yard. She was the bitter quarrels she had with her brother whom she loved dearly. She was Katie’s secret, despairing weeping. She was the shame of her father staggering home drunk. She was all of these things and of something more that did not come from the Rommelys nor the Nolans, the reading, the observing, the living from day to day. It was something that had been born into her and her only—the something different from anyone else in the two families. It was what God or whatever is His equivalent puts into each soul that is given life—the one different thing such as that which makes no two fingerprints on the face of the earth alike.” 
― Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

At an early age, my daughter began saying she was an Atheist. I once remarked to my husband that although she might think this was true, she wouldn't really know the meaning of the word until her eleventh birthday came and went with no letter from Hogwarts. Even my husband, a militant, humorless Atheist, had to admit it would be a sad day.

Tomorrow, that sad day will come. She'll be eleven. Eleven like Harry Potter. Eleven like Francie Nolan. After 70 hours of labor, she was born with a sweet smile on her face. The nurses said she looked like Snow White. I'd once heard of a cult in which someone would attend the birth and, when each child was born, state the essence of each child - strong, kind, powerful, whatever. I didn't want to join a cult, but thought it sounded like a nice thing to have at a birth. But when she was born, I didn't need it. I looked at her and thought, "curious and good natured."

I didn't stop smiling for a year. We took walks, we stared into each other's eyes, we screamed into each other's mouths just to hear the weird echo it made. I was 27, but remember myself like a wide-eyed teen mother, growing up with her child.

When her brother was born, she instructed me over the phone not to step on him. She loved princesses, Egyptology, reading, writing, cooking, sewing, science fiction and fantasy. She's been an Atheist, a Buddhist, an Agnostic, a Christian and a Unitarian Universalist.

When I was pregnant, I kept hearing how awful it was to have a newborn. My life was practically over, they said, and I believed them, approaching her due date like my execution date. She turned out to be a beautiful, happy angel, and I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since. So far, it never has. Thank you so much for being exactly the right daughter for me, my sweet girl.

She tells me she hasn't given up on the letter summoning her to wizarding school. While she acknowledges it won't be Hogwarts, she points out that Hogwarts in England. She feels it's entirely possible that in America, wizarding school starts a little later. Maybe we have a little more time.

I'm Sick of This Crap

"I'm not sure if I'm going through an assertiveness phase, or a raving bitch phase," I recently confided to some friends.

I had taken one of my kids (I forget which one - for our purposes, it's not important) to the doctor, and as I sat in the waiting room, I caught wind of a juicy bit of gossip. Naturally, I couldn't wait to pass it along. 

While the doctor examined my child, I filled her in. 

"I hear Hannah Arbromowitz's* mom took some medication last night, and now she doesn't know if she should nurse Hannah. She's been calling all morning - so annoying! Do you encourage your staff to discuss patient information in front of the people in the waiting room? Does it help build community?" 

No, that's not what I said, but wouldn't you prefer it was? I communicated like an adult, but I did rat out the receptionists for their HIPPA violation. 

"Because you're sick of this crap," one of my friends suggested. 

"I am," I confirmed. "I am sick of this crap." 

Not long after, we learned my husband's case had been rejected by the NIH Undiagnosed Disease Program. Turns out, it's similar to The Innocence Project, where they like to take cases they think stand a chance. Now, I don't know why one undiagnosed illness has a better chance of being diagnosed than another - you'd think if anyone knew what it was, it wouldn't be undiagnosed - but I'm no medical researcher. What I am is sick of this crap. 

My daughter has been talking all year about how at the end of this year, she and her fellow fifth graders are scheduled to watch a video on puberty. "Sex ed," I thought it was. The children are simultaneously intrigued and horrified, and have made plans to spend the year leading up to said video fearing to watch, but not daring to look away. 

I was a bit surprised to learn the boys and girls would be separated, and all they're going to do is watch a video. I have since learned they will also be having a frank discussion with their teacher, so that's a plus. I'm betraying my age, but you see, in my day, giggles and secrecy were discouraged. In both fourth and sixth grades, my class had an entire unit on sex ed, taught my our teachers, and it was comprehensive and fact-based.

I don't believe there was a video involved (there was one in ninth grade, but in Mr. Morgan's defense, what was he going to do? Have a woman give birth in front of the class, live?), as such things were considered outdated and absurd. Proof? My husband and I, although we didn't meet until our 20s, still laugh at a video on train safety we both happened to see. 

