Hair Today - Gone Tomorrow?

I reminded my husband that the only reason that I have hair at all is in deference to him; I would be so happy bald, but I would not look great.

Still, this is what my hair looks like. For the last 25 years, the fact that I have hair at all is due to Rogaine.

When you add that to the fact that I cannot stand, really, truly, cannot stand, the feeling of hair touching my neck or my face, what I need is a buzz cut.

I feel ridiculous trying to "style" this and make it socially acceptable, when what I really want is to be happy and socially unacceptable.

"Put it in a ponytail! Put it in a bun!" people say; they have never seen me in either style. This is me in a play set in another century. We've fluffed a lot of air into my hair to get it to look this, um, abundant. Still, compare it to my companion. I could hold back a ponytail with an orthodontic rubber band. My bun in this photo is held by a single bobby pin, I think. (I'm on the left, obviously.)

And, I wear a ponytail to bed every night because, as I said, I cannot stand the feeling of hair on my neck or face. It is not an attractive look. Trust me. But, it is comfortable.

I know that it will "look terrible" cut very short. I do. I just don't really care. I do want to avoid having my husband be horrified every time he looks at me. This is why I still have any hair.

I could wear wigs; I own wigs. They're not comfortable. Ditto hats or scarves - and I have a really large head, so most women's hats (and some men's hats) perch on top, look silly, and blow away with every puff of air. I just wanna be bald, and society does not support me in this.

The vanishing nature of my hair - it was thick and long in my childhood - is a combination of heredity and hormonal imbalance. Before you ask, yes, my hormones are "regulated" with medication. No, it doesn't help my hair. Or the whiskers I grow (after I've had laser hair removal on my face and neck).

My dad, if he were alive, would be mortified if I cut my hair off. I cannot tell you how many times he lamented the 60s popularity of short styles (think Twiggy). "A woman's hair is her crowning glory!" he said, over and over. Any woman who cut it was being self destructive, he was sure.

After looking at photos of my Grandma Laurel, my dad's mom, I think this sentiment may echo something my Grandpa Fred may have said when Grandma got a 1920s bob.

Here's Grandma on her wedding day. Beautiful, no?

Later, she cut her hair to a fashionable chin length bob. She's still beautiful, but my dad's "crowning glory" attitude tells me that the haircut was probably not well received.

I never understood, either, the idea that long hair put up is attractive, elegant, acceptable, but short hair is not. It has the same basic aesthetics.

So, for right now, I have hair. Some day, maybe I won't.

Lady in Black

I was recently telling my son about the outfit I wore for my kindergarten school photos, and how I loved it, and the silver caps on my front teeth. "I thought those were so cool."

My son replied, "So, what I'm hearing here is that you've never had any fashion sense." Nope. Never. None.

I've finally figured out how not to be completely inappropriately dressed, I think. Not inappropriate as in revealing - I'm not an exhibitionist - but just a deep, inborn inability to figure out what goes with what, what looks good, and why.

Someone once asked me if I owned so much black because I thought it was slenderizing. (I am nobody's idea of goth, and never have been, so that option is out.) I thought that was very funny. First, it's hard to "slenderize" someone of my bulk. Second, I don't think that anyone needs to be slender in order to look good.

Third, and most important, I just can't summon much interest in looking fashionable, or shock value unfashionable; really, in wondering too terribly much what anyone thinks. I try not to be offensive or otherwise sabotage any chance of functioning smoothly in everyday life, but that's it. I had a baby at 20 and another at 21. When you're responsible for keeping another human being alive and safe, nothing else seems very important at all. All I had room for in my head and my day were things that directly affected my children's health or safety. I couldn't possibly spend that time wondering if my shoes "went" with my pants. I barely summoned up interest in whether something was flattering or not; comfort is king.

That's where black comes in. You can't mess it up. Everything matches it - darks, brights, pastels, patterns, florals, winter wear, summer wear; black is universal. It also doesn't show messes very readily - something that is important when you have small children in your life.

I also needed a lot of black, including maternity clothes, to work backstage on the theater productions on which I spent a great deal of time.

It's just not possible to go wrong with black.

Then, I discovered that there is a downside to black clothes.

I tend to assume that people mean what they say and say what they mean, so I don't spend a lot of time looking for subtext. (I know. Stop laughing.) When I'd be in all black in the dead of a Nevada summer and someone would ask, "Aren't you hot?" I would assume that they actually wanted to know if I was comfortable, and that being assured that I was was enough.

We have relatives, though, who are sure that any direct question, and any direct answer, are rude. I had no experience with this kind of thinking, and still find it difficult to navigate a landscape of hints. I spend my time giving literal answers, and they spend their time wondering why I'm clueless.

Years ago, my little family of four was at an extended family picnic in July, and I was oblivious to the fact that I looked out of place. I hate changing my clothes, and try to avoid it unless I'm very dirty or having to wear something uncomfortable. Otherwise, I put on what I'll need to wear at night first thing in the morning, and wear it all day. This was especially true when my kids were very young, and a lot of what I did, including any theater, meant a 45 minute one way drive. I was not about to pack basically an overnight bag just to go into town shopping or visiting relatives, then change for the show if I was tech crew. (Costumes, obviously, are in a different category; you don't want to take a chance ruining or staining them.) So, at this picnic, I wore a black top, black pants, black socks and black lace up canvas shoes. In July, in Nevada. It made sense to me, my husband and my kids, and I didn't really think about anyone else.

Most of the other women were dressed one of two ways - denim shorts and expensive athletic shoes, or floaty floral dresses and sandals. I knew that I didn't look like that, but I honestly didn't think anything of it. Then, after an hour or two, my five year old niece approached.

"What, are you going to a funeral?" she demanded, hands on hips, looking me up and down. I could sense her mother being horrified, but I was totally charmed by this. If you want to know, ask.

"No, I'm working backstage on a play later. We have to be in all black so the audience doesn't notice us moving things on and off stage."

She looked slightly puzzled - the concept of "play" may not have made sense to her - but she said, "Oh. OK." She waltzed away, and I became aware of a ripple going out through the rest of the relatives, starting with the ones at the table next to me. There were exclamations of, "Oh! "OH." "Oh!" rippling across the yard. Apparently, the fact that I was "inappropriately" dressed had been the subject of much speculation, but they all considered it more polite to discuss and theorize amongst themselves than to ask me outright. There was a great deal of relief that "there's a reason."

I was left thinking, thank heaven for my niece. Who knows what bizarre theories were being floated? Come on, folks, just ask!

I still didn't fully comprehend that I may occasionally look out of place.

A few years later, I was head of stage crew for a musical. I loved the show; it's still one of my favorites. I frequently wore the button with the name and logo of the show, with the dates and theater information in small print.

I was 26; you know how 20-somethings are frequently fashionistas? Yeah - not me.

My oldest daughter, in kindergarten at the time, had a Girl Scout activity in town, an hour away from home. I had a show that night, so, of course, I was in head to toe black. I had also put on a string of small multicolored beads, since my husband was always encouraging me to accessorize in colors to spice up the unrelenting blackness. They were small enough that I could keep them on during the show without them being distracting. I also wore the publicity button for the show, "Assassins."

Yeah; you probably already see where this was going. I didn't.

I stood there in my sunglasses - it would be another few years before I had prescription lenses that darkened outdoors - my black clothes and shoes, and my big red button that had the crosshairs of a gun sight and the word "Assassins" in bold letters, waiting for my daughter to be done. The room was full of adorable little cherubs in Scout uniforms, including mine in a bright blue Daisy smock. The other mothers formed those groups that everyone else seems to form so effortlessly, and chatted. No one chatted with me, which was fine, but a few of them kept throwing me wary, sidelong glances. I had no idea what that was about, but little inclination to figure out why. Humans are a mystery.

Finally, a woman I knew from church left her little group and walked over to me, I assumed to say hello. Instead, she said, "Assassins, Sharon?" in a tone of outrage.

