Filed under: AwesomeSauce, Life 101, On Being an Adult, Proof that I'm a Nerd
I have fallen in love. Deeply, irrevocably and terribly in love. It’s new and exciting and frankly, built to last. No, this isn’t a new beau, things with J-Mo are just fine. Better than fine, in fact. My new love is not some Rico Suave or anything like that. It’s Amazon. Good old Amazon. (Insert very witty but probably over-cheesy pun here about my falling in love with a South American who Has It All.)
I realize that Amazon has been around for millenia…ok, perhaps not for thousands of years, but since 1995 and in Internet world that’s practically the same thing. Last year I fell hard and fast for eBay and had to quickly back away before my life savings was put on the line for first edition books I loved as a kid. Seriously, it was getting scary. And expensive. But Amazon is different.
This year, particularly the last few months, I have been busier than I ever have. I have been working full time and finishing up my last semesters of school. If that weren’t enough I also have reserved most of my weekends to spend with J-Mo as his work schedule (and frankly, my work/school schedule) doesn’t really allow weeknight hang-outs. At the moment I am also designing and making a big pile of costumes for a high school theater production and trying–unsuccessfully–to find the time to update two websites. This one (badly neglected), and my Shoeologist site (also, badly neglected. I’m like the negligent mother of two teenagers who are quickly receding away from their peers at an alarming, but silent pace.) Top that with a normal dose of “off the internet” drama and my poor little Google calendar is packed to it’s virtual gills with things that must be done. Sadly, shopping is not something that must be done.
I’m not talking about back to school clothes or shoes or anything like that. Granted, I don’t need any more clothes or shoes, but I’ll admit to a little harmless online browsing and buying when I find something I love. Ditto on the lunch-time wander around the shops close to my office. I don’t have problems buying clothes. It’s the other things in my life that must be replaced that I can hardly find time for. I have been pretty good about going grocery shopping once a week for eggs and fruit and veggies, my weekly appointment with the Grocery is on Monday night at about 11:30 pm. Unfortunately, there are many things in life that I cannot purchase on Monday night at 11:30 pm. Things like the special light bulbs for the dining room chandelier; a belt rack to harness my ever-expanding collection; a special 3-prong plug to live behind a dresser that enables the dresser to be flush to the wall and my air conditioner to still be plugged in; the fancy syrup that Britt blogged about which is only available at certain grocery stores and then only sometimes; a winter’s supply of Natural Ice chapstick which is mysteriously unavailable at the grocery or the gas station; a waffle iron with removable plates so I can get all the waffle residue off without using a toothbrush; and–my latest purchase–a new shower curtain that can somehow tie together my banana-yellow wall tile (with red and black floral trim, no less) and cover up the aqua tub. (Yes, it’s really aqua. I really should post pictures.)
Can you imagine the time required in trying to locate all these individual items at one of several dozen stores, deliberate on color or brand or price, purchase, and then transport them home? It is mind boggling. So far, I have managed to carve out 40 minutes a day to shower, shave my legs, wash and dry my hair, and apply mascara…but an hour to locate the appropriate chandelier light bulbs just isn’t going to happen. So I have turned to Amazon, and Amazon has come through with gold stars and sparkles and every possible thing I could need. Yes, I may have to pay some shipping charges, but my time is at a premium so I happily fork over a few extra dollars for their timely, trackable, front door delivery service. I don’t know why it has taken me so long to jump on the Amazon bandwagon, but I have found myself a nice cozy seat and will not be jumping off anytime in the near future. I’m only fifteen years behind the curve, but online shopping (for items that are not clothes or shoes) has found a permanent place in my heart.
**No, Amazon is not sponsoring this post or giving me any kind of perk for blogging about them. Nor do I get any kind of kick back from some kind of affiliate program if you buy that same waffle iron or belt rack. I’m simply sharing the wealth and breadth of the awesomosity that is Amazon.
Last week I finalized my fall school schedule, checked and double checked all my requirements, and applied for graduation for December 2011 with a Bachelor’s of Science in Economics.
And then I broke down crying.
This has been such a long road for me, with potholes and detours and roundabouts and a hundred other annoying obstacles that could be added to the “life as a road” metaphor. I started attending classes at the University in January 2002; even if you aren’t a math major it isn’t difficult to surmise that it has taken me ten years to earn a bachelor’s degree. In that time I have also acquired some excellent work experience, an impressive resume and the ever-elusive Life Degree, in a few months I’ll have the paperwork to back it up.