A family was stopped in their car on the train tracks. The children noticed there was a train coming, and mentioned it to their father.

"Well, it's just going to have to wait!" 

Needless to say, those were his last words. As kids, we shook our heads and laughed grimly. We knew better, and we've been repeating that line ever since. 

To add insult to injury, my daughter told me that not only does her school's "sex ed" (her teacher has since corrected me on this - it is not sex ed, she has explained to me, but rather a video on maturation) consist of a single video, and not only are the boys and girls separated for it, but there are two different videos. But wait, there's more! Not only are there two different videos, one for girls and one for boys, but the girls watch both, while the boys watch only the "boy" one. 

I fretted over this a little, but concluded it couldn't possibly be true. The most likely explanation, I decided, was that the girls in my daughter's grade had gotten this information from girls a year older than themselves, igniting a rumor born of ignorance - the girls had talked among themselves, and didn't really know what the boys had seen. School yard rumor. A game of telephone.

"Kids," I thought. "The things they come up with!" I smiled and shook my head. It was for precisely this reason that sex ed was so important - look how kids could twist the facts if they were left to their own devices. Preposterous. 

However, last week, my daughter told me something that made me wonder if the children had been right all along. From the mouths of babes, and all that. 

"The boys' parents were complaining, so they stopped showing them the girls' video," she told me. 

This rang a bit more true, but still - really? Boys' parents had complained? And the school had appeased them? I emailed my daughter's teacher, who confirmed that, while she was not happy with this turn of events, it was true. The squeaky wheel had gotten the grease. Since none of the girls' parents had complained, they had continued providing the girls with complete information. After all, why keep all the students ignorant, when they could get away with actually educating half of them? 

Can't argue with that, but have I mentioned being sick of this crap? 

I don't want either of my children dating a boy who hasn't been taught some basic information about the female body. In regards to my daughter, the reasons for this should be obvious. But I don't want my son dating a boy raised in such a manner, either. Imagine, if you will, my son is gay. In reality, I do not have the foggiest idea if he's gay or not, but for the sake of argument, assume he is. 

Now, if my son says he's gay, he's gay. However, can I say the same of a boy who doesn't even know what breasts are for? Maybe he has simply been driven into the arms of another man because the idea that girls are icky has been so deeply embedded in his brain. Later, it will slowly dawn on him that he's heterosexual. 

That's right. It's entirely possible my son's heart could be broken, all because I have no control over the fact that other parents insist on forcing their kids to wallow in ignorance. No thanks! 

I picture my family three, five, ten years in the future. One of my kids has brought a nice boy home to meet the family. I mean, he seems like a nice boy, but how can I be sure? 

After offering him a cup of tea, I invite him to join me on the couch. 

"Please, help yourself," I'll say, gesturing toward the crudités. 

"So," I ask him, while he nibbles on a sugar snap pea, "are you familiar with the concept of menstruation?" 

"MOM!!!!" my son or daughter will exclaim, mortified. 

"What?" I'll ask, pretending I have no idea why this might bother them. "I'm just trying to make conversation with your friend!" 

I'll smile as I briefly make eye contact with the boy in question, shaking my head and rolling my eyes. My kids - it seems like everything I do embarrasses them these days! I just can't win. I take it in stride, although I'll wonder aloud if he is this hard on his parents.

On the other hand, maybe the boy whose parents didn't allow him to see the video really is gay. By coincidence, he's gay and from a family that encourages willful ignorance. One can easily imagine that his parents aren't too keen on the gays, either. With my son-in-law estranged from his family, I never have to share the holidays. Don't get me wrong. They try. My husband and I spend Christmas of 2037 alone, our son with his husband's parents, our daughter shooting a film on location in Belarus. But things don't go well, and by 2038, I have all my babies back again. **

I could try complaining to the principal, but it's probably out of her hands, too. Anyway, since not telling boys about what puberty involves for girls is clearly going to work in my favor, maybe I should just leave it alone. 

*Names have been changed. 

**I mean my son and son-in-law's visit with the in-laws doesn't go well. My daughter accomplished exactly what she had set out to with her film, it's just done. 

Be More Better!

“I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me. I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me.

I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons. I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities. In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement. Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals. And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience.”

This is the latest "older women who have learned shit" quote I've seen going around. It's been attributed, apparently falsely, to Meryl Streep, but it hardly matters. It's pretty typical. "I'm a woman in her 40s, 50s or 60s, and I've learned that I'm too nice and other people suck."