Whoops. Yeah. Not sounding very child friendly, is it? And here I am in my sniper clothes.

"It's a show. At the university. I'm head of stage crew." She continued to look at me uncomprehendingly. I felt compelled to keep talking. "It's about people who have killed, or tried to kill, presidents of the United States." Still no real response. I kept talking. "It's really funny. It's a musical."

Finally, a reaction: "A musical?"

"Yeah. It's great. You should come see it."

I was not successfully selling the concept.

"We have a show tonight. These are my stagehand clothes."

"Oh. I wondered."

She went back to her little group, where I saw her mouth moving, and the O formed by the mouth of the woman next to her, as she received the explanation.

Yeah; not selling any tickets here. Whoops. Unsuccessful attempt at publicizing my show.

When the event got over, and my little cherub ran up to hug me and started to chatter about all the things she'd done, I saw some of the other moms look even more amazed. Come on, ladies; would you have liked it better if I and my "Assassins" button were hanging around this event without my having a child there?

They probably still feel bad for my daughter and her tragic upbringing.

And I still wear a lot of black clothes. But not because they're slenderizing.

Things That Make Me Go "Hmm" (Part 1)

Volumes could be filled with the things that puzzle me. Here are just a few.

Why is the nickname for Sylvester "Sly?" I mean, I understand not wanting to be "Syl," but this makes no sense to me.

Along those same lines, why is the nickname for William "Bill" or "Billy?" Will or Willie, I get. But Bill? Where'd the B come from?

Fashion; no matter how I look at it, it makes no sense. "These things weren't popular years ago, and they won't be popular years from now, but right now, you must have them!" I don't care if it's clothes or hair or home furnishings, this makes no sense. I understand the capitalism of it all, "Sell more stuff by creating false need, and making sure people replace things that aren't worn out," but I just cannot quite comprehend 1. why so many people go along with it, and 2. why so many people treat it as though it has any actual value.

Conviction by Consensus, the idea that, "Other people think this; therefore, I will think this." All the permutations of it, from fashion to mob mentality, just escape me. Again, intellectually, I can explain it. I understand the psychological and anthropological reasons, the fact that being part of a group makes survival easier and more likely. I understand that some people just do not trust their own judgement, but feel sure that majority opinion confers some kind of authority. After all, isn't that democracy in a nutshell - "We will do whatever the majority decides we should do."

Still, keep in mind that "majority" means "anything over half," so out of 100 people, 51 is a majority; that still leaves 49 dissenters, though, who are told that their idea has less value, just because there are fewer of them. I understand using this as a basis for a government, but not in using it to make decisions or form opinions about everyday life.

The older I get, the more I want to strike the phrase "most people" from anyone's vocabulary. "Most people like (blank)." "Most people will do (blank)." It's just infuriating. Have you sincerely polled all of the Earth's inhabitants? This is the adult version of a child's statement - "Everybody else (fill in the blank)." Unless you put some parameters on it - "most people who visit Rome for the first time," "most people who live in Chicago" - I just want to disregard whatever you have to say outright.

Even if you do designate your parameters, and your analysis is correct, why should that indicate any kind of desirability? Truly, why is something a good or bad idea just because a lot of people agree? Every single inventor, discoverer or pioneer did things that went against prevailing knowledge and opinion. Watching "The Imitation Game," I was struck by the fact that someone more likable and agreeable than Alan Turing would have caved to his peers. After all, these were honestly the best and brightest analysts available. They were smart, educated, informed and well intentioned. They told Turing that he was doing it wrong, wasting time, wasting money, costing lives, and he should just buckle down and do it like the others did. Yet, Turing was right. They were able to succeed only because he stubbornly refused to listen to majority opinion, and in doing so, he ended the war years earlier, and changed cryptography forever.

I understand, too, the desire to be like someone we admire, or to cultivate traits that seem desirable, but I just want to smack people who explain any part of their opinion or actions by saying, "Intelligent people think/do x." It makes me want to drip with sarcasm - "Do tell! Enlighten me! However do intelligent people think? I would so love a glimpse into that rarified world!" In actuality, folks, truly intelligent people form opinions and make decisions on their own, not as a group. And, they frequently disagree with one another.

Negativity, in almost any form, annoys me. I read a study that measured how readers rated the intelligence of review writers. Participants were given movie and book reviews written by the same person, expressing the same views, with just a few key words and phrases changed, to reflect either a positive, upbeat tone, or a negative one. By a huge margin, the participants said that the reviews using negative words were written by more intelligent writers. Anecdotally, I see this frequently. Be happy or positive about something, and people adjust their estimation of your IQ downward, but be rude, scathing and dissatisfied, and they'll think that you're a genius. It aggravates me.

Has no one noticed that any idiot can complain or find fault, and most of them do? It takes hard, relentless work to see the positive in any given situation. Many people are ill equipped, or simply don't expend the effort.

Ranch dressing; I'll eat it if there's nothing else available for my salad, but I don't really like it. I don't want it on my sliced veggies, my wings, my pizza, my chicken strips, or anything else. I'm always puzzled when I'm at a restaurant and they bring me copious amounts of ranch that I didn't order, or ask me if I want it when I haven't asked for it. It's not horrifying, but it's not amazing.

Fear of rodents and/or insects; I just can't quite imagine what harm people fear will befall them. Rodents are cute. Bugs can be lovely. Neither one frightens me. I do dislike the sensation of lots of little legs walking on me, but I also dislike having people stand too close to me or rub me too lightly, and that doesn't cause me to scream and run.

Fear of snakes; fear of venom makes sense, but fear of any snake? Why?

Extreme germaphobia; come on, trust your immune system. I was at a weekend event at a high school, and took an available opportunity to nap; the only place quiet enough was the school library, where I could nap on the floor. My son wrinkled his nose and said, "Oh, yeah, Mom, that's real sanitary." My response: "Our ancestors lived through the Middle Ages. I think I can handle a frequently cleaned library floor."

Driving fast; I am not an adrenaline junkie. I dislike the physical sensation of speed. I dislike knowing that speed increases danger. Things that are fender benders at 25 are fatal at 85. I'm generally not in a hurry, either. Impatience is just an exercise in misery.

I do not enjoy large (or steep) roller coasters, anything that drops from a height, or other adrenaline rush rides; see above.

High heels are of the devil, I'm sure. Not in a "you shameless hussy" kind of way, just in an "I'm not a masochist, I don't want to be in pain" way. I read where an actress was quoted as saying, "Who cares about comfort on the red carpet? It's about looking fabulous." She does indeed look more fabulous than I do, but I care about comfort. Call me a hedonist, but I can't imagine why anyone would choose to wear something that hurt.

Waiting Room Reading

I've been the recipient of a lot of medical care lately. It sounds pretty ominous when I talk about it - I had four different appointments in a week, with 3 different doctors and a lab where I had 9 different tests performed - but it's nothing really scary. A lot of it is stuff like trying to regulate my endocrine system; I've been battling that for years. (Try this drug! Try that drug! Try this new dosage!) One appointment was for muscle relaxant shots in my shoulders. I have mild scoliosis, and the misaligned bones occasionally pinch things, and it hurts. Still, it all adds up and makes me grouchy.

My son said something snarky recently - I forget what - and I said, "Do you really want to upset a woman with diagnosed hormonal imbalances?"

"Why does diagnosed make a difference?" he wanted to know.

"Because I can introduce it as evidence in my defense during my trial for assaulting or murdering you," I said.

"AH!" he replied.

(Disclaimer: That was sarcasm. My son thought it was funny. He does not fear for his safety, and I do not plan to harm him. I hate that I have to point this stuff out, but the Internet is a crazy place full of crazy people, so I feel the need to qualify my statements, lest someone freak out.)

Anyway, frequent office visits means sitting in waiting rooms reading magazines. I really should remember to bring a book. I get stuck reading things I have no real interest in, like golf or fly fishing magazines. Don't get mad - I have nothing against golf or fly fishing, and being outdoors and active is good. I'm just not a golfer or fly fisherman.

