It is What it Is

The Wall

A few months ago, I went through what can probably be best described as an identity crisis. After five years producing magazine and web content, I had been out of work for a year with seemingly few possibilities or opportunities in front of me. I was depressed, I spent too much time at home by myself and I had no idea what to do next.

It seemed to me that if I couldn't make money doing what I loved, then I should probably find something else to do. And in doing that, maybe I should even look for something less stressful, or at least something I took less personally than my concepts and writing. That elusive "leave it at the door" kind of job.

The only problem with that plan, for me, was that if I did decide to do something just for the money -- sell high-end wedding gowns (I've certainly been involved with enough brides over the years), look at recruiting jobs or even go back to school for something super-practical like accounting -- I wasn't quite sure who I'd be afterwards. For the past seven years, I've defined myself, both personally and professionally, as a writer. So, if I wasn't a professional writer anymore, could I still be a writer? And if I wasn't a writer, could I be happy with whatever other title I chose to give myself? (Why Americans in particular seem to define themselves by what they do is another question for another time.)

In Which Laurel Attends Another Wedding

This November, I will be in my 10th wedding. That's right, in a few months, I will officially reach bridesmaid double digits.*

I tell you this not because I'm about to complain about showers or dresses or even having to hear "always a bridesmaid ..." like the person speaking thought of that phrase themselves just that very morning and it is the most clever adage ever coined. (No, I'm not bitter about that one at all. Can't you tell?) I tell you this because apparently my regular appearance in wedding parties has turned me into a completely inept wedding guest.

This past weekend, I was invited to a wedding in Atlanta. It was a lovely invitation to be with a lovely couple. All I had to do was show up. There was no toast to come up with, no hair appointment, no aisle-walking. You would have thought it would have been the easiest thing in the world. (Or, at least, something that I, along with the millions of people that attend weddings every day, could handle.)

However, without my pre-ordered outfit and rehearsal, I was a little lost. I think I drove my friends crazy with questions: What do I wear? Do my shoes have to match? When do we need to get to the church? What do we do when we get to the church? Are we supposed to have programs? When do we leave the church? How will we get to the reception? Where do we sit? Is it OK to get on the dance floor yet? Is it time to greet the bride and groom? When do we leave? Should I get out of this picture?

Grover, Horton And The Woman I Am Today

A few years ago, I got into a discussion with some friends about our favorite children's books. After naming all of our favorites, I started to wonder if maybe those early reading choices might have been some kind of sign as to the adults we would all grow into.

One friend named a book about a little girl who wanted to go live alone in her own apartment and her own house (even at five), and twenty-five years later, I can't say that I was all that surprised. Is Alexander's Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day the pick of a future pessimist? Goodnight Moon the sign of a calm, content child? If You Give a Mouse a Cookie the favorite of a suspicious tot, always wondering what request is coming next?

Personally, I had two favorites. The first was There's a Monster at the End of This Book. For those of you haven't read it -- here come the spoilers. Grover from Sesame Street is the main character, and he begins the book by begging the reader not to turn the page because there is a monster waiting at the end of the story. (Hence the title, although that hardly needs to be said. I just feel like typing today.)

I'm Going to Learn How to Fly

I get a lot of questions about my middle name.

“What was that you said?”

“Fain.”

“Fain?”

“Yes, it’s just like ‘rain’ but with an ‘f’ instead of an ‘r.’”

“Fain? F-A-I-N. Really?”

“Yep, Fain.”

“That’s interesting. [Beat.] What’s a Fain?”

When I’m not in a hurry, I explain that it’s a family name. When I am rather rushed, I hope the topic will pass and we can move on to the last four digits of my social security number or my city of birth because this conversation usually occurs when I’m trying to talk to someone about my gas bill or credit card statement, and it hardly seems like the time to discuss my family heritage and naming traditions.

What I Did With My Holiday Weekend

Be prepared. It may be hard to respect me after reading this list. (If you had any respect for me to begin with.)

1. Bought Swim Goggles
Since I was going to spend most of the July 4th weekend in the pool, it only seemed logical for the SO and I to pick up some pool toys. We bought floats (or really one float because I had a deflated one back at my house). I got an air pump because I don't like to blow up floats (and blowing up floats seems beyond the extent of the SO's love for me). Then, we grabbed some goggles because after awhile that chlorine really irritates my eyes, and if I can't see underwater, I run into walls. The choices are few and far between.

Unfortunately, this purchase only reminded me of the same lesson I learned in a much more painful setting almost 20 years ago -- no woman, adolescent or grown, looks good in a pair of swim goggles. I don't know how anyone held back the laughter.

Dear Laurel?

I have always wanted my own advice column. (Maybe it has something to do with all those Ann Landers clippings my grandmother sent me over the years.)

It's not that I think I'm in any way qualified to give advice. (Although, if you work at a lifestyles magazine long enough, you learn pretty quickly that most "expertise" from anyone without a Dr. in front of his or her name is made up of learned on the fly. I used to run a relationships channel for God's sake -- as a 27-year-old single woman whose best friend at the time was her dog. And my Top 7 lists? A whole lot of Google.) It's not even that I like to give advice, really, since I'm always afraid someone will try to reciprocate in the process.

