i wonder if she knows

I know I've been absent from here for a while. I started this post to write about how I was negotiating the world, but specifically, my marriage as a feminist. Although I no longer have that marriage, I'm still negotiating the world as a feminist, but things feel enormously different. I feel like I've become Feminist 2.0, my new understanding of who I am and how I should enteract with the rest of the world in order to achieve the results I want.

Let's start here. Nearly all of my feminist beliefs, at one point, could be boiled down to this point made by Simone De Beauvoir in The Second Sex.

"To emancipate woman is to refuse to confine her to the relations she bears to man, not to deny them to her; let her have her independent existence and she will continue none the less to exist to him also; mutually recognizing each other as subject, each will yet remain for the other an other."

A little more briefly, my main claim to feminism was this. There are men, there are women and there are variations that are in between, both or neither of those things. With little or no need to categorize or define gender or sex, also meaning little or no need to compare them to each other or to create one standard by which the other was judged, then we could all flourish and lead our most productive and happiest non-oppressed lives.

However, at some point a few months ago, I had a revelation. The issue, in my view, wasn't that we were categorizing, defining and comparing men and women, but that we as a society were fixated on trying to draw a line between masculinity, men and the male gender as well as feminity, women and the female gender.

I've discovered that I believe, among all the things I believe about God and the universe and our purpose in the world, that there is a cosmic balance between the masculine and the feminine, not a cosmic balance between men and women. All of us, regardless of sex, gender, orientation or age are composed of some parts feminine, some parts masculine. For many of us, we might find that we are far more one than the other, but I cannot see that one could exist without traits of both. The union of masculine and feminine is the resolution of cosmic unrest. We balance this within ourselves, we balance it with others in our romantic relationships, in our friendships, in our relationships with our family, with our goals and desires, our very being.

Okay, I know this all sounds kind of yin yang-y. But what I'm trying to say was that I found a lot of difficulty in arguing that we should stop worrying about the gender binary. And for the most part, we should. But it's not the gender binary that is the problem, it's the insistence that men are masculine and women are feminine. It's an inability to let people be people without holding them to these defined standards.

...to have independent existence.

Crap. I'm back where I started. I'm not very good at blogging about feminism. Maybe I should get a hobby and blog about that.

I guess the issue isn't so much that I don't believe what I did before, rather that I have a fuller understanding of it. And that I've come to appreciate the masculine and feminine within myself, and the masculine and feminine in others. And I'm learning to love the things about myself that I no longer view as contradictions, but part of a beautiful balance that makes up who I am.

Also. New "about me". (scroll down)

not one of those who can easily hide

"I don't have much money, but boy, if I did, 

I'd buy a big house where we both could live."

how I used to be

I haven't really blogged about weight loss yet because I'm still pretty uncomfortable talking about it, but let's just say I have shed a couple pounds recently. Like most people, the weight had crept on over the years with a few significant life events really adding some stones to the scales until I finally reached my breaking point.

As the weight has come off the celebration has been focused on where I was in life at each of these weights. So for example, reaching the weight I was at my wedding, or the weight I was when I played rugby, or most recently, the weight I was when I started college. And this morning when I noted to myself that I'd finally shed my freshman 15, it dawned on me that this isn't about going back in time at all. Why am I moving backwards, rewinding my experiences and my knowledge to a time when I was less me, both physically and mentally?

No, this journey is about moving forward. It's about who I am today and who I'll be tomorrow. It's about being lighter physically and mentally and all the spaces in between. No longer am I going to speak about my weight in terms of where I was when I was this size in the past. It's the size I am now, and that's all that matters.

shine in your church, gathered today

The Obama administration believes that contraception should be offered to women as a means of improving public health and women's autonomy. The Catholic church would be violating one of their strongest helded beliefs by offering contraception to its employees and affiliates. (link)

This is the kind of dilemma I face as a Catholic feminist who holds the separation of church and state as an indispensible virtue of government and religion.