On my own time, I don't read anything resembling fashion magazines, and I'm not big on celebrity gossip, so many magazines aimed at people of my gender and/or age don't do it for me, either. I have zero interest in "who wore it best?" or "the hottest trends for the next season!" Consequently, when I get stuck reading these things I'm just freaked out for days by the idea that anybody actually places value on this stuff.

I just saw a magazine article on "celebrities who shouldn't wear sandals," showing us closeup photos of "gross" and "ugly" feet. Are you joking? We're going to mock people's feet? What planet are we on?

Now my podiatrist's concern makes a bit more sense. I recently had the bone structure in both feet rebuilt, and bone screws put in. Surgery means scars. I am OK with this. It's life. The podiatrist, however, kept assuring me that the scars will fade, and if they get raised and ropy, he can trim them down. He even rushed to assure me that my bruised toes, still black and purple a week after surgery, would fade. "And that's normal. It's not like we manhandled you." I couldn't imagine getting freaked out over bruises or scars. Again, this is expected! I finally pointed out that I have scars across my throat - I am so completely not worried about scars on my feet.

This is good, because the nurses said things like, "Wow, those are some gnarly scars." Yes, they are. They're large, raised and purple. Eventually, the purple will fade to red and then normal flesh tone, but that could take a year or two still. I know my skin.

There's a crescent shaped scar on my ankle, as well, from the same operation.

I sincerely cannot bring myself to care that someone else might find my feet "ugly." It is just not a part of my reality. Do people have no actual content to their lives?

My husband sat next to me, trying to concentrate on his phone (probably surfing Facebook or playing Ingress) while he sat with me at the lab, waiting for my name to be called. I was reading a women's magazine and trying to keep my spirits up, despite not wanting to be there. So, I looked for the humor in the situation. I kept calling something out of the magazine to his attention. I'd say, "Look, honey!" and then read some headline like - I swear, this is an actual headline - "Win At Life!"

"I could win at life! It says so!" I said, trying not to laugh out loud. My poor husband grunted and tried not to encourage me.

"Apparently, geometric patterns will give me a 'totally modern vibe,'" I say, practically snorting. He glared at me.

"Look, honey, look! I can find out 'The Secrets to Sexy Legs!'" He grunted again. "Then again, you're not a leg man, " I say.

"And it's a good thing," he responds, "now that you've put that big dent in yours."

Ooh. Touche.' This is a clear "stop talking to me" signal. He's lucky that I'm not touchy, and I laughed. The same operation that rebuilt my foot lengthened my tendon, so I have a scar, about two inches long, on my left calf. It does dent significantly inward, kind of like a big dimple. My worry was that I'd cut it while shaving, but it's been months, and that hasn't happened, so I don't think about it much anymore.

But apparently, it's not sexy.

Sitting in another waiting room days later, without my husband, I kept finding more to laugh at. "Be Your Own Stylist, All Month Long!" Apparently their article will show me how. I contemplate this; I've been dressing myself for years - nay, decades - now. Apparently, I should claim to be my "own stylist" instead of simply feeling that I get dressed unassisted. I should add this job title to my mental list.

An article on some fashion show or other features a photo of apparently stylish pants, and urges me to "Stride like the free spirit that you are!" I worry that laughing out loud in an ob/gyn's waiting room will upset the other patrons.

Another fashion show featured dresses. Here's a direct quote: "You obviously become the focal point of the room when you walk in wearing this."

Does anyone want to be the focal point of the room, I wonder. Then I think back to attending a formal event. As one couple walked in, the woman next to me gasped, "I think I've been upstaged." The newcomer had on a very showy, gold gown, and my companion was not happy about it.

Huh. I guess people do want to be their appearance the center of attention. Again, I can't imagine. Even when I was younger and thinner, all I wanted was to not be wearing the least appropriate thing in the room. Now, I'm pretty sure that I occasionally am wearing something that doesn't fit in; for instance, my husband once mistook my dress shoes for my son in law's. I just no longer care if anyone's upset about it.

The ads were just ludicrous. "With the right lipliner and my sexy (name brand) bra, I won't be easily forgotten." HA HA HA HA! Yeah, that's the secret to being unforgettable! The right bra! HA HA HA!

But they're being serious. Truly. This campaign must work. It's a big, glossy, expensive ad in a big, glossy, expensive magazine.

I learned my lesson. I bought a paperback book to carry.

If you see me chewing my cheeks, with my eyes watering, while I'm in a waiting room, it means that I forgot said book, and I'm reading magazines again. Sorry.

School Photos

The only professional photos I ever had taken of me as a kid were school photos. We never did family portraits, or even those department store photographs. I always wanted some, and envied friends who got them, but it was simply not something that my family needed to spend money on.

I remember being so nervous the day before my kindergarten photo. I had to wear a favorite dress (despite being a tree climbing, ditch wading, scabbed knees, dirty socks, always-a-mess tomboy, I wore dresses almost exclusively until about fourth grade. Go figure.) I had to have my hair in braids, with red ribbon bows. It was a favorite hairstyle, once I was old enough to tolerate having my hair combed, and the bows were a big deal. I remember that some movie or book character inspired the ribbons, but I've long since forgotten who it was.

I loved the photo then, and I love it now.

 

This is me in first grade:

New front teeth, hair in curls - this is still identifiably me, but it's a more dressed up, formal version of myself. I think she's cute. I remember sleeping with my hair in foam curlers the night before. Entire generations after me have no idea what foam curlers are.

This is third grade. My favorite part of this photo was the rhinestone owls on my hair pins. I loved them so much that I wore them for two years' worth of photos in a row, even after one of the owls broke off and my dad expoxied it on the wrong way, so that one owl was upside down.

By fourth grade, I'd decided that curls and dresses were for little girls, so I looked like my everyday self.

Those are polyester knit overalls, but the way, with an applique of a girl farmer on the front. I thought that they were kind of fancy because they had ruffles on the straps. Don't mock them - I loved those overalls. I kept wearing them even after I fell, skidded down the asphalt of my cousin's street on my knees, and had to patch the holes with the only patches we could find that were big enough to cover the damage, American flags.

By fifth grade, I'd clearly hit what my older daughters refer to as the universal "awkward stage."

That's a Ten Commandments necklace; I loved it. But hello, acne, my constant companion. So nice of you to show up and stay for the rest of my life.

I was so not pleased with my fifth grade pictures that in sixth grade, I decided to revisit what had worked in the past, and go back to curls, in the hope of being adorable again.

You know how some girls are effortlessly fashionable and chic, especially after they hit puberty? Not me. I totally missed out on whatever brain chemicals cause a person to know what looks good on them. I have no flair for hair, makeup, clothes - any of it.

I hated these. I barely gave any to my friends, and I disliked sending them to relatives. In retrospect, they're not as awful as I thought they were then, but it's still not my best look.

In seventh grade, I tried to look both more normal and more grown up.

Don't mock the scarf. It was 1978, and men and women alike did the knotted scarf around the neck thing. This was as fashionable as I got. (OK, I once owned white, knee high boots.)

My major reaction to these was, "Geez, I'd better get those braces on my teeth soon." I believe that I referred to myself as Fang.

Here's high school, ninth and tenth grade.

See, these look pretty normal, until you consider the time period. Every other female on the planet, it seemed, had the Farrah Fawcett hairdo - big, fluffy, feathered layers. My big sister's version was less over the top than most:

I simply could not imagine having to curl and hairspray my hair every day, or having to get it trimmed every month. At 47, I still trim my own hair, maybe three times a year, and I have no layers, highlights, dyed grays or anything else that would take actual time and effort. Who wants to fuss with their hair in the morning? If I can't be done "styling" in 2 minutes, I'm grumpy.

So, while I don't have any photos of fashion faux pas, like a mullet, if you flip through my yearbook you'll see that I (unintentionally) stand out by virtue of my lack of big hair. I graduated in 1984; almost everyone either had a mullet or big hair. (It goes without saying, doesn't it, that I also never straightened my hair or gave it a "blowout"? Too much effort! What's the point?)

