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.

Gender Blindness

I wrote this more than a decade ago. I was writing recently about the number of other people's dates that I've been on as a 3rd wheel - yeah, I'm sure you'll end up getting to read about that, and some of you have known me long enough to remember those dates - and I remembered this essay. It was very painful and confusing for me to figure out, as a middle aged parent, things that most people probably got a handle on long about puberty. Still, in spite of the difficulty and confusion, I do think things would be better if they were the way I always thought they were.

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I found out, years after the fact, that when I first met my husband he was intimidated by the number of male names in my conversation. It wasn't just the references to movies with Scott and Mike or lunch with Darren, it was talk of entire vacations with Tony, Guy, Joe, Andy and the like – the weekend in the Bay Area, the trips to Disneyland. No one I knew ever assumed that I was dating any of the guys attached to these names, so it never occurred to me that any one else would.

For one thing, trips were never one on one, just me and a male. It was usually large groups of us. I remember going through Disneyland confounding the ride operators by answering, "15," when they asked, "How many in your party?" For another, I've inherited a bit of my mother's habit of assuming that if I know something, so does everyone else. Mostly, though, I thought there was an invisible but unmistakable sign around my neck that forever branded me The Buddy, never ever to be confused with The Leading Lady. Growing up, my friends all seemed to see it.

Dan, on the other hand, assumed that with all kinds of men in my life, I must be fielding all kinds of offers for dates (or more.) I guess that's actually a prudent assumption to make if you're going to be asking someone out. He was sure these men were at least potential rivals.

A woman I met in adulthood still has trouble believing that I was one of the guys. She's sure none of them could have missed unmistakable signs of being female, like breasts. They all noticed that I had them, I'm sure, but I still wasn't considered a girl. I was gender neutral. The only time they thought of me as being a female is when they came to me for romantic advice, as in, "You're a girl. What do girls like?" I could never understand why they asked someone who never dated for dating advice. When I'd bring it up, though, I was always told that it was because I had access to secret girl thoughts, because girls would talk to me about guys. Girls, of course, asked me things too, but it was usually rhetorical – "Isn't he gorgeous?" My male friends wanted actual battle plans. How do I impress her? How do I ask her out? Where should we go? I wanted to snap, "How should I know?" I knew how to impress me, not anybody else.

One male friend actually overlooked the whole gender thing to the point that he actually said to me, "Don't ever get a girlfriend, Sharon. They're too expensive." When I responded, in a withering tone of voice, "I don't think that'll be a problem," he said, "Oh, you know what I mean." Well, no, I didn't, but I assumed he didn't actively mean to be either brain dead or offensive.

Dan did not grow up in a world of platonic relationships. When he heard me mention going places with someone named Tony, it would no more have occurred to him that it was platonic than he would have assumed that a sound heard in the woods was Bigfoot (in whom he does not believe). It was simply not part of his reality. In his reality, "platonic" meant either, 1. The girl you liked didn't like you back, or 2. It was part of a ruse used to get close to a girl without admitting that you were interested. Remember the speech in "When Harry Met Sally" about how she only thought she had male friends? That was pretty much how Dan felt.

As an adolescent, Dan wanted to grow up to be a swinging 70's disco god. I wanted to grow up to live on the equivalent of Sesame Street, where it not only didn't matter what color (or gender) your neighbor was, it didn't even matter if they were human. We inevitably experienced culture clash.

It didn't take him too very long to decide that I really wasn't dating any of these guys. It took a lot longer for him to formulate an opinion as to why. He was making First Contact with an alien race.

I still struggle sometimes with understanding how or why male and female friends are different. If I could talk to one about buying underwear, or childbirth, or why I hate pantyhose, why couldn't I tell the other? If I spent time on the phone, or shopping, or going to lunch with one, surely it was OK to do it with another, plumbing notwithstanding. I wasn't going to be having sex with any of them. When I was growing up, none of this was a problem. After reaching adulthood, no one seemed to understand or expect it.

Whenever I couldn't make it to some event Dan wanted to attend, I'd always call a girlfriend of mine to go with him. He won't attend any kind of event alone, and it seemed silly to call a guy friend. If he wanted a guy to go with, he could call one, right? I had no problem with this. I thought it was very funny when one of his coworkers was flustered by Dan's appearance at the company dinner with a lovely woman who was not his wife. I was extremely annoyed when I was house managing a play and an usher became quite worried when my husband and best friend showed up together. If it was a secret that they were together, they would have gone somewhere else, wouldn't they? I was just sure the intentions were obvious.

It was also alternately funny and puzzling when it was me out with a male friend because my husband could't attend the function, especially when I ran into someone I hadn't seen in a long time. They had no idea quite what to think. I remember attending a theater company dinner and introducing my escort as, "This is my friend, Tim." One woman said, nervously, "That's nice. Did I tell you that I'm getting a divorce?" I didn't understand such people. I just thought they had a very narrow view of the world.