I believe that the availability of contraception is directly correlated to the improvement of women's health. I also understand why the Catholic church is against contraception and I fully support their position on denying the use of contraception in the confines of being faithful. No seriously though. I get it. I understand why arguments such as "but contraception use reduces abortion rates" and "but 92% of all Catholic women have used birth control" don't hold an ounce of water against "contraception is against the teaching of the Catholic church".

And yet, the feminist in me is cheering for birth control.

As tomorrow begins the season of Lent, a time of reflection and fasting, and for me the beginning of of my 10th year in the Church, I'm going to be seriously trying to figure out how to reconcile these differences in who I am. Maybe I'll never see an end to this struggle, but it seems to me like I'm unable to keep them as seperate facets of my life and so I keep trying to blend the two as if they could possible exist within one person.

title unknown

For the most part, my life is pretty boring. I’m fairly routined and I stay out of trouble, but you know, sometimes adventure comes to you, and I’m okay with that, spice of life and such, you know?

I feel like this adventure needs a name. Like “The Great Hooker Adventure of St. Paul Street” or “The one where Kate meets a drunk mortician”. Read the story, leave title suggestions in the comments.

Yesterday morning at about 5:30am, I woke up to the sound of someone falling down the steps in our apartment building. I was sound asleep, but the sound was pretty loud, and the girl who fell was wailing pretty loudly. I immediately heard a little commotion which consisted of a man’s voice asking if she was alright, and a quiet exchange. Now, don’t think I’m a monster when I tell you that I considered staying in bed. Just because someone hurts themselves doesn’t mean that a thousand people should run to their rescue, and maybe it made sense for me to just stay out of it. But the man’s voice disappeared and the girl started screaming for someone to help her, so I grabbed my phone and my glasses and went out.

At the bottom of the steps was a girl that looked about 21 and probably about 100 pounds, laying at the bottom of the steps crying. This girl had clearly had a rough night, but at first glance, I just assumed she was drunk as hell and that she was upset over the fall. I did a quick survey of the situation, to make sure she wasn’t injured and to see what she really needed. She claimed she didn’t need an ambulance, and she didn’t look like she was hurt, so I didn’t push it.

“Help me. They don’t care about me. I don’t know where I am. I just want to go home. Please help me, don’t leave me.”

Holy crap. What?

When someone says to you “please help me, don’t leave me”, you’re kind of stuck. You can’t just walk away from that situation, and I was still trying to figure the situation out so I just sat down on the floor next to her and hugged her. Sisterhood and ovaries and shit, right?  She was sobbing and repeating the same thing over and over again. “I don’t know where I am, they don’t care about me, please don’t leave me.”

This is when I thought shit, son, this here is a real life sex worker.

“Baby, you hookin’?” (I have street cred, so I can say that, and yes, I did actually say that.)

“No, no, I would never do that, I’m not that kind of person.” More wailing. Sobbing into my shirt. (Have I mentioned that I was just in my pajamas? An old Planet Fitness t-shirt and some embarrassingly short booty shorts.)

Okay, okay. She says she’s not a hooker. Fine. But it would make perfect sense. Man picks up this hooker, brings her to his fine apartment home (lol) and for whatever reason, kicks her out on her butt without paying her, maybe because she’s drunk? I don’t know. At this point one of the neighbors comes out to see if we need anything. I’m still of the belief that all this girl needs is a friend so I give him the thumbs up.

“How did you get here? Who did you come with? Do you live in this building?”

She didn’t know, she didn’t know, and no. More crying, sobbing and don’t leave me’s.

“What’s your name?”

“Paris.”

“I’m Kate. I’m not going to leave you. It’s going to be okay.” This girl is literally clutching at me. She seemed really scared. Which then made me realize that maybe I should be scared too.

“Are you here for drugs?” (Couldn’t remember the “street” way to ask that.)