This is my high school senior portrait:

Yeah, it's a beat up copy. This is the copy that my dad carried in his wallet, so it's worn out and beaten up. I actually liked the photo with the big, sunny smile better, but Dad (and my best friend) liked this one. I thought that my teeth looked too chipmunky.

I was so happy that I liked the photos from my senior portrait shoot. I'd lived in fear of hating them, and was delighted that they were flattering.

The necklace I'm wearing belonged to my mom. All of her daughters wore it in their senior portraits.

I was disappointed, at the time, to wear something besides the comedy/tragedy mask necklaces that I wore every day, but I'm a sentimentalist, and tradition is a big deal to me. (My daughters have also had photos taken, as high school seniors, wearing the heart necklace.) As time goes by, I'm even happier that I wore it.

Just as a final note, did you notice anything else about my photos? If you grew up with me, you know this without my even asking. Yep, that's right - I'm wearing blue in almost every one. I think I have 3 or 4 school portraits in a color that is not blue. Ninety percent of my wardrobe was blue.

Blue makes me happy.

Dress Code

One of the theater companies in my town has a tradition during the first rehearsal. As well as the nitty gritty of passing out schedules, contact lists and scripts, they do a round of introductions. Everyone tells their name, the part they'll play, and maybe a line or two about themselves - for instance, "This is my first show here, and I'm excited to work with all of you." Depending on the show, these introductions can be a lot of fun, like hearing my friend say, "I'm Blair, and I'm playing God."

Years ago, I worked on a production of "Pericles," and I introduced myself this way: "I'm Sharon. I'll be a costume runner, and any time I can work with men in skirts, it's a good day."

Anyone who's known me for any length of time knows about my love for men in kilts or Polynesian wrap skirts. Togas are nice; gladiator skirts are better. YUM.

Drag is an entirely different thing, and it doesn't affect me the same way. Drag is the equivalent of pageant hair and makeup; overdone, not necessarily feminine or attractive. I occasionally look at drag queens and wonder, "Is that how you view being female?" Most women I know spend their day in jeans and sneakers, not heels and sequins. Still, I had a drag queen do my makeup for my engagement photos specifically because he was better at doing makeup than I was. Anyway, I just want to be clear that I'm talking about men in skirts made for men, not ones in clothes made for women.

"Pericles" was nice for me, because our male cast spent the entire time in short (about mid-thigh) tunics and leather sandals. It was visually very appealing - which is good, because, as a member of the costume crew, I had to help clean the dressing rooms. They're lucky that I was feeling positive about them when I had to clean up after them. You don't want to clean a dressing room that's been occupied by lots of men in full body makeup. Just mucking out the showers was quite an experience.

I enjoy almost any opportunity to hang around with men in skirts.

These are my friends, Bruce and Bryan, and Bruce's brother, at a friend's wedding.

How fabulous is that? Bruce got married in that outfit.

I love traveling to Hawaii. The scenery is gorgeous, and the men know how to dress.

Sometimes, I even get to see men dressed this way here, on the mainland.

I love photos of David Tennant, Sean Connery and John Barrowman in their kilts, especially with tuxedo shirts, jackets and ties. I loved it when Patrick, one of the hosts of one of my husband's favorite TV shows, "Screen Savers," wore his utilikilt on the air. I repeat, YUM.

I have tried for years to talk my husband into being Zeus, or Caesar or a gladiator for Halloween, with no luck. He won't even consider it. SIGH.

Come on, men. Come on, designers. There's an untapped market here. They're comfortable. They're cool. They're easy access, and you'll never zip yourself into a zipper with one of these babies. I live in the desert; maybe we can talk men here into tunics.

No?

SIGH.

It's OK. I'm used to disappointment.

What Are You Wearing?

The other shoppers kept looking sideways at me as I advised my daughter on clothes today. "Neon colors," I'd say, looking through racks of blouses. "Shoulder pads." "A blouse with a big, floppy bow at the neck," (to which she replied, "Oh, NO!") Looking through skirts, I advised, "Think denim with lots of lace and shiny things. (Slightly puzzled, my 24 year old queried, "Like bedazzled?") The most surreal moment came in the shoe department. My daughter wondered aloud whether she should buy a pair of high heeled, pointed toed sandals made of gold snakeskin, and my reply was, "If you can imagine Madonna wearing it, you're probably safe." There's a sentence I never imagined myself uttering.

We were shopping at Goodwill, trying to find an outfit for the 80s themed party my daughter's attending this weekend. I'd pull dresses off of the rack and say, "This is very 80s," or, "Look for those big, puffy sleeves that you hate." After about half an hour, my daughter said to me, "So, what I'm hearing is, find the most hideous clothes that you can."

I'd contemplated loaning her my wedding gown, but I don't think it would fit her. Besides, a wedding gown would probably be wildly out of place at a party.

Later, standing in front of the costume jewelry at WalMart, she'd asked, "Is this 80s?" and, "What about these?" "It's hard to remember," I told her. "I was never fashionable."

She laughed out loud - "Great, Mom, great," but I wasn't kidding.

In 1980, I was graduating from junior high. By 1990, I had a high school diploma, a husband, a mortgage (on the second home we'd ever bought), and two preschoolers, who would turn 3 and 4 that year. Never, in all that time (or any other), was I dressed fashionably.

Trying to think back, so I could help my daughter choose, I was mostly thinking about movies. What, besides the prom dress, did Molly Ringwald wear in "Pretty in Pink" - or was that the 90s? What did Madonna wear in "Desperately Seeking Susan?" All I could recall were fingerless gloves and some kind of big, mesh bow in her hair. What constituted the New Wave look? I tried to remember the fashionable kids in high school.

When my kids were born, we got keepsake "Baby's First Year" calendars, the kind where you put stickers to commemorate rolling over, visits to grandparents and the like. At the top of each month were places to put things like the baby's family tree, headlines and other records. One month had a headline that said something like, "What Was Popular." Some of it I could fairly easily fill out - "President of the U.S.," "Hit Songs" - but the line for "Popular Fashions" stumped me. I had to really think, and then wing it. For my daughter born in 1987, I wrote "acid washed denim." Even as I wrote it, I pictured her asking me, years later, what made acid washed different from any other denim, and me fumbling. "It looks kind of faded, but not like regular fading from wear..."

I wore jeans and T-shirts, which became knit pants and T-shirts. I never had Big Hair. I may never have been fashionable, but I'm recognizable, and not embarrassed by my old photos. Or my current ones. Maybe I'm just oblivious, but if I am, I'm OK with that.

My daughter has wondered aloud at the wisdom of throwing a party where "we all look like crap." Hey, kid, it's a theme - go with it!

She settled on a neon plaid madras shirt with a turqouoise top underneath, leggings under a very short, ruffled skirt, black tennis shoes, turquoise feather earrings, plastic bangles, blue eyeshadow and a ponytail sprouting out of the side of her head. She'll look amazingly authentic - and without puffy sleeves. Now, if I can only talk her into some big shoulder pads...

I'm Not Buying It

I've always looked at certain characters, onscreen or on paper, and felt them to be rather obvious caricatures. No one actually thinks or behaves that way, I'd think. Then, I'd meet an actual human who did. It's terribly disorienting.

I now know that many behaviors, thoughts and feelings that I'd always assumed to be fictitious or exaggerated are, in fact, common. I don't quite know what to do with this knowledge, though. I still find myself feeling alienated or irritated.

I signed up for an online mothers group because my cousin invited me to. I frequently decline such invitations, because I'm not particularly a joiner. I do not play well with others. I'm in favor of avoiding awkward moments in which no one really knows how to react. But, I love my cousin, I think she's a great mother and online, you can always ignore things or turn off your computer, right? So, I signed up.