From the time I was very young, I had a sinking suspicion that I was really meant to be middle-aged. This used to bother me, but I've learned it's a blessing. I am convinced that my best days are not behind me. Now I almost wish I'd always had a sinking suspicion I was meant to be 92. But I think this is better, because you never know. 

When David Rakoff articulated the way I felt about the whole thing, I almost cried with relief. But mostly I almost cried because David Rakoff had died, at the age of 47, having only just reached what he thought would be his perfect age. I never had an exact number in mind like he did, so I'll just take comfort in knowing I'm getting there, and I may live to see my entire heyday. 

I'm a bit younger than most older women who have learned things, so I suppose I could still get to the point where I believe all I need to know is that I'm better than everyone else. For now, I've learned some things, and most of them have nothing to do with other people wanting to take me down. While I am indeed less of a pleaser than I used to be, the fact that I once was can't be blamed on those I aimed to please. They're on their journey, I'm on mine, and as another old Facebook saying goes, everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. 

Now that I've reached my late 30s, I'm probably not as "nice" as I was when I was younger, but that works out for everyone, because I'm kinder. I'm more forgiving and less inclined to gossip. A natural grudge-holder, nursing a grudge is now a halfhearted endeavor at best. I accept other people for who they are, and know they're doing their best. I rarely ask "why me," having come to truly accept that the question is as futile as it is self-centered and clueless. 

I know when I'm upset with someone, it's often about me, and the best way to handle that is to own my issues. Being nasty and rude is a poor imitation of strength, and I'll tell you what - strength? I have it. Did I always have it, without realizing it? Or is it a recent development? Don't know, don't care. I don't think I even knew I wanted it until the day I realized it was there. What I do know is, strength rarely looks defensive or unkind. When I'm acting that way, it's coming from a place of weakness. Strength is empathy, understanding, and, most (and, for me, most difficult) of all, patience. 

I started my 30s feeling happy with my husband and children, but not much else. I didn't feel I had close friends. Although I was just finishing grad school, I thought I'd never find my career or my passion. I'd wasted every advantage I'd been given, and now it was too late. But this decade has been the best one. Everything I thought I didn't have has grown up around me, and I hardly even had to try. 

I know I've made a million mistakes, and while I'm not one to say I have no regrets, I can honestly tell myself I have always, every day, done the best I could. I can be sad I didn't have the (usually internal) resources I needed to do things differently, but I can't be angry, because I would have had to be someone else for my past to have been dramatically different than it was. I'm making mistakes now, and I believe in my heart that Old Erin will extend me the same understanding I have for Young Erin, even if Young Erin did me many a disservice, and I'm doing the same to Old Erin. 

ADD. I have it. It sucks. There are things that, as a reasonably intelligent, able-bodied woman, I "should" be able to do, yet some of these things fall outside of my skill set. The fact that others may not understand or believe this bothers me, but I've learned that if I know in my heart I can't do something, it's better not to pretend I can. Don't make commitments I can't keep, even if the person who wants me to make said commitment will never believe it's a can't rather than a won't. It will be better for everyone in the long run. As much as I might like to make other people happy by saying "yes," only I know exactly how much follow through and organization I'm capable of. If I'm not positive I can do it, I won't pretend I can. It's not about setting boundaries, it's about knowing my limitations. I'm disorganized, and I can be unreliable. Although it turns out, my limitations are not as many and massive as I once believed they were.

Maybe you've seen me fail at any of the things I'm claiming I've learned. In my defense, I'm not even 38 years old. Very young to have learned much of anything. I'm working on it. 

Ruining It For the Rest of Us

These are my new shoes. They're surprisingly comfortable. By which I mean, they're more comfortable than they look. I thought I wouldn't be able to walk in them, but I can, and easily. But let's be clear. Surprisingly comfortable does not equal comfortable. 

A week or so ago, I posted this picture on Facebook, asking if they looked like stripper shoes. Today at church, my friend Susie asked me if those were the shoes, and I told her they were. 

While agreeing they were fabulous, she whispered, somewhat skeptically, "So...are those post-feminist?" 

I was glad she asked, because I'm not being sarcastic in the least when I say I had wanted to have this discussion with someone. Not over the shoes, per se, but in general. 

"No," I whispered back, "they aren't feminist."

"I was thinking, post-feminist, or sexism?" 