My life flashed before my eyes. This girl was here for some kind of drug deal, and it went bad, she got pushed down the steps, and I was involved now. Someone was going to come out with a gun and I was going to die and how would my parents know that I was never involved? Should I write a quick email to them letting them know that I love them and that I wasn’t involved in any kind of drug deal because I’m a good girl, and maybe I should leave a note for the police so that they know how I got into this situation, you know just save them some foot work….

“No, no, I’d never do that. I’m scared. Please help me.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No, I’ve never been in trouble with the law. I’m not that kind of person, please don’t leave me.”

Okay. The situation is getting to be a bit much. I still don’t know how she got into the building (you’d need a key) and I am still not convinced she’s not somehow high. In fact, she’s kind of groping me, the way I’d imagine one does on drugs, or a lesbian high on life. Either way, this girl was really taking advantage of me being braless. Her fake eyelashes were coming off, and her makeup was all over her face and shirt. Paris had had a really rough night.

After a series of questions, I did find out that she’d come home with a couple of guys from a club and that she just wanted to go home. Perfect. Paris, I’m going to call you a cab. Where do you live? She gave me the name of two major streets in Baltimore that do indeed intersect. Perfect. Let me call her a cab.

Side note: apparently, in Baltimore, if you need a cab, you have to give them the exact address of your destination or they will HANG UP ON YOU. So I had to look up the cross-streets and pick an address as close as possible in that vicinity to get a cab to come. (You suck, Yellow Cab of Baltimore.)

Right as I’m calling the cab though, two men come downstairs, and it’s clear that these are the men that brought Paris into our building. Nice looking well adjusted guys who clearly don’t need a hooker like this. (Look, I know she said she’s not a hooker, but dude, she was a hooker.)

Some words are exchanged, quite peacefully actually, and one guy leaves while the remaining guy tries to talk some sense into her. He tells me that they tried to call her a cab but she refused and was ripping up their apartment so he had to kick her out. He suggests that we go out for a smoke while he tells me the whole story. Awesome. Let me just put on jeans and a sweatshirt.

I run inside, grab my nearest jeans and my Ohio State fleece and when I come back Paris has vomited all over the floor. Oh. Back in for paper towels. Are you serious? I’m helping to clean up this girl’s puke? Wtf, sisterhood? You suck.

After some more tense words about us leaving her, my neighbor (who is still kind of drunk) and I get outside. His name is Charles. Great, thanks Charles, now can you please tell me what the fuck is going on here?

Charles and his friend met a rich guy at a bar who invited them back to his penthouse a few blocks away for a party. At said party, they were told there was an after party club they should all go to, which means it’s a place that has found a loophole around state laws prohibiting the service of alcohol after 2:00am. This girl was supposedly super drunk and kept getting kicked out, but was hanging on both of them outside and when they got in their car she just got in saying she was going to fuck both of them, and she was so drunk they just brought her home.

Real casually I was like “Oh did you guys fuck her?”, hoping that my nonchalant way of asking would garner the truth.

“No fucking way. I have standards.”

Fine, Charles, you didn’t fuck her, gold star, anyway so she trashed your apartment and so you kicked her out?

Yeah, that was the story. Fine.

“Oh, are you from Ohio?” (Referencing OHIO STATE across my chest, yeah, he was looking at my boobs, so what?)

“Yep.”

“Neat, I’m from Cincinnati, I just moved here last year.”

“Oh really? That’s cool. What do you do?”

“I’m a mortician.”

...what?

Paris figured out how a door works. She came outside and asked him for a cigarette, which she then waved in my face and nearly caught me on fire, and then right in time the cab showed up. The cab driver was pissed and insisted that she paid up front. What a fucking ordeal.

“I have cash, I’m not that kind of girl, I just need to go home.” She is crying and falling all over the car. The cab driver gets out to talk to Charles while I try to figure out if Paris has any cash, she only needs $15, but I only find $6 in her purse. Paris keeps trying to attack the cab driver and I pull her off. We all want her to just get home. None of us want any sort of alternative ending to the story, so we empathize with the cab driver and try to get the cash from Paris. 