Rewind to 2004: It was a few months after I got married I was really struggling with school. It wasn’t too hard, I just wasn’t interested in any of my classes, topics, teachers, nothing. I had always loved school, loved learning, and was on the fast track to a earning a 3-year bachelor’s degree. And I hit a wall. Looking back, this probably had something (read: a lot) to do with my tumultuous marriage and home life, but at the time I didn’t link the two. My X and I talked about it for several days and mutually decided that we were going to make some changes in our situation. At the time we were both working part-time and going to school full-time, I decided to find a full-time job to cover our expenses and he would quit working entirely, take on an extra class or two, and finish his degree in the next two semesters. At that point, he would be the bread-winner and I would go back to school with–hypothetically–a renewed energy and a better idea of what I wanted to study. (The long term details of this plan also included both of us earning Master’s degrees.)
I started interviewing and within a few weeks I had landed a fantastic sales position at my same company and started earning far more money on my own than we had both been making prior to our new arrangement. I continued working, enjoying the office setting and the commission checks and my new co-workers. My X? Well, he didn’t do so great at keeping up his end of the bargain, none of which I found out until after I had moved into my own apartment and filed for divorce. Turns out, X was on his last semester of academic probation. He was kicked out of the University a few weeks later but failed to mention it FOR ANOTHER TWO SEMESTERS! He continued to tell me about his classes, homework, tests, fellow students, and there were piles of papers all over the coffee table scribbled with calculus and physics equations. I continued to fund his “required” textbooks and encouraged him to go out to lunch with his friends and buy himself whatever he needed as he worked hard to graduate. I had no idea he wasn’t actually a student.
This little charade went on for two full semesters before–for completely unrelated reasons–I moved out and moved on. And THEN I found out the truth of his situation, and I was no longer upset, I was livid. The money I had given him–thousands of dollars–that went straight to Cheetos and porn instead of textbooks and late-night study-session snack runs made me sick to my stomach, but the idea that he had lied to me for so long really just pissed me off. I hated him for encouraging me to drop out of school with the idea that it would be a good move for “us” when he knew full well that he wasn’t going to be graduating anytime soon. I hated myself for letting him talk me into it, and for not noticing, and for not checking with the University, or even asking to see his report card. He was my husband, I was supposed to trust him. Ha! Lesson learned. (Also, I’ve been through a lot of therapy since this incident and no longer know think that all men are lying, abusive, manipulative jerks. Lesson (re)learned.)
At any rate, I was still working full-time, earning plenty of money to support my newly single self, so I started taking night classes to finish up my degree. At the time I had no idea just how long that would take. I haven’t attended every semester, I’ve taken breaks here and there, but I kept at it.
And now here I am, six years later, and I have finally applied for graduation. I will graduate with the exact number of credits required to earn my degree. Exactly. I haven’t switched majors, although last year I dropped my Political Science double major and Mandarin Chinese minor to eliminate a few extra semesters. (Dropping the minor also meant switching from a Bachelor of Arts to a Bachelor of Science, which I am a-okay with. Frankly, with a degree like Econ a BS seems to make a bit more sense than a BA.)
I am so very excited to finally be on the home stretch, one more semester and I will have that embossed piece of paper that represents years of struggle and heartache and frustration and analyzing and accomplishment. Dah, I can hardly wait!
I’m sure by now you have heard that it is Shark Week, right? The Discovery channel is airing dozens of slots of shark-related programming, and I have found myself DVR-ing episodes that go into great detail about shark sightings, shark attacks, and all other subjects in which sharks and people do not mix. I cannot NOT watch this stuff! Am I afraid of sharks? Yes, yes I am. The thought of them gives me an uncomfortable tightness in my stomach. Seeing footage of gaping mouths of teeth–even though they are safely contained in my TV–makes me shudder. I have nightmares about being chased by a shark, or having one use me as a chew toy. That Bruce character in Finding Nemo freaked me right out. I have never seen Jaws and I think it is safe to say that I never will. I have to look away when they show the “scary” or “gruesome” parts during Shark Week. On public television. Aimed at educating children. “Scary” to me basically means anything where teeth or jaws or blood is involved, which means I spend most of any given program with my face buried in my hands. Four year olds see more of Shark Week than I do. Have I ever met a shark? No. Have I even seen one in the flesh? Um, no. Not really. Baby-sized ones that are sometimes kept in an aquarium, yes, but never a “real” shark, the kind that could chew your arm off. Does this make my fear of sharks slightly irrational? Uh, yes, probably. I live in a landlocked, desert state; the chances of me coming face-to-face with a hungry Great White Shark are minimal/non-existent. I am SCUBA certified, but I have never gone diving in the ocean. In fact, when hanging out on an ocean beach I rarely get in the water at all. I don’t really care for salt water in my eyeballs/on my face, and the chance of coming into close quarters with a) clingy seaweed, b) stingy sea creatures, or c) sharks, is more of a risk than I am willing to take. I’d much rather hang out on the beach with my nose in a book, carefully tucked up under an umbrella with a sundress covering me shoulders-to-my-knees and the rest of my body completely slathered in SPF 85. Sexy, no?