"Sexism," I answered confidently. It's probably technically a matter of opinion, but I know where I fall. 

"But you're participating in it!" she argued. Not angry, just a bit perplexed. 

"Yes," I answered. She looked at me quizzically. 

Unfortunately, it was the middle of the service, not a good time to talk. 

"I definitely want to have this conversation with you," I told her, "so let's catch each other when we can." 

There is no need for anyone to say she did anything wrong. I wasn't bothered by what she asked, did not feel judged in the least, agree with her 100%, and our Unitarian Universalist church was exactly the right place to do it. If I'd had enough time to formulate my thoughts, I could have explained it to her quite succinctly. 

"I'm wrong." 

Doing whatever the hell you want is not feminism. Feminism is a movement - it's about lifting up a group of people. Decisions that align with a movement aren't about doing what you feel like, not even necessarily about what's best for you at any given moment. By wearing uncomfortable, impractical shoes, I'm not doing myself or anyone else any favors. I'm creating both short and long term problems for myself, and I'm creating just a little bit of pressure on other women to do the same. 

I wear these shoes because I think they're fun. Fun looking, not fun like shoes with trampolines at the bottom would be. Like makeup, shaving my legs, and probably some other things I'm too brainwashed to notice, I do it because I think it makes me look better. If I lived on a desert island and had never been exposed to mainstream media, and you approached me with these shoes and suggested I wear them, I'm pretty sure I'd think you were out of your damn mind. 

Is it unfeminist to want to look good? I'll just say it - kind of. Men want to be attractive, but don't spend the time, money, or energy women do on it. They don't wear shoes that aren't actually much good for walking. "Attractive" is fine, if it means clean, healthy, and not stinky. The effort women put into it, the physical and psychological damage we subject ourselves to? The level of importance we place on it? It's sexist. It just is. 

I'd suggest most women make some concessions to the patriarchal system we're a part of, and when we do, we are both victims and perpetrators. I get to pick out my own shoes, and nobody has tried to say I can't. However, over the last ten or twenty years, third wave feminism has created an environment that allows me to get self-righteous if anyone even dares to question. But just because you can doesn't mean you should. 

In an attempt to have it both ways, women often argue vehemently in favor of things that would make any feminist from, say, the beginning of time until 1990 roll over in their grave, or, if they're alive, vomit. We have to stop subjecting each other to manipulations like this or this. Yeah, I think Elizabeth Wurtzel is a particularly loathsome individual. 

Occasionally, I'll hear women say they do these things "for themselves." "It just so happens that the things I want to do for myself and all my aesthetic preferences mesh exactly with what I've been told to like and want and think are attractive!" A) You might not want to take so much pride in that, and B) No. 

I wear makeup, which is, in my mind, possibly the most fucked up of all my choices, because it means I hand my money over to a corporation that absolutely, inarguably relies on women being insecure. I think it's fun, but again, context. I live here and now. I believe certain things because I'm supposed to. 

There are some concessions I've opted out of. When that gets hard, I'm somewhat resentful of the women who conceded. So, by the same logic, the woman who doesn't want to wear makeup to her job interview, but is afraid she won't be hired if she doesn't, has every right to resent me. Because what I've done isn't cool, and it isn't nice. 

I'm a mother. Literally, yes, but also figuratively. Not to be too grandiose - it's not personal. Other people influence me, and I influence other people. I can say I shouldn't have to worry about it all I want, but that won't make it any less true. As feminists, as women, as members of the human race, as earthlings, as sentient beings, we owe each other. 

So, without further ado...

Stuff I Do That's Bullshit

1. Wear makeup.
2. Shave my legs.
3. Shave my armpits.
4. Wear uncomfortable shoes. 
5. Exercise I don't like (a gray area, since there's a health element, but that's not really my motivation). 

There's more, but it gets more volatile. I don't want to lose any friends over it, and I truly believe that if I listed some of it, no matter how carefully I tried to explain, I would. I've also chosen not to do some things I think are sexist bullshit, but for obvious reasons, that's even more of a "don't go there." So maybe I should add at least one more thing to my list: 

    6. Be a coward. 

The very least I can do here is not twist us all up in mental gymnastics by explaining why trying to make myself acceptable for men/society/male society is empowering. It might sometimes feel empowering, but it's not. I'm not going to pretend all my choices are feminist just because they're being made by a woman. I'm just going to have to admit that sometimes, being a feminist isn't my top priority. Even when it probably should be. If you question me, you are right.