I am literally standing barefoot on the streets of Baltimore with two people I've just met and a cab driver trying to physically find cash on the person of this drunk girl, all while promising her that I don't judge her and I know she's not "that kind of girl" but please, Paris, do you have the $15 for the driver?

After a while of this back and forth of Paris feeling judged and telling the cab driver that she has money but that she didn’t do anything illegal to get the cash, (The $6? Really??) Charles goes inside and brings out a ten. (Yeah buddy, I know she’s off her rocker but you got her into this mess, that’s a small price to pay to get her home.)

After some quintessential “I love you guys, no really, you guys, you don’t even know, I love you so much” drunk goodbyes, we get her in the car and it drives away. Great. Good deed done. Night is over. Bedtime? Oh. No.

Charles and I stand around talking a little more.

“Do you want to see pictures of dead people?”

“Sure!”

We went up to his apartment and looked at his embalming textbooks. None of that phases me and we discussed different embalming techniques and procedures as well as the art of being a funeral director. I talked about my work in tobacco control while he lit another cigarette and we talked a little about Ohio. That’s when I noticed an urn on his shelf.

“Whose cremains are in there?” (He was totes impressed with my use of the word cremains.)

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You have some random person’s ashes on your shelf?”

“Yeah. Wanna see?”

“….sure.” I mean I know what ashes look like, but he seemed excited to show me.

So you know how in TV and movies the perpetual joke is when someone opens the urn and ashes get everywhere? Well, Charles opens the urn, and the cremains are in a bag. As he’s opening it, ashes fall all over his shirt, all over the table, and all onto his futon. I mean, he didn’t empty it out or anything, just a little bit, probably like a couple fingers worth or whatever, but holy fucking crap. All like it’s no big freaking deal. No, that’s cool Charles. Just a dead body all over your apartment, that’s chill. God.

Seriously though. I can now say I’ve taken my hand and cleaned some dead person’s ashes off of a futon. As if I’d spilled some Cheeto’s crumbs and brushed them onto the floor. Something about this is just not normal.

The sun was coming up, it was basically daylight at this point. We actually ended up jamming a little bit, he has a band and I messed around on his keyboard while he played bass, and while we’re not the next big thing, it was fun. I went back to bed and slept for another hour and a half.

So that was that. I hope that Paris got home okay. I still think there’s more to the story of why she ended up in his apartment. (Really? Drunk girl jumps in your car so you just bring her home? I don’t know about that….) Maybe she was raped and I was an accomplice. Likely though, they had the intention of fucking her but she was genuinely too drunk and being belligerent. Who knows. Paris doesn’t even know.

not fire, not ice

I'm dumbstruck by how easy it was to get a marriage license, and yet how difficult it is to dissolve a marriage in the state of Maryland. The law requires that we be separated for one year before we officially divorce, which isn't a huge problem, but it's just dumb. I think that we both feel in our hearts that if we'd anticipated that year's wait we might have done this some time sooner. Not that there's a rush to be official, but once you've decided, it seems weird to wait. It's like we're engaged to be divorced.

Things have been kind of hot and cold. Well, they've been neither too hot nor too cold, but enough that it's been frustrating. Being dedicated to keeping things civil is actually a lot of work. Other people like to stick their nose in our business and give us advice on how to "get back" at each other. We don't want that. We are better than that. We want to walk away with our heads held high knowing that we didn't sling mud. And for God's sake, we want to keep some of our dignity intact.

That being said, civility is hard to come by in the middle of a divorce. We both want to protect ourselves and neither one of us wants to feel like we're getting the short end of the stick. We're generally angry that this is happening to us.