Ha! No. Not really. Well, not in the way that any advertisement, fashion or beauty magazine published in the last 80 years would lead you to believe.
The thing is, do you want to know what scares me more than sharks? (And bobble-head dolls, but that is another post entirely.)
Tan lines.
Sunburns.
My sensitive dermis baking under sweet, sweet, sunshine.
Melanoma.
Skin cancer.
Like many children, I had white-blonde hair as a kid. Unlike most of those children, when I grew up my natural hair color never really darkened and still hovers in the distinctly “platinum” part of the color wheel. My skin is a fair, creamy white and mostly freckle-free. My foundation color is “parchment” for heaven’s sake. I’m a pale person. And unlike many people who share my coloring, I don’t make any efforts to darken my pasty-white skin. I have never been inside a tanning bed. I have never “laid out” or gone sunbathing. I am terrified of the idea of getting “that healthy glow” or even “a little color.” I don’t know if I can properly convey the fear I associate with my own skin being a “healthy”, “sexy” bronze shade, or, frankly, a shade that can be described by any color not resembling printer-paper.
You probably think I am overreacting. I’m not. I’m not being irrational, or even overly fearsome. Allow me to explain:
About 25 years ago the University of Utah–a premier research institution, particularly in genetics–did a massive study to see if there was any genetic linking to skin cancer. (The short version: there is.) For several years they studied hundreds of families, choosing ones who had multiple cases of melanoma. My mom’s family was chosen. My dad’s family was chosen. As a result, all of us kids were tested; I was 3 but I still remember that day. My oldest brother was 13 at the time and the researchers were shocked–SHOCKED–to discover a chunk of skin cancer on his shoulder. He was the youngest person to ever be diagnosed with skin cancer; it was such a big deal that it made the cover of the Wall Street Journal, and his case was the subject of professional medical conference keynote addresses for years. THE COVER OF THE WALL STREET JOURNAL!! It was is a Big. Freaking. Deal. Yes, this was twenty-five years ago and in the years since there have been more cases of skin cancer discovered in younger children (a trend that is disturbing enough on it’s own), but please understand that this very real, tangible fear of inherited skin cancer has been ingrained in me–and for good reason–for the last two and a half decades. I am a carrier of the melanoma gene. I inherited it from both my mother and father. While I have always had regular check-ups with my dermatologist, have gone back to the University of Utah for follow-up studies, and I have been vigilant in sunscreen application; I am still scared.
Ten years ago I had two moles taken off my head in a routine check-up, one came back positive for melanoma. I was 19. I hadn’t had a sunburn or even a tan line in at least six years. But there it was. Cancer. On my face. Can you imagine your 19-year-old self? Now imagine her going to the doctor by herself to be scrutinized head to toe and everywhere in-between for questionable moles. Imagine the doctor carefully cutting off a few tiny bits of her face because they looked “a little suspicious.” Now imagine 3 days later–Dec. 23 2002 at 4:30 pm, to be exact–when the doctor calls her to tell her that the moles were malignant and cancerous and “I am having my office staff come in from holiday on Dec. 26, first thing in the morning to cut out some more of your face. We need to make sure we get it all.” Imagine that 19 year old girl sobbing into the phone, thinking she is far too young to have to deal with this kind of news. (I still get choked up when I think about that phone call. The fear was palpable then, and even now it makes me breathe faster and my chest become tight.) I am lucky, my dermatologist caught my case really early and was able to cut out the offending pieces of my face, his plastic surgery skillz left only one small scar near my hairline that is hard to see, even if I point it out. I didn’t have to go through chemo or radiation or spend months of my life in a hospital. Yes, I am lucky; or more accurately, I had been vigilant my entire life, luck really had nothing to do with it. Even so, it was still far too close a call for me to be willy-nilly with the sunbathing and beach time. Like, ever.
