Category Archives: Life

Today, I am thinking about the ways I think and communicate and the relationship between the two. If I’m honest, it’s not all great. A lot of it is not-so-great, despite some of the strides forward I’ve made in my life. So this post is a way for me to organize those thoughts without forcing others to be my therapist and also a way for me to be accountable (especially as certain people will read it and inevitably talk to me about it -cough-ben-cough-) without using others as my therapist (-cough-sorrymatt&ashe-cough-). Also, I apparently want to blog like 16-year-old Cole, but maybe it’ll be helpful.

It will for sure be helpful if you’re familiar with the Ask vs Guess model. It’s not entirely applicable, at least not to me, but it’s useful to think about our unwritten communication rules and analyze whether they do us any good. At the very least, it’s beneficial to remember that others made not abide by or even recognize those rules. Be flexible, I guess.

So here are the ways I’m not flexible.

I’m mostly a participant in guess culture–except when I’m not, heh. I think it’s rude or uncouth to be direct in certain ways. Asking for favors (or even questions in general)? Directly talking about yourself without making an effort to inquire about someone else? As Stephanie Tanner says:

I’m hoping that interjecting a little humor lets me keep things light because it’s so easy to go from “I’m not perfect” to “I’m a fucking unlovable monster” and let my anxiety take the wheel. I have no chill. But if you’re reading this, you know that (this example of my inflexibility was totes accidental).

So where was I? Being forward almost seems vulgar. It just isn’t.what.you.do in polite society. We can avoid the rough unpleasant edges if we’re more suggestive than forward. It would make everyone’s life better if we all followed those rules.

Maybe some people, sometimes.

Except it’s infinitely useful or preferable to be direct in some situations. It saves time and energy. And there are a whole bunch of people whose lives would only be made worse by trying to live up to the standards of guess-culture. And if I expect people to suggest what I want, I’m putting the onus and energy on them. Trust me, it even sounds ridiculous when I type it.

On top of that, guessers can seem disingenuous or manipulative by others. I know that it’s “rude” to ask directly, but she thinks my hinting is manipulative or dishonest because she doesn’t know or believe that you just.can’t.do. that.

Compromise, am I right?

It might seem positive that I am sometimes an asker or prefer others to be–if you ignore the fact that the ways in which I am inconsistent tend to be self-serving. I’m annoyed when he doesn’t answer directly but wouldn’t do the same myself.

And I can become resentful when I feel like I can’t speak up about things because of unwritten rules that say there has to be a perfect way or time (hint: there never is). So I only say those things when slamming the metaphorical door. And I am shocked, shocked when others say things that I would never say because you just.don’t.do.that.

While the unwritten rules in my head tell me to abide by guess culture, but it also allows me to save face–at least, I feel like it should. Maybe that’s an aspect of guess-culture. Maybe it’s just me. Either way, being direct can sometimes make me feel so self-conscious, embarrassed almost. I can feel like this super uncool dork for saying what I’m thinking, even when I’m talking to people who ostensibly care about me a lot, want me in their lives, and wouldn’t judge me even if I were a little uncool. But it’s all so intimidating.

Prescribing to guess culture feels like a way to help me avoid that potential fallout. But you know what’s coming, right? A sort of fallout I never expected that’s probably worse and entirely avoidable.

Being healthily direct is something I need to work on, then. And I’m glad to say it’s better–with some people and in some situations. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take time (or that I wish I could make everyone else adapt instead, haha). I have to force myself not just to change but to be direct because it feels so uncomfortable.

So this is me forcing myself to be direct. Not just with myself or any one person but with any stranger who might stumble across this blog post.

I think it’s good for me. I think it will be good for me to continue blogging more regularly as I tackle certain issues and not expect those around me to listen as I process every thought in an attempt to uncover all my insecurities and prove that I’m doing the work. Because that’s me trying to make my problems into “our” problems, and it’s pretty selfish.

But you, dear blog, exist, and this is exactly the sort of thing you can help with.

So, see you next time (not a Kwik Trip reference… or is it?)

I painted my nails this morning, a seemingly small thing. But I cannot remember the last time I painted them. Perhaps we still had snow on the ground from last winter. The parallel of our early snow is not lost on me.

My nails are short, which makes the manicure imperfect. It’s hard to make nails this short and uneven look good, but painting them feels like an accomplishment nonetheless. I’m going to call it a win because when I am anxious or otherwise struggling, my nails are often the first things to go. When everything seems pointless, I am not going to take the time and effort it requires to paint my nails without butchering them.