A great deal of the interaction in this group is the asking and answering of mom questions – "How do you get stains out of a Little League uniform?" "How do you get your baby to sleep through the night?" "How do you get your husband off the couch and involved in housework?" I frequently read the questions, and if I think I have a good, relevant answer, I'll post an answer. Sometimes, I deliberately do not respond to something, because to do so would be unkind. I read things and find myself thinking, "Are you kidding?" or, "What is wrong with you?" – not what one should say to a total stranger looking for help.

Still, these things will roll around in my head, distracting me.

Recently, a woman wrote in and said that she'd received a designer purse from her aunt and uncle, but she couldn't see herself carrying it, and she'd rather have the money. "It still has the tags on it. Is that enough to prove that it's genuine? Where can I sell it to be sure I'm getting top dollar?" she asked. I don't know why I decided to look at the responses; I have no interest in designer purses. But, I scrolled through the answers.

95% of them were, "Contact me! I'm interested in buying it!" I would not have predicted that. I continually underestimate the average woman's purse fetish. One answer really stopped me. "Are you sure you want to sell it? A nice handbag makes me feel pretty. You might want to keep it," the woman wrote, followed by an emoticon happy face and, "Just something to think about!"

My first gut reaction was entirely uncharitable – "Are you kidding me? This is some woman's life?"  The idea of a woman feeling pretty because of the bag she's carrying is so foreign to me I cannot even express it. I don't even understand feeling pretty because a person has gotten their nails done, and nails are physically part of the body. Being attractive because you have a bag in your hands? Something that you carry around when you need it, then set down when you don't? Are you attractive when you walk out the door to buy your groceries, but unattractive when you carry the groceries into the house, because the grocery bags are ugly? Am I even on the same planet as this woman?

Even figuring that what she meant looks something like: expensive purse = quality person = confidence = attractive, that's still too "out there" for me to contemplate. And, It's a real stretch to get there from, "A nice handbag makes me feel pretty."

I was still mulling this days later when I read another post. This woman was even more puzzling to me.

First, she bemoaned using drug store concealer, but conceded that "in the harsh light of the recession," it might be necessary. I thought back many years to my asking about the whole dislike of "drug store brands." What else was there, I wondered. Pretty much everything I knew about makeup came from TV commercials, meaning that I could tell you brand names and celebrity spokesmodels. I was then introduced to the world of department store makeup, where a single tube or jar could easily cost more than a month's part time job wages. No, thank you. I fled and never looked back.

This woman, after already lowering herself to use the makeup of the masses, discovered that she hadn't been using concealer, she'd been using tinted acne cream. Her horror leaped off the page, with phrases like, "added years to my life – or at least my appearance," "robbed me of my youth," and "set me back dog years." As the youngest child, she said, she'd learned from her older sisters "the critical importance – the necessity – of good eye cream." She was, she was sure, "the only 12-year-old on the block religiously using Christian Dior eye cream." Having broken this cardinal rule practically gave her heart palpitations, it seems.

Wow.

I tried to imagine whether my older sisters had ever told me about "the necessity of good eye cream." I'm willing to say that they may have, but if they did, they were soundly ignored. If my mother had started telling me about eye cream when I was 12 (or 22 or 32 or 42), I would have thought she was exhibiting early onset dementia. Her own mother aggravated her by sending, at least once a year, moisturizer from Michigan, to "combat that harsh Nevada climate." My mom would sigh and put the new bottle next to its unused compatriots.

The only time I've ever worried about moisture on my face is when my usual regimen for washing off my eye makeup at night made my skin feel so tight that I thought blinking might cause it to split. I started using petroleum jelly to clean it off instead, and the tightness went away. I never, even once, wondered about how it might affect my looks. I wipe the makeup away with tissues or toilet paper, for goodness sake. I'm sure that's breaking some obscure rule that I don't know or care about.

As I put this down on paper – OK, into the machine – I was just sure that once I uttered such an opinion publicly, I would hear the same stuff I always hear when I say things like, "I've never been on a diet," or, "Let's go out for pizza:" "Sure, I could do that, if (imagine the tone of voice here) I wanted to look like YOU." So, I went into the bathroom, put my face right up to the mirror and looked. I made faces. I squinted. No wrinkles. None. I must have won the genetic lottery: the secret is to have extremely oily skin and to be fat. Forget face cream – have dessert.

Lest we think that girly concerns are the only thing that puzzles me, stereotypically male behaviors have been annoying me lately, too.

I will never understand the way some people think about their jobs, but lately (of course) there's a lot of discussion about how people feel without their jobs. More people now are losing jobs than I ever recall facing the same situation in the past. In person, in print, on TV, I'm seeing a lot of discussions on joblessness.

I understand the Provider mindset, the idea that the family is depending on your income, and that without it, you're letting them down. That makes perfect sense. What does NOT make sense is having your whole sense of worth as a human being tied up in your employment, and many people – especially men – do.

If you lose your job, do you lose your education, abilities, wit, training, experience and personality? No. Those are what makes you, YOU. Yet so many men feel that every shred of their worth is taken away when they get that pink slip. Oddly enough, they feel it is restored when they get a new job – as long as that job is as prestigious as their last one.

I also cannot make too much sense of advancement angst.  I have seen men tied in emotional knots because they realize that they will probably never rise any higher than they are within their company. Even if they live in a nice house, own a car or two, provide not only the necessities but niceties like sports leagues, dance classes and the like for their families, they will feel enormous stress about never rising higher. Instead of, "Isn't this great? I have a job I'm good at, and it pays my bills," they'll think, "This is it? What will people think? What will they say? I'm better than this!" Knowing that the jobless guys would trade places in a heartbeat doesn't usually help, either. Instead of thinking, "Gee, maybe I'm looking at this the wrong way" the reaction is likely to be, "You just don't understand!"

Concerns about status are not part of my daily reality.

Which brings me to cars.

I love my car. I've loved every car I've ever owned. I give them names, I stroke the dashboard and speak encouragingly or soothingly, depending on the situation. I apologize to them when I hit potholes or have to hit the brakes too hard. A car that looks or sounds like my first car makes me smile. It's just that I don't care much what brand it is, what it cost… It's just a thing.

A useful thing, true. But, that's what a car is for. It gets me and my family and my stuff from place to place. That's all I want out of a car. I do not understand wanting anything else from your car. It's like expecting your refrigerator to prepare and serve the food, as well as store it.

I used to laugh out loud at the auto body place whose commercials urged me, "Don't let your car affect your self esteem!" The point they were trying to get across was that I needed to have any dings, dents and scratches fixed, or my self esteem would suffer. My point is that my self esteem is unaffected by what I drive. My husband pointed out to me once as I was leaving my Rotary meeting that I was climbing into my $500 car with peeling paint, waving at a club member as she climbed into her Porsche Carrera. We would both get home that evening; that's all that mattered to me. I can't stand an unreliable car, but as long as I can count on it, I don't much care about anything else.

I do not understand status symbol cars. I don't care what you drive, as long as you don't expect me to be impressed by it. Telling me that your car has a race car engine, when you only drive it around town, is like saying that you have a space shuttle in your back yard; you don't intend to fly it, but by golly, you own it. If you wanted to, you, you could fly it, maybe up to the lake, but it's enough for you just to own it and know that you could fly it if you wanted to. I'll think that you spend money unwisely and that you're a bit adolescent; I will not think, "OOOOH, he's such a manly man." If you actually drive in races, well, own a race car. If you don't race, realize that you're an ordinary commuter.

I voiced this opinion once to a man who insisted that it took superior skills simply to own such a car, and practically purred at me, "Could you handle all that power?"

"Sure," I said. "I'd drive it to the grocery store and the movies, the same way I drive the car I own now."

That idea gave him high blood pressure. "That isn't the way the car's meant to be driven!"

"You didn't ask if I'd race it." Come on. I've never had a speeding ticket in my life. Do I look like a speed demon?

I love watching "Top Gear," the BBC version, for the witty banter, not for the cars. I couldn't tell you what car they featured even in the middle of an episode. Still, I am delighted that they reinforced one of my very few brand loyalties.