I wear sunscreen every single day, even if all I’m doing is walking from my house to my car to go to work. SPF 30. Every day. No matter what. (Except that one time I forgot, I am still kicking myself for that. In fact, just thinking about it gave me a knot in my stomach.) Outdoorsy activities will have me bump up the SPF to 45 or 65, with 85 on my face and shoulders. (I don’t want to hear any arguments about how “oh, anything after SPF 30 doesn’t make a bit of difference.” I. Don’t. Care.) (And who made you an expert on hereditary melanoma anyway? I’d like to see your degree and credentials.) (Also, to all former boyfriends–you know who you are–who cruelly and publicly mocked my beach wear, with full knowledge of my genetic misfortune and medical history, I hope you get testicular cancer and have to go through life as a One-Balled Wonder.) (And to the irritatingly, insipid women who make fun of my summer sleeves and long skirts–especially those claiming to have also had skin cancer but not caring about getting sunburned–you are ridiculously stupid, shallow and naive. And douchebags. Sadly for you, getting a tan won’t eliminate any of those qualities. *smirk* I hope you have gross, permanent sun spots on your face and hands by the time you’re 30.) (/rant.) (Man, it feels good to finally get all that off my chest!) (/parentheticals.)
I have been told by my doctors–ones who are experts on my skin, genetic skin cancer, and my family history–that even if I live in a cave for the rest of my life with absolutely no sun exposure whatsoever and develop those creepy, beady-white, cave-dwelling-eyes, I will still contract melanoma again by the time I’m 40. Cancer. Again. Sometime in the next 10-15 years. No matter what. On the upside, my team of dermatological experts tell me that my lack of tanning will make me have fewer wrinkles and clearer, smoother skin as I get older. So I suppose when I’m 40 and going in for Round Two (or three) of having skin cancer removed from my body the medical staff will think I’m only 29. Hey, at least I have something to look forward to! So, while you and your blessed olive skin can prance around the beach or pool in SPF 4 (now with coconut oil!) and a teensy little bikini without a care in the world, I’ll stick with the SPF>45 and a drop cloth. I am not olive, or brown, or tan, or even beige. I am pale, the color of parchment, and always will be. And my bikini has never seen the light of day. True story. It has taken itself–and me–out for some night swimming on several occasions. But obviously in a pool and not the open water, because–honestly, don’t you ever watch the Discovery channel?–night time is prime feeding time for large, carnivorous fishy creatures who are drawn to white, glowing, reflective surfaces (see: heidikins’ entire body) and WHAT ABOUT THE SHARKS!?!)
We all have experiences in our lives that will forever change us, we get to decide if we use those situations to change us for the better or for not. When I think back on my 28 years there are many different directions my life could have taken; relationships, career, school path, religious affiliation (or lack thereof), geographic location, other adventures. Regardless of the “what could have been” nostalgia that reminiscing about those decisions brings up, I am a-okay with where I ended up. I could be thinner, or richer, or healthier, or more religious, or kinder, or more educated, or have a fancier job or a more reliable car or a house with a garden (and AC, and a dishwasher) instead of an apartment without. To some extent I am constantly working on improving in most of those areas, some with more priority than others, and some with no priority at all. Sure, there are a few situations I wish I had handled differently, and a few bridges I wish I hadn’t burned, but at the end of the day my choices have made me who I am now, and while I am far from perfect and will constantly be making tweaks and adjustments, I am happy with who I am. At age 28 I feel like I have finally come into my own. I am me, and at this moment I am pretty close to the best version of me that I’ve ever met; and that makes me feel ridiculously happy and immensely lucky.
Each of us are made up of various components that are light and fluffy, and some that are heavy and dark, and most that are a muddy shade of gray somewhere in-between. Very rarely is anything made up of all good or all evil, all black or all white, all one or all the other. Most of the time people, decisions, and situations are a mix of both. We usually have to pick the better of two (or more) options. Or the safer, or healthier, or less psychotic, or more productive option. It is very rare where I have had to make a decision–especially one that required a lot of thought or internal angst–that was the choice between something Super Amazing and Wonderful and Attainable versus something that is Horrible and Soul Sucking and Also Perfectly Valid. It’s usually the choice between two