So when I’m dealing with family drama, health concerns, poor pet behavior, frustrating clients, or trying to pay my bills like a functioning adult, nail polish falls to the wayside. After all, it’s such a trivial thing. It’s more important to vacuum or do the dishes.

But my naked nails break so much more easily. They become weak and uneven, and every time I look at this I feel frustrated that I haven’t been able to keep up with such a trivial thing. What’s more, I worry that others will see them and similarly judge me, perhaps not because they are judgmental but because I have similar thoughts about others’ appearances. I am hard on others, harder on myself.

On the other hand, I cannot help but wonder if people might take note of my nails, which have been naked for much of the year and make note of my struggle. They are, after all, a gauge of my mental health. It’s something I have not been able to forget over the last few years, but perhaps no one else has noticed.

I noticed, however. I also noticed that things have been on the upswing. This year started more positive. It felt like a fresh start. And while COVID and several injuries have added some stress, the trend of my mental state has generally been positive. I legitimately feel better than I have in a few years, and sometimes thoughts to that extent pop into my mind. I stop and notice that I’m enjoying myself. I don’t know if anyone else has noticed that, either. But I have.

Yet, I am still brought down by the state of my nails. Sadly because my nails break so easily, it doesn’t feel worth the effort to paint them when they’re short. That’s why they’ve remained naked aside from some inconsistent clear polish this year. I have to convince myself that it’s worth doing, anyway, that starting now will offer some protection and perhaps help them grow out. It’s like the awkward stage bangs go through when you’re growing them out.

And I was finally able to convince myself of that today after considering it for the last few weeks. To be honest, it feels like a bit of a waste to pick a pricier polish as I did, but I wanted to motivate myself to paint my nails, and I did. I did an okay job, even though it’s hard to keep them neat when they’re so short. I even bought and used a cuticle pusher. The process took a bit of time. I forgot how long it takes for the polish to dry.

But dry it did. They’re painted. I set a goal and achieved it, even if it took much longer than I would have liked. And maybe I won’t keep up with it long enough for my nails to grow a bit more so I can shed that silly sense of shame. But, for today, I feel a bit better. And maybe I will tomorrow, too.

Today’s episode is sponsored by a weird ‘gentleman’ who, from the looks of him, likely has a complex similar to that of George Costanza. It is, of course, not kind to judge someone for their looks and perhaps hypocritical of me given that he went on a tirade about how “fucking ugly” I was, but those same comments don’t motivate me to be an especially good person in response.

The length of this man’s tirade may have been a bit “Extra”, but the sentiments or the fact that it occurred at all are not entirely surprising. It may be the first time this year that someone has yelled at me through their open car window, but this is mostly due to my own activities. Today is the first day in a while that I’ve head into busier parts of town, mostly due to the fact that I’ve achieved an average six miles a day this week, many of those miles spent climbing hills. Today I aimed to complete my goals with another six, cooler weather and wind be damned, but stayed on flat land to appease my griping muscles.

But that people yell out their car windows or from the side of the street is nothing new. They honk, they rev their engines. They make suggestive comments or whistle. Once or twice they tried to trap me with their vehicles. On the other hand, they yell about my appearance and how it is not good enough for them, as if that should matter to me or determine my value as a person. I am too ugly and too fat, usually. I may be climbing hills in the middle of humid summer and my very existence in their line of sight has caused them enough grief to comment, to yell.

In fact, I look forward to those days when the temperature falls below freezing because the sidewalks and street will be cleared, everyone snug inside while I am still walking and bettering myself. It’s part of the same reason why I enjoy walks in the dead of night, as long as I can avoid the drunks around bar close. It’s serene, and disturbances are few and far between.

But I shouldn’t have to change my activities to avoid these negative experiences. My experience, and most others’, indicates that while it’s not only men who do these things, it is the men who participate in these activities with the most menace and the men who are the most likely to do us harm. I haven’t been physically harmed by these people, but that’s not the point, is it? Even if I were offensive to look at, do I not deserve a little dignity? Can people not just leave me the fuck alone?

That’s what gets to me, really. I see people of all sorts of natures, yet never take it upon myself to disturb them by yelling obscenities and insults. I certainly don’t think it’s up to other people to please my sensibilities. I suspect I wrote some similar words last year, so I guess that some things haven’t changed. I do think that are fewer comments than there were when I was younger, so that’s something.

But I’m torn from my thoughts I’m reminded how fucking weird (read: rude) people (read: men) can be when I’m out for a walk and not even compensated with the grim satisfaction of watching those fuckers drive their cars into a lightpost.