I grew up in a church in which people are often affectionate, physically and otherwise. Men were just as likely as women to hug you, pat your shoulder or knee, kiss your cheek, walk down the hall with their arm around you or offer you any kind of help. Age and marital status were immaterial. Men could, and did, comment that it was wonderful to be surrounded by beauty when they were in the Young Women organization for 12 to 18 year olds, just as they did when they were visiting in the women's organization. They might also stand with their arm around you at a public function, even if you were both married to other folks. Nobody worried that this was inappropriate. When I was a sophomore in high school, my bishop held a co-ed youth group sleepover at his house. (In later years, when such co-ed functions were no longer allowed for church youth groups, I thought decidedly judgemental and angry thoughts about the people whose bad behavior had forced the policy change.) If the rest of the world wasn't that way, I was just unaware.

I had to change my mind after I discovered that there were actually people of both genders who misinterpreted my behavior. Aside from basic gender blindness, I was sure that my status as a very married, large, religious mother of four precluded any such misunderstanding. It was quite traumatic to find out that I was wrong.

A friend had become convinced that I was hitting on her husband. To make matters worse, her husband also thought so. He never said anything, and she waited until she was utterly furious before she brought it up. She simmered for six months or so before blowing up at me. I had to ask what, exactly, was bothering them.

The examples she gave me made no sense to me. "You always laugh at his jokes. You always sit by him even when there's other empty seats. You go talk to him when you're having problems." Well, sure. Guilty as charged. It wasn't an invitation to fall into bed. Luckily, she had been around me in various settings enough to see what I meant when I said, "I treat everybody that way." If the jokes are funny, I laugh. Sometimes I'll laugh louder if they aren't funny, to save the joke teller from that horrible, crickets chirping silence.

I was in a play at the time, and the 18 year old ingenue frequently sat on my lap while I brushed her hair. She often joked that she and I were having an affair, and the lighting tech told her every time that she had to bring in video. (I wondered whether this behavior wasn't her way of avoiding being too chummy with the single guys. She was adorable and perky and 18, and everyone noticed.) One of the men in the cast, a 19 or 20 year old college student, had a ritual with me (actors tend to be big on rituals) of my slapping his rear end with my purse before we went out for a certain scene. At work, I frequently brought in things for male co-workers – chocolate chip cookies to share with the other chocoholic in the office, for example. One man in the office called me his "favorite file clerk," even though I was the only file clerk. I never, ever imagined that any of these things would be construed as "passes," and I told my friend so.

As for telling her husband my problems, well, he'd asked. When I'd looked down or distracted, he'd wanted to know why. I'm generally a "too much information" person. There are only a few subjects I don't want to discuss. Otherwise, if you want to know, I'll tell you. Occasionally, if you don't want to know, I'll still tell you. I quite probably have too few boundaries.

I adore your husband, I told her, but I'm not looking to trade mine in. "Anything I've ever said in front of him, I'd say in front of my bishop! He's a great guy, too."

Even though she told me she found it hard to believe that I was "that naive," she did concede that, yes, indeed, I did tend to treat everyone that way. I did discover, though, that there had been other times someone thought I was making a pass, and I thought I was merely making conversation. Who knew that "I missed you," or "Wow, you look great," would be taken as expressions of sexual interest? Not me, certainly.

I have finally had to admit that I've gotten it wrong. There are differences between male and female friends. I can now intellectually explain to you why this is. I can tell you what the differences are. But, deep down, I still feel that the rest of the world just doesn't "get it." I still think there shouldn't be any difference. I've just had to realize that we shouldn't have to have locks on our homes (or cars or what have you), but we have to anyway. Maybe there shouldn't be a difference in friendships, but there is.

I became temporarily unhinged. I thought about all the times I'd scoffed at references to eye contact being a sexual signal. What if it was? How do you go through life not making eye contact, not smiling at people? I did that with everybody – people I passed in the mall, people in restaurants, people where I worked. And, I'd always assumed it was safer to have male friends who were married. That way, I was sure, no signals would get crossed. But they did! What now? And how about compliments? Who could I compliment? Who could I hug? Trying to hash it out with the women I knew wasn't entirely successful. "Some men think you're making a pass at them if you're doing nothing but breathing," one said. AAUUGGHHHH!

I've dated one person in my lifetime. One. I am not equipped to make sense of these situations.

I became terrified of saying or doing anything. My usual yardstick – does it bother me or my husband? – had proven to be worthless. My past experience had proven unreliable. What now? My desk was at the far end of the office; everyone had to pass it to get to the break room, the bathrooms or the Xerox machine, which was also a shared printer. I'd always looked up from my work, smiled at whoever went by, and made small talk if they were amenable. Now, I spent days staring straight down at my desk, looking at no one, speaking to no one. My nerves were fried.

I asked my husband, "Is it just me?" I asked my friends, "Is it just me?" They were all supportive, but I still didn't really know if it was just me.

I probably still don't know. There's a good chance I won't ever really "get it." But hey, if you're thinking that I made a pass at you any time after 1985, no matter what gender you are, you're mistaken. OK?

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.