On Monday I get the key to my new apartment. The key to my new life. I don't mean to disparrage the many happy memories and no-regrets marriage I had to my husband by constantly referring to this as my new life and my fresh start, but we all know that's what it is. We mistakingly trapped each other in marriage and now we have fresh starts. Packing is ridiculously overwhelming for me, but I know it will all be worth it once I'm in my new place.

But you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable,
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button now
Sing it if you understand.
and breathe, just breathe
oh breathe, just breathe.

dark sacred night

Soon, there will be a long thoughtful post about the state of my life. But not yet, my dears, not yet. This needs a little more time for reflection.

My emotional and mental abilities to handle life and stress are at maximum capacity and yet, seriously, I'm so fine. I know people say that. I'm fine. But I really mean it. Nothing about any of this surprises me. I know it surprised some of you, but for me this is just the normal progression of my life. Like graduation. I've graduated from marriage. And it's bitter because the memories were good, but a sweet and joyous occasion because now my real life begins.

I will always love you, but you are free now.

one is the loneliest number

I've decided that, without a doubt, being an only-child is the only excuse I will ever need.

You see, I have only-child syndrome. I'm not ashamed to talk about it. I am now and have always been the quintessential only-child. It started when I was kid, and then got worse when I had no siblings. I was bossy and controlling and I had to have my way. I hated sharing. I was spoiled and pretentious and let me tell you, I knew what was up. I was quick to correct other kids who were wrong and not as smart as me (Husband shares this quality, we sometimes sit and reminisce about what know-it-alls we were. I love him.) Now that I'm an "adult" (again, we all know why that's in quotations there) I still have these qualities but I've settled into them a little differently. I have a controlling nature, but in a more caring and nurturing way. I'm still spoiled and attention-hungry, but I'm also independent, self-reliant, thoughtful and deeply intuned with who I am, probably because I am my own best friend.

There are burdens to being an only child. As a child, the burden is that you don't have siblings to play with or to share things with. Sometimes your social skills are a bit off because you're surrounded by adults all the time. As an adult, you have no one age-appropriate who shares your childhood memories, which I'm actually shocked means so much to me. I find myself jealous of the relationship I see other adults have with their siblings. It can be hard not to have anyone who remembers growing up quite the same way you do. And as my parents age, no matter how prepared they are, the responsibility of caring for them will lie on my shoulders alone. And when they're gone, I won't have anyone with which to remember them.

That being said, I know there are burdens to having siblings. I know that many people have strained relationships with their siblings and that each family is different. I wouldn't trade my childhood for anything in the world.

As an adult, I've embraced these qualities in a little less of a "spoiled rotten brat" kind of way and transformed them into the person I am today who is strong-headed and independent. I try not to take a "my way or the highway" attitude towards life, but I do see things how I think they ought to be and then try to make it so. I never accept the status quo. I never do things I don't want to do. Yes, this is kind of childish, and sometimes having a little humility and discipline to do things you don't want to do makes you a better person, but it's also a quality that lets you know I'm honest. I say what's on my mind and I call it like I see it. Sometimes that makes me a bitch, but usually that just makes me true to who I am.

I'm still kind of a spoiled brat. I still need lots of attention. I feel waves of childish rage whenever the attention isn't on me and I think as long as I live that may never go away. I still can't share anything. (Mine!) But my ability to be alone in this world and satisfied without the approval or even company of others...it's an amazing feeling. As long as I'm in control.

shine til' tomorrow

This is what I'm listening to at work, on repeat, and it's mellowing me out. Thank you, Ray Charles.



falling, yes I am falling

I don't get it. Everyone told me to take care of myself. So I did that. I took charge of my own life and it felt great. And then...I get accused of being neglectful. I don't get that. I can't take care of anyone else unless I take care of myself, I always thought that was rule #1.

Whatever. I'm just being grumpy. My life is actually going quite well, thank you.

barefoot and in the kitchen

Let me make this point very very clear. This is not and will not (ever) be a cooking blog. Ever. Never ever. Got it?