I love Volkswagens. I have never seen them experience VW failure on Top Gear. In fact, when they did one of their endurance races, every time they got stuck in a bog, or a desert, or on a hillside, what came chugging along to pick up the stranded driver? A VW. There they'd be, sweating and cursing, with the hood up, or digging the tires out of the muck, and I'd hear the familiar sound, and the VW would come over the hill or around the bend, even in the middle of the South American desert. Delightful.

I'm not quite sure why, but lately these instances of me being just out of synch seem to be piling up and causing me stress. People seem to expect me to slap my forehead, say, "I've gotta get with the program!" and suddenly covet designer bags and sports cars. I just can't do that. I'd feel ridiculous. And it would be silly, superficial and shallow. So, I expect people to not make a federal case out of it and just be OK with my NOT being superficial.

Don't ask me how that's going. You don't want to get me started.

All the Japanese People Were Wearing Pants

"All the Japanese people were wearing pants!"

The outrage in my oldest daughter's voice carried all the way over the line, clear as a bell despite the hundreds of miles inbetween us. She was a newlywed, unpacking in her first home with her husband. She'd finally taken most of the stuff from her room at our house (even though she hadn't lived there for 5 years), and was looking through her photos. She'd come across one from Sea Life Park in Hawaii.

We'd taken the trip to Oahu when she was 11, Terry was 10 and Alex was three. We'd tried to sign up for a dolphin encounter at the park; the highlight was getting into the dolphin pool. There was only one opening, so we signed Lana up. She's always loved the ocean and dolphins in particular, so it was obvious which of us would enjoy the encounter the most.

Aside from mainlanders, Japanese vacationers made up most of the tourists we saw. Every other member of her dolphin encounter was Japanese, and most were adults.

Lana wore her swimming suit under her clothes all day. When the time came for the dolphin program and they were ushered into the briefing room, Lana started taking her clothes off. "Honey, we don't get into the pool until the end," one of the dolphin trainers said. "You can change then."

"No, I'm OK," she said, neatly folding her shirt and shorts.

Before they got into the pool, a group photo was taken. Since Lana was one of the shortest ones, she was in front. The other participants hadn't changed yet; no one thought anything of it at the time. She'd been in her suit for half an hour or so at that point.

Each participant also got a photo of themselves and a dolphin while they were in the pool - that's one of my favorite photos from that trip.

Now, years later, Lana was beyond scandalized by the group picture. "I'm wearing a swim suit, socks and sneakers! I look ridiculous! Everybody else has pants on! Why didn't you make me wear pants?" Neither her dad or I could see anything to get worked up about, which made her even more upset. "My husband laughed! He says he's going to send it in to awkwardfamilyphotos.com!"

For the last few years, she's brought the subject of what I should, and should not, have let her wear up several times - "How could you let me wear that?" The thing is, we're not talking about photos of her as a toddler in a tutu and cowboy boots (which, admittedly, would have been fine with me). Most of the time, her age is well into double digits, and the clothes in question were favorites of hers. Sure, they might be out of style years later, but they weren't then. I point out that she has never liked my taste in clothes - she spent most of her life trying to dress me. I remind her that she would have argued bitterly. "Did you want me to spend every day hitting my head against a brick wall? We would have both been miserable." She still insists, "You should have!"

Until she hit puberty and realized that jeans were fashionable, she hated them. "They're stiff, they're hot and they make me sweat." Even at camp, she wore knit stretch pants. In her late teens, this just mortified her. "WHY didn't you take away all my stretch pants and only buy me jeans?"

"Because. You. Hated. Them!"

When I did very rarely put my foot down, she'd had meltdowns. In junior high, she'd tried to wear dirty pants to school. You'd think someone meticulous about appearances would never consider such a thing, but in her mind, it was better than wearing what was still in her closet. After I insisted that she change, she hauled another pair of jeans out of the hamper and I had to be very specific - "You will not just change, you will put on something clean."

"But all my pants are dirty!"

"Then wear a skirt or dress."

"To school?" She loved her dresses, and she owned - I am not making this up, 26 of them at the time - but not to wear to school.

I insisted. She complained. I dropped off a very angry girl in a dress just before the bell rang.

When I picked her up after school, she flumped onto the seat and slouched down, announcing, "I knew it. Everyone said I looked ridiculous."

Sigh. "Lana," I said, "I know you. You walked into class this morning, and the first thing out of your mouth was, 'I feel ridiculous. I didn't want to wear this, but my mother made me.' " She stared at me with that deer-in-the-headlights look. "Honey, I know what you're hoping when you say things like that is that your friends will say, 'Oh, no, you look great! I love that outfit!' but what they're actually going to say is, 'You're right. You look awful. I can't believe you left the house looking like that.' You cannot get angry with people for agreeing with you." She said nothing on the ride home.

At 16, she'd once had to stay home from a dance after having a shrieking fit and throwing her shoes across the living room. (We had guests, too; great.) She always arranged her clothes into Outfits, deciding that a particular top ONLY went with particular bottoms. In this case, it was a denim skirt, white top and white canvas shoes. When the shoes were new, they looked great. They were now far from new; she'd actually used them for creek walking at camp the previous summer, and it was now December. Her teacher at church had actually requested that she not wear them to church any more. After she wore them to church again, her teacher was deeply puzzled - "I mean, I know she has nice shoes. I've seen her wear them." But, in her mind, ONLY those shoes went with the denim skirt. One night, she tried to wear them to a dance, and I'd had the audacity to tell her to put on another pair of shoes. She owned quite a few. After the shoes sailed across the room, accompanied by angry yelling, her dad and I had simultaneously said, "OK, you can stay home," and she burst into tears, wailing, "Dances are the only thing in my life I have to look forward to!"

And now I was getting lectures on how I should have argued with her MORE often? To what end?

The thing is, I naively believed that at some point, my kids would appreciate a mom who hadn't micromanaged their wardrobes. I've actually had to reshoot a senior portrait session, because the girl showed up to the shoot alone and her mother hated what she was wearing in the photos. She wasn't dressed scantily, or in anything dirty or controversial, but she was (gasp) wearing pants, and her mother wanted her photographed in a dress. "And she didn't even DO anything with her hair!" the mother told me in outrage, intimating that I should have refused to photograph a girl who showed up looking the way she did every day. I never put my kids through that.

The thing is, my oldest still hates my taste. Not six months before the conversation about the Japanese people and their pants, she had literally been in tears over the shirt we bought her. We took a family trip, and on one day we all planned to wear matching shirts, so we bought all of us one. She hated hers, convinced it was too big and too baggy and she "looked ridiculous." All five of us assured her that she looked fine, but she only consented to wear it under a jacket that she kept zipped up. And this is an adult! How in the world would it make sense to have had those conversations every day?

(I wrote this in 2003. We will obviously never be on the same page about this.

My daughter loves me anyway.

But, I do fear that she'll destroy childhood photos.)

Panting Indignantly

Do I have to sacrifice a poodle skirt to the gods of fashion to find a pair of reasonable pants, for crying out loud?

By "reasonable," I mean "totally unrealistic, given the current whims of designers and manufacturers of garments." I want pants with a waist that is, see if you can follow my arcane logic here, designed to sit at a person's waist. Today, that's apparently about as likely as winning the lottery.

I do not mind being mocked by my desire for "old lady pants." I know that these same people will change their minds in a few years. How do I know? Because I have an amazing ability to predict future events based on past events. Gasp, you say. Allow me to demonstrate my prognosticating prowess.

First, though, we have to go back. Since we're talking waists, let's go back to my childhood, the 70s. Yes, the period often mocked as "The Decade That Taste Forgot" that now has its staples appearing again as up-to-the-minute fashion. Huge Afros? 70s. Fringed leather? Yup. Blue eyeshadow, flared pant legs (they were called "bell bottoms" then) ... need I go on?