It's mainly that I find the entire idea of an advice column pretty ridiculous. Why would anyone need life tips from a stranger at the newspaper in the first place? Can they not think for themselves? Do they have no confidantes? Are most of life's situations -- apart from anything Stephen Hawking is working on -- really that baffling? I think not.

For most letter-senders, it seems to me that either a) the advice-seeker is an idiot, b) the advice-seeker has gotten the same answer from anyone and everyone else in his or her life, so is therefore desperate for one, and only one, person to take the other side or c) the advice-seeker just wants any excuse for whatever he or she wanted to do in the first place.

I once read a Dear Abby column that went something like this: "My husband is very close to a woman from work. They talk on the phone for hours every night. They even go on vacations together -- without me. My husband swears that this is just a platonic relationship, and if I trusted him more, I wouldn't be so upset. What do you think?" -- Troubled in Tulsa

Why I Had to Walk Away From the Pole

I'm sure many of you are wondering what became of my pole-aerobics class. (Or, you're not, either way, you're getting the answer.) I'm somewhat ashamed to admit this, but I only made it through half of my stripper classes. I could build an elaborate argument about feminist principles or coming to some incredible revelation about female politics and my body, whether or not women should embrace or reject their own objectification, etc.

However, the truth as to why I had to give it all up is as simple as this: bruises.

At one point, my knees were black. Bruises ran from the arches of my feet to my inner thighs. I was wearing long pants constantly to hide all of the marks on my legs. (This is not an easy thing to do in the Alabama summers. It wasn't quite as bad as the August I had to wear mock turtlenecks to class because of an unfortunate hickey, but it was uncomfortable.) Even three weeks after my last attempt at the pole, I found the remnants of a pale brown bruise running along my thigh.

Of course, there were a few other factors -- a lot of them having to do with the fact that I sucked at the exercise. When asked to climb the pole, I couldn't even get on the pole, much less move my body once I was wrapped around it. I had hoped for rock hard arms in time for my sister's wedding. Instead, I was facing a black and blue body and the very real chance that I would never lift my arms above my shoulders again. Eventually, I had to decide -- pain and visible injury or perfecting the c-stand.

I picked the former.

I'd Really Like To Get Down Now Please

In all of my musings about Camp McDowell, I can’t believe that I forgot to mention the most perilous part of the entire weekend – the high dive. (It’s interesting to me that I wrote about both my terrible swimming lessons and Camp McDowell last week, but completely forgot to mention it. Subconsciously, it must have been floating around up there somewhere, but I guess I never put it together.)

We covered that I’m not the  greatest swimmer. (I do love the water though, I’m just more of a lazy river/"let’s float this one out with a cocktail" kind of gal.) Well, I also happen to have a little trouble with heights. I think it began when I broke both of my arms falling out of a tree house, but with the anxiety in this brain of mine, it’s entirely possible the phobia would have come about regardless.  

(Technically speaking, I think I have what is known as obsessive bad thoughts rather than a phobia. I can be in high spaces – I didn’t miss out on the top of the Hancock building when I spent the summer in Chicago, but all I think about when I’m too far off the ground is falling. It’s pretty much the only notion/image that runs through my head once I’m more than 10 feet off the ground. Once I saw Clueless, even the third floor of the mall could make me a little sick to my stomach. Am I the only person in America traumatized by Clueless for reasons other than the fact that Alecia Silverstone’s love interest ends up being her former step-brother? Probably.)

But, you know, I’ve done a lot of work to understand myself better in the past few months. I turned 30. I have a prescription for Xanax. Surely, I thought, I can handle the high dive now.

Four Camp Memories* and a Wedding

There are plenty of places I've been that I thought I would never see again. Camp McDowell in Navou, Alabama was definitely one of them. Despite the fact that Camp McDowell is the Episcopal camp in Alabama, and I am, in fact, an Episcopalian from Alabama, one week back in the summer of 1993 was more than enough for me.

There are only three things that I can remember about that week (and the name of my pictured cabin counselor is not one of them, Dawn?):

1. A boy with a mullet had a crush on my friend Leah. He came over to me at the swimming pool one day and asked me if she liked him back. I had to turn him down for her. The next day, we saw the same mullet-ed boy making out with another girl in the pool. It wasn't so much the betrayal that shocked me as much as the seeming lack of hygiene and supervision. All I can remember thinking is, "All of these people in one body of water, and now those two are tonguing each other in the middle of it. This can't be sanitary," plus, "Why doesn't the lifeguard care?"

A Horse is a Horse, Of Course, Of Course

I think most little girls go through a phase when they're obsessed with horses. I'm not sure what it is about horses that's so fascinating when you have two X chromosomes and are under the age of 10, but there you have it.

At five, my favorite show to watch after school was Black Beauty. (At least, I think that's what it was called. There was a horse. It was black. It may or may not have been the main character, but it came on after Today's Special, and that's what I called it.) I had many My Little Ponies in addition to a score of off-brand plastic horses that I also liked to gallop across the living room floor. I even did my own horse impersonation that involved neighing. (I can only imagine now how annoying that must have been.)

A few years later, my horse obsession still strong but no longer My-Little-Pony-focused, I was a dedicated viewer or Mr. Ed on Nick at Nite. I watched that crazy talking horse every single night, and every single night, I hoped for Wilbur's sake that someone else would just hear that horse talk. Oh, that wily Mr. Ed -- he was a stinker.