Okay.

I am not very good at cooking, and I don't really like cooking. I think that I have the potential to learn, and there may be a day in the future where I'm one of those cooking people, but for now, cooking is just an annoying necessity of life like scrubbing the bath tub or showering daily. And anyone who knows me knows that I hate talking about food or reading about food or generally discussing food. The fancier the food and the more you describe it the more I'm going to be annoyed. Just say you made salmon and asparagus. Don't say you made "glazed wild-caught salmon with organic asparagus and a lemon caper sauce". No.

Anyway, all of my friends have somehow managed the basics of cooking (and some have gone up and beyond like my friend E here) and I'm still over here with about 5 boxes of spaghetti and some pancake mix from 2007 in my cabinet.

Maybe it's because there's a crisp chill in the air (almost) which brings to mind casseroles, stews and chili (okay actually I'm good at making chili, but really the only skill there is using a can opener and browning beef), or maybe it's because I'm realizing that only going to the grocery store once every 6 weeks is not normal, or perhaps it's because everyone around me is somehow able to feed themselves and their families nearly everyday without hassle and it's embarrassing that I can't, but I've been inspired to give it a shot.

I have the basics. I have a working kitchen (no microwave, but that's another story) and most of the basic tools. I have the 2 cookbooks I was raised to believe should be in every kitchen: The Joy of Cooking and The Better Homes and Gardens Cook Book, and I also have a Rachael Ray cookbook which I've actually used a couple times, and if you can get past her cutesy way of describing food it's a good resource.

So here's the goal. Once a week. I'm going to cook just once a week. And if husband doesn't like it, well too bad, more food for me. I'm not going to blog about it and I am certainly not going to take pictures of it, but I'm going to quietly go into the kitchen and try to make something edible happen. Wish me luck?

9/12/11

This post is dedicated to love.

Yesterday was the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks on The United States. I don't really feel it necessary to discuss where I was on 9/11/01 or to reiterate any sad sentiments about that occasion. There are many things I could say about that day or my subsequent experience with that event, but that event is not about me at all so it's relatively pointless. I mean no disservice to anyone who was directly affected by those events, but I chose not to watch any news coverage related to the 10 year anniversary because yes, I know, "never forget", but all my thoughts and feelings about 9/11 are solidified and I just don't want to see anything that will make those change.

I will say this: my greatest memory of 9/11 and its aftermath is not of the tragedy, but it is of love. It is of how we genuinely came together as a nation, crossing the usual divides of political party, borders, race and religion (okay, maybe not so much for Muslims, but we're working on that) out of love for our country and love for our fellow (hu)man. (<-- this is still a feminist blog afterall) I remember the celebrities and comedians desparately trying to make us laugh during that time of grief. I remember gathering in churches and community spaces to just be around each other so we wouldn't have to be alone. All the phone calls made from those in the planes and in the tower, were messages of love. I remember the Red Sox rooting for the Yankees. Seriously. Do you remember that? Let that sink in for a minute. The Red Sox rooted for the Yankees. I remember so much love. We loved things and people that we wouldn't otherwise love. For a little while, I even loved George W. Bush and Rudy Giuliani. That may have been short-lived, but I still have some marginal respect for how they, and many other leaders, behaved during that aftermath.

Also, today is my third wedding anniversary. I grew up in a house where my parents openly celebrated their wedding anniversary each and every year, but it seems that in other households wedding anniversaries are largely ignored. It could be that I place more importance on this day than other couples do, especially for one as insignificant as number 3, but I think it's quite within my right to reminisce about the day we devoted ourselves to each other.

A lot of things were said at our wedding. Nearly all those things we wrote or chose for ourselves. We wrote our wedding ceremony and chose the readings, the only thing ad-libbed was the sermon from the minister, to which we had contributed anyway. But one of the things that strikes me about everything that was said, is that everything has been so true. We didn't know anything about marriage, and yet, everything we chose ended up being eerily accurate. Sure, maybe the advice was vague and the readings just generalities about love, but I find myself thinking about what we said and what the minister said that is just so fitting in our daily lives.