Back then, we called pants that rose no higher than your hip bones "hip huggers," not "low rise," as they're called now. Parents were scandalized, but everyone else loved them. I had a pair - and I was 4 years old in 1970, which (amazingly enough) made me 14 in 1980 - that was handed down by my sister. They had little metal star studs that we'd hammered in ourselves, all down both outside seams. The "waist" had a tab that buttoned off center. They were tres chic. My mother insisted that our shirts had to at least meet, if not be tucked into, these pants (and good for her.) That wasn't hard back when. Mostly, I wore them with bodysuits. Remember bodysuits - like leotards, only with a snap crotch?

Even though they weren't terribly low, they still had to be stabilized or tugged up several times a day, mostly when you sat down, stood up, bent over - in short, moved at all. Back then, it was considered a faux pas of the highest order to let anyone see your undergarments. Bra straps were carefully hidden. Visible panties or boxer shorts were unheard of, and would have caused the wearer much embarrassment.

When hip huggers went out of style, the style mavens had an explanation. "They're universally unflattering," they said. "They draw a horizontal line directly across the largest part of the body, making hips look even wider. Even if you're slender, they make you look chunky. Without anything holding in your tummy, it looks bigger and rounder as well. They draw attention away from your face, your legs, or other, more flattering, features."

"They're soooo right," the collective population said. "What were we thinking? We looked awful in those." Now, of course, it's been, what, 15 years or so that "low rise" and the even more heinous "ultra low rise" pants have been back in style, and what do the style mavens say? "They're slenderizing, and look good on all body types. They remove bulk from the waist, giving you a leaner silhouette, and lengthen your torso, making you look taller and slimmer."

And the collective population, the same population that agreed that the pants were unflattering, now agrees that they are flattering. Near as I can tell, I am a very rare person indeed, with 1. a long term memory and 2. the ability to realize that both things cannot be true. When they go out of style, and I hear, "What were we thinking?" again, I will scream.

OK, I won't scream. I'll say something snarky about how my unfashionable, frumpy self knew that years ago.

I keep hearing that "high waisted" pants are coming back "in." Sometimes, I even see famous people wearing them. I'm not sure how much that I like truly high waisted pants, the ones whose top extends clear up to or over the rib cage, except that I like them a lot more than I like the low ones. They're more comfortable (I've owned those as well), and I think they look better. They're certainly more modest. I'm just waiting in vain for stores to carry pants whose waistbands aren't a mere three inches up from the crotch.

You know what I really don't understand? Pants that fit at the natural waist in back, but dip lower in the front. I understand that no one, least of all fashionable women, want plumber's butt, and that the lower front is probably an attempt to look like low rise pants, but whose bright idea was that? All it says to me is, "My stomach is too big to be contained by my pants." It's a dreadful look, on any age, size and shape.

Can I please, for heaven's sake, just get pants with a waist at the waist? How hard should that be? Really, are we next deciding that the heels of socks look better and "offer more support" on the balls of the feet?

Two of my pairs of pants are so old that the store that sold them went out of business years ago, and has since been demolished. Eventually, I will need new ones.

I hate clothing shopping.

I bought some pants the other day, unwisely not trying them on. They were a familiar brand at a familiar store, a good price and a nice fabric. I held them up, and the length seemed right. On my body, though, they were all wrong. They fit exactly the way they were made to - about six inches below my waist.

Now I'm growling and hunting for the receipt, so I can return them.

Do you think they'll accept "collective insanity, instigated by the manufacturer for the purpose of reaping obscene profits" as a reason for return?

It really is just me, isn't it?

I found myself feeling isolated at a wedding reception not too long ago, unsure of what to do about it except perhaps monopolize the restroom.

I only knew two people there, my husband and the groom. Well, OK, I knew my children as well, and was considering planting myself in the midst of the attendant children, parked in front of a TV.

The party had divided very strictly along gender lines. It was being held at the home of the newlyweds, and all the men were in the garage. All of the women were in the kitchen. The children were in the living room. I ping-ponged between the three rooms, feeling rudderless and unsure.

I am not normally comfortable in gatherings of women, even women I know. All those cliches I resented when growing up seem to manifest themselves.

Growing up, I resented most of the stereotypes about women – that they're catty and back stabbing, obsessed with shoes, competitive. I wasn't any of those things, and I was female. Therefore, went my flawed, syllogistic reasoning, other women aren't either. Yet the older I got, and the more time I spent in single gender gatherings, the more I had to concede that a great many females were.

The women at the reception tried to include me in the conversation, but almost all of them were friends of the bride, whom I'd never before met, so I was already outside the group. I also had very little to contribute to the topics of conversation. There was a great deal of discussion about the best place to get your nails done, the best stylists to ask for, the best procedures to have. Since I have never had a professional manicure in my life, and don't plan to ever have one, all I could do was look interested and smile. At that point, volunteering that information, and the fact that I'd rather have unanesthetized dental work than a pedicure, would have gone beyond "out of place" to "downright rude."

Wandering out into the garage to talk to the men provided no solace. Normally, I get along with men better than I do with women. Here, not only did it stand out that I was the only female, and probably as such defiling the workshop where the groom tinkered with his cars, but I had even less to contribute to that conversation.

"My Chevy's worth ten of your Ford."

"My Ford's twice as fast as your Dodge."

"My Dodge eats Chevys for breakfast."

It was ridiculous. There is no place for me in a conversation consisting entirely of male posturing and brand loyalty.

In the living room, where I frequently went to "check on my kids, and make sure they're behaving," the children wondered why I, an adult, was in their space at all. My kids wished I'd be like the other kids' parents and leave them to their own devices.

You can only go to the bathroom so often, and I'd already admired all the artwork on the walls. It was just excruciating. I don't drink, and I wasn't working. Normally, I'm taking photos during any wedding receptions I attend, but there was no camera to be a safety blanket. The food wasn't ready to eat yet, and I wasn't one of those preparing it, so I had to find some way to bide my time while I tried in vain to become invisible. I've been working on that since childhood, but having no success.

I was always a deep and fervent believer in the idea that people are basically the same. Part of that is just my nature, and part of it is my tendency to be extremely literal. How many times, and in how many ways, have you heard the message that, despite any differences, we're all the same inside? Exactly. I took those statements at absolute face value.

Women tend, too, to espouse the idea of universal sisterhood, the idea that no one can understand a woman like another woman can. That makes sense, doesn't it? For instance, my husband will never be able to accurately imagine what menstrual periods are like, let alone childbirth or nursing. And yet, I continually find myself feeling very alone and alien indeed when surrounded by women.

I was recently sitting with a group of women planning an event together. One woman was describing her disappointment while working with another group, planning a luncheon. "And I asked one woman to make potato salad, and she went out and bought an Albertson's potato salad." (You have to imagine the tone of voice here; it was the same as if she'd said, "…and she brought a bowl of mouse droppings.") "I mean, can you imagine? I specifically asked her if she could make something! If that's the kind of luncheon I wanted, I could have gone down to Albertson's myself and bought something."

It reminded me of the outrage my sister in law displayed after attending a wedding reception. There was apparently a hullabaloo over the serving of some cookies. Several women had volunteered to make cookies for the reception, but once there, great bickering ensued over whose cookies went where and most especially, which ones were served first. "The cookies she made were so much more consistent in size and color, but they had to put this other woman's cookies out there first." (Imagine, again, that mouse dropping tone of voice.) "So her cookies were left sitting in the kitchen, where no one could see them, while these other ones went out on the table…" She was truly angry about the whole thing.

I simply cannot imagine any circumstance in which I would be concerned about these things. No one was under any kind of obligation here; if they brought something, you ought to be grateful. You serve it with a smile. If you personally don't like it, don't eat it. If you don't want a deli container on the table, dump the food into a china bowl before you serve it. What if the woman who bought potato salad did it because she's a terrible cook? I cannot fathom being angry or worked up about it in any way. Among women, that puts me squarely in the minority.