It is a grey day, the first after a stretch of sunny days. Waking up to the gloom and chill is a harsh reality to face after so many days of light, warmth, and melting snow. The world was just beginning to reveal itself again, and my spirits were lifted with it.

That is not so today. My spirits are overcast, just like the skies.

And while I could argue that my mood simply reflects the weather, it’s more than that.

Today is a grey day, but it is also the day that Elizabeth Warren has resigned as a democratic candidate for president.

This, too, has lowered my spirits.

Warren was my candidate, a progressive with a flawed past. But that past showed an ability to learn better and do better. Those who would critique her would focus on her imperfections and not her growth. Even when reading those accounts, however, I would Elizabeth Warren relatable. I, too, have been wrong in the past, have become aware of my mistakes, and have tried to do better. In that way, we don’t seem so different.

There is another way in which I relate to Warren: we are both women. I have long since stopped listening to people who tell me not to vote for candidates on the basis of similarities such as gender or skill color.

Furthermore, I know it matters when a woman is added to the table, whether that be in the boardroom or the Oval Office. It brings much-needed diversity. When you invite a woman, a person of color, a disabled person, a queer, or trans person to the table, you are inviting their life experience, an experience that 99% of the previous white, Christian, able-bodied, straight presidents have lacked. A person from a different background becomes the desirable 1%.

We know that this diversity helps companies, and I see why it should do no less for our country.

Of course, I am not opposed to our other progressive candidate. I have even voted for him before. The problem lies not in his politics but his identity, much of which is shared with those 99-percenters.

I will vote for Bernie again, and I will do so with only a little chagrin. He was my second choice, after all.

However, he wasn’t my first choice. And because of the staggered primary voting schedule in this country — just one of many issues I have with the process — I will have to vote for Bernie. Warren has left the race, and I hadn’t even gotten a chance to vote for her in my state’s primary.

So, yes, I am disheartened. And worried. I worry not just because I am unsure if Bernie can beat Biden let alone trump. I worry that every time a woman runs from president and “fails,” we are that much further from having a president whose life experience in any way matches mine. I worry still that even if we do elect a woman president, the misogynists will come out in full force after her term and vote for a sexist pig to lead our country, much like the racists did after Obama’s two terms.

I wish I could not worry, even while knowing how much privilege that involves. I am not that privileged, however. I do worry. I care.

I care enough to write a blog post about Elizabeth Warren dropping out of the presidential race when I have not even opened a tab to discuss my own personal life.

But therein lies the crux of the issue. The political is personal. Lke I recently posted on Facebook, it always has been, and I do not see it changing in my lifetime.

This is about Elizabetha, but it’s also about Amy, Kirsten, Hillary, and Victoria god-damned Woodhull, all women who were brave enough to run for president yet were not perfect enough to be seen as electable. As if all the men who have successfully made it into office were perfect.

It is about all the women who were laughed out of sight before they could throw their hats into the ring.

And, yes, it is about me, an American woman. So, of course, it makes me worry, but it also makes me angry.

Perhaps if more people were angry, the detractors could no longer use that as a reason why a woman is “unelectable.” Perhaps a woman younger than I would not have to feel worry and anger like I do now. Perhaps a newly-minted voter, like my sister will soon be, will be able to live in a world where a woman is electable as President of the United States and know she is not just living in a man’s world, a world that makes so many days gloomy in spite of the sun shining brightly.

I worry, but I also hope.

A is for anxiety.

Anxiety manifests as anger and aloofness and alarming sadness.

(A is also for alliteration)

Anxiety is to be expected when your cat is dying, your bank account is empty, your credit card won’t work, and your debit card has been stolen.

But one of the worst things about anxiety is how it makes you feel bad for being anxious. Why should you feel so bad when other people could handle this better, perhaps in stride?

When you feel bad about feeling anxious, you don’t want to let people know that you’re experiencing anxiety. By the time I’ve made it to sadness, I’ve found myself so overcome by anxiety that I cannot hide it, even if I want to. If you see it, I’ve been struggling for a while and I didn’t want to or couldn’t reach out. It comes out because if it doesn’t, it feels like I will burst. Keeping it inside prevents me from eating, sleepy, and certainly thinking clearly.

Anxiety is not helped by those who tell you to relax or repeat platitudes like “It will all be okay,” especially when the issues are guaranteed to have a negative ending. Anxiety eases with time, with medication, with meditation, with a good sleep, with the resolution or lessening of those problems. And while just getting it out doesn’t necessary decrease anxiety, it’s easier to bear the load with a few shoulders to help.