The general theme? Marriage is a huge risk. You don't know what will happen, people change and it is a lot of ongoing work to keep your relationship alive. But if you love each other and cherish each other and build each other up instead of tearing each other down, you'll find much joy and happiness.

This first reading, the one I chose for B. And the second one, the one he chose for me. We are smart cookies.

But ultimately there comes a moment when a decision must be made. Ultimately two people who love each other must ask themselves how much they hope for as their love grows and deepens, and how much risk they are willing to take…It is indeed a fearful gamble…Because it is the nature of love to create, a marriage itself is something which has to be created, so that, together we become a new creature.

To marry is the biggest risk in human relations that a person can take…If we commit ourselves to one person for life this is not, as many people think, a rejection of freedom; rather it demands the courage to move into all the risks of freedom, and the risk of love which is permanent; into that love which is not possession, but participation…It takes a lifetime to learn another person…When love is not possession, but participation, then it is part of that co-creation which is our human calling, and which implies such risk that it is often rejected.
   ~Madeleine L'Engle, The Irrational Season

 Love is friendship caught fire; it is quiet, mutual confidence, sharing and forgiving. It is loyalty through good and bad times. It settles for less than perfection, and makes allowances for human weaknesses. Love is content with the present, hopes for the future, and does not brood over the past. It is the day-in and day-out chronicles of irritations, problems, compromises, small disappointments, big victories, and working toward common goals. If you have love in your life, it can make up for a great many things you lack. If you do not have it, no matter what else there is, it is not enough.
   ~Laura Hendricks

and your medical charts, and when you start

This post is about menstruation. It's not an apology or even a warning, it's just a notice. Menstruation, below.

I know I'm risking losing my credibility as a reasonable feminist (street cred, yo) to say this, but dood....having periods is like....ovulation and being fertile and part of some sort of womanly bond...and like....the moon. For realz.


But then, well, then there's the blood.

(See first line above)

Okay, I know it's not really blood, it's lots of things that make up the lining of the uterus, that like...drips out of you. But like...despite how easily all the absorbent cotton products on TV make it seem, well, it's not always well-managed. Amitrite, ladies? Sometimes it's like WWII down there and you just want to throw your hands up and wave that white flag. Or well, it probably wouldn't be so white anymore, but....I digress.

Us modern women have lots of choices, both for controlling the length and flow of our periods and managing to not walk around covered in blood once a month. It's pretty amazing to think about what kinds of products and options we have today compared to what our great-grandmothers did or didn't have. But sometimes I think way way before that, back to a time when humans were just evolving. I assume that women passed along to each other that they would get this thing occasionally and that it didn't mean they had a wound, but was there ever an early time where they just didn't know what was going on? Did they ever think they were ill or did they just know it was part of the life cycle? These are the kinds of things I wonder while curled up in my sweatpants shoving a chocolate bar into my mouth. I think about cave women trying to figure out what periods were. #mylifeissad

The other thing that I find absolutely fascinating is the whole ovulation cycle. Now, I know my heteronormative is showing a little here but HOLY CRAP did you know that women's bodies were like...meant to conceive by making them the rowdiest right at the time where they're most likely to conceive? It's how we're still alive and the Dodo Bird is not. (I only assume that the female dodo birds all got "headaches" when they were the most fertile.)

I mean, check this out.

From Wikipedia

You see that purple line go up right around day 21? Yeah. That's your lady boner. Basically, God puts on a Barry White record to make little babies. It's absolutely genius. No wonder feminists are always blah blah blahing about how amazing periods are. They ARE amazing.