Maybe part of the fact that I can't get worked up about shoes, a frequent female point of conversation, is my feet themselves. I have wide feet, large bunions and fallen arches. I can't walk around in little slip of nothing sandals unless I want to be in pain for a couple of days afterward. Ditto for heels of any height. I need practically orthopedic footwear, so I'm not going to be a fashion plate in this area. Truth be told, though, I am not a fashion plate in any area, so if I had perfect feet I might still wear frumpy shoes. If I had my way, aside from special purpose footwear – snow boots, water shoes – I'd only own three or four other pairs. Instead, I find myself owning a dozen or so and feeling aggrieved that I can't wear the comfortable shoes with the dressy clothing, or the white shoes with the black pants.

           I was cast as a nursing home resident in a play produced at a local community theater when I was 35. Community theaters generally run on small to tiny budgets, so I had to bring in most of my own costumes. I borrowed my mother's clothes, since she's roughly my size and was the same age as my character, but I wore all my own shoes. Other women could not believe it, and certainly could not believe that I would admit it. I was left thinking, "They're loafers, for crying out loud. What's wrong with loafers?"

You'd think that childbirth would be an area in which most women can agree. No-o-o-o. Since I've also had both natural childbirth and Cesarean sections, you would think that my ability to relate to other women would increase. You'd be wrong.

I was discussing having my first child with a friend of mine. I told her that the hardest part was going 26 ½ hours without sleep. "There's nothing quite so exhausting as watching the sun come up knowing that you haven't had any sleep and there's still a lot of work ahead."

"Oh, I know what you mean," she said. "Then you start feeling like you're a total failure, like even your body doesn't work right, like you can't accomplish a simple little thing women have been doing for millions of years."

I know I should have just agreed with her. But, it had never occurred to me to view the experience that way. I was taken totally by surprise and my penchant for total disclosure, no matter what, reared its head. "Well, no. I felt sleepy and upset that there was no sleep on the immediate horizon." She thought I was both lying and belittling her. I thought she was oversensitive and slightly bizarre. It was not a female bonding experience.

Having had three emergency C sections after that, I cannot relate to women who choose to have them. I've heard all the reasons – you get to choose the baby's birthday, you get to choose the time of day, you get to avoid labor and any of its complications. There's subsets to each of those reasons that I could name as well. I still disagree. Not only would I never choose to have major surgery if there was a way to avoid it, the recovery between the two births is a no contest. After my first delivery, I was out of the hospital within hours, and I went shopping with my sisters in law that afternoon. After my first Cesarean, I was on a morphine drip for 3 days. Sneezing was agony, and just getting to the toilet was an ordeal. When I finally left the house almost two weeks after going home, I nearly passed out in the grocery store.

I also hate the required hospital stay. Having had emergency situations, I understand why it's safer to be in a hospital than at home. Still, after the baby's here and fine, I want to go home. I want to sleep in my own bed. I want to nurse on my couch. I want to be surrounded by my family, not hospital staff. No matter how nice they are, they're not my family. These are more feelings that I've discovered are better left unshared. The majority of women I've discussed this with felt that they needed more time in the hospital. They were upset that hospital policy or their insurance wanted to release them before they were ready to go. One friend of mine insisted on staying for 5 days after her natural delivery, and paying for it herself since her insurance wouldn't. "Can you imagine that they wanted to send me home after only 12 hours?" she asked in outrage. I simply cannot relate. That sounded ideal to me. After my last delivery, another Cesarean, I started asking as soon as I woke up, "When can I go home?" They were overly patient while giving me the speech about how I had to wait for at least 24 hours. "So, at 25 hours I can go home?" I pressed. The nurses were unamused.

And so, I have yet again nothing to say when I'm in a group of women saying things like, "I love the hospital! You get to lay in bed and watch TV all day, they cook for you, they clean up, and somebody else gets to take care of your kids." I'm also one of the few women I know who insisted on "rooming in," having the baby in their room. With my oldest, I took everyone's advice and had her taken to the hospital nursery. Never again. I was absolutely fierce about the babies coming with me after that. I cannot relate when women say, "I loved it when they took him/her to the nursery." So, I stand in these groups and smile and say nothing. Or, if asked directly, I give my opinion and leave everyone else thinking that I'm just being contrary, probably to get attention, or that I'm alien somehow.

Maybe it's because I'm a photographer, but I'm also at a loss when I watch people get literally hysterical over what someone will be wearing for a photograph. I remember being in school and listening to peers relate stories in which a parent said, "You are not wearing that!" or, "I am not sending photos out to all your relatives with you looking like that!" The funny thing to me was not that they were vetoing an outfit or hairstyle on its merits alone. These were things the kids wore to school all the time. Where their parents drew the line was not in owning it or wearing it in public. They saved their ire specifically for being photographed in it. I thought that was odd. I still do.

Now, of course, I'm the parent. I still don't understand.

Years ago, we went over to my sister in law's house to take family photos. While several family members got ready, my ten year old niece asked if she could do my daughters' hair. At five and six years old, they were delighted by the idea. Their cousin was a glamorous big kid offering to spend time with them. Plus, they'd get to feel pretty. They were happy, I was happy, my niece was happy. Off they went, and she fussed and jabbered like a veteran hairdresser.

My sisters in law were appalled. "You're letting Nicole do their hair?" Well… yeah. They thought this was the worst idea they'd heard in a long time, and couldn't believe that they couldn't talk me out of it.

The photos are darling. Both my girls are beaming. If you look very closely, you can see some visible bobby pins in their hair. Big deal.

As a photographer, I've watched people argue until they are in tears about what will or won't be worn in a photo. Senior portraits are a prime breeding ground for that kind of strong feelings. I usually intercede and suggest some in the child's favorite clothes and makeup, and some in the mother's favorite (it's almost always Mom who has issues.) That usually works. Still, no matter how often I see it, I'm a bit puzzled. My mother said nothing to me about what I wore for my senior portraits, and I said nothing to my daughters about what they wore. My usual standards applied – is it clean, weather appropriate, modest? OK then.

Once, a client asked me what her daughter should wear for her senior portraits. Intending to explain that I didn't think the photos were about the clothes I said, "Well, one of my daughters wore a T-shirt and jeans."

"Oh!" she gasped. "I would never tell my daughter that. She'd actually wear a T-shirt!"

I am not mortified when someone sees the dust bunnies at my house. Everyone has them. I do not need a new outfit for special occasions. I do not need to receive flowers. My husband has sent me flowers exactly twice in over 20 years, and I'm OK with that. I do not like expensive jewelry. I've told my husband repeatedly that if he ever feels like spending that kind of money on me, he can take me on a trip.

Getting hysterically possessive about your purse or wallet doesn't make sense to me, either. Of course, my kids have to ask before they go into my purse to get gum or money, but that's a matter of common courtesy. If my husband's taken cash out of my wallet I want him to tell me so I know where it went, and also so I don't get stuck at a checkout counter somewhere without any money. Again, courtesy. I don't understand a total hands off approach.

Years ago, when I was in a local play, this attitude was challenged. In the dressing room during the show one night, one of the actresses asked if anyone had change for a dollar so she could use the vending machine. Several people said no, so I said, "I do, but I've got to go onstage. My purse is on the back of my chair. Go ahead and get my wallet out; just be careful, because my wedding ring's in the change compartment. Don't drop it."

She was astounded. "I couldn't get into your purse!"

"Sure you can. You don't want to wait until I get back, and I've got to go. The scene's almost over."

"I can't! I can't just go in your purse!"

             I was getting exasperated. "Gretchen! I've got to go! If anything's missing, I'll blame you, OK?"

It was not OK. I had to risk missing my cue because she wouldn't touch my purse. I found it very odd.

So, I find myself rattling around group functions, smiling and wanting to leave. I can't imagine what to say to people that I don't know. I have a hard enough time with people I do know.

It got a bit better at the gender divided reception when the food was served. Then, I had something to do. Still, I was glad when the reception was over and we could all go home. It took a long time for the muscles in my back to unclench, though.