In today's world of Seasonale and Mirena and tampons in neon colored candy wrappers, I just didn't want y'all to forget that even though you have the incredible option of not being a baby making machine, your body is totally designed to get you off the couch every once in a while and into bed to do the nasty. That, ladies, is intelligent design. ;)

Dear 16-year-old self

In this book famous people write letters to themselves when they were 16 years old. It's a fun idea, and it's prompted thousands (if not more) blog posts about what you would say to yourself if you could go back in time and talk to your 16-year-old-self. Obviously, the whole thing is preposterous because you've already lived the time between being 16 and now so nothing about that could possibly change, but everyone has a little fascination with both time travel and the concept of "oh if only I'd known...". Although I'm not that far removed from being 16, obviously a lot has changed in the...um...8 years since.

Dear 16-year-old Kate,

Guess what? You made it out. You live in Baltimore. You still haven't traveled the world, but Baltimore is pretty diverse, so in the end it's really not that bad. Also, you made it to Europe again, but it wasn't nearly as fun as the first time.

And guess what you're not doing? You are totally not writing musicals. In fact, you haven't touched a piano in a couple years. Is that really what you thought you'd be good at? You'll later learn that your talents lie elsewhere and that your musical talents will be restricted to impromptu dance parties in your living room in front of your husband.

That's right. Husband. You fell in love and got married at the age of 21. I know, right? What were you thinking? Marriage is really hard. (*note: Write letter to self at age of 21.) Everything that everyone has told you about marriage is wrong. First of all, you can't train a husband. He is who he is and that's that. Second of all, there are no rules or tricks to staying happy, such as weekly date nights or turning off the TV once a week. Those are great ways to stay connected, but they don't even scratch the surface of what's really beneath a marriage. The third thing no one tells you is that it's so much more than the little things, like housework and money. It's about really big things. Like major life things. You will be completely unprepared to face these challenges at that age. There's nothing you can do to be ready for this. But most importantly, Kate, marriage will bring you unbridled joy, comfort and satisfaction. The knowledge that you face nothing alone is worth every bad date, every fight and every tear shed. Your brain will rewire itself to love him, and no one else. All other men will seem inferior to your husband, even the richer ones. And for the second time in your life, you will find that there is great power in healing. Oh, and your wedding will be absolutely beautiful and perfect.

I can't even begin to tell you how unimportant popularity is in the real world. You really need to stop worrying about it and just be yourself. In adulthood, the people who are the most interesting and the most happy are the people who are comfortable with themselves, who don't worry about the approval of the masses. Sure, there's something to be said for fitting in, but you don't need to compromise who you are to do this.

I kind of hate to tell you this, but you turn out just like your parents. Don't worry, for the most part, you have all their good qualities and few of their bad qualities, but don't be so shocked when you find yourself yelling at your husband for using the wrong pair of scissors to cut open a bag. It's in your genetics and there's really nothing you can do about it.

You'll finally stop biting your nails, but you'll overcompensate with a sick obsession for keeping your nails perfectly manicured. You will still find yourself obsessing over colors but eventually you'll learn to manage this. You'll discover greek food, alcohol, high heels, eye liner, and bbq ribs and you won't be able to live without those things. And for the love of God, you will stop wearing silver eye shadow.

My advice to you is to be yourself, treat your body and your mind with respect, stay in school, pray often, be choosy with your friends and lay off the booze, but most importantly, love yourself. It will take you years to understand just how right your parents were when they said you must love yourself before you can love others, but this is an absolute infallible truth in life.

Your life will turn out to be pretty awesome, surrounded by wonderful and intelligent people who challenge you and love you. You will discover that you have a kind heart and a rebellious spirit. You'll begin to appreciate things like discipline and hard work. You will care about things like gender and marriage equality and use words like "heteronormative" and "gender binary". You will plant flowers and keep them alive. A black man will inspire a nation and become president. You will really really care about this.

Oh, and Kate, in a few years, someone will suggest that you go to a bar called The Depot. Say no. Trust me on this one.

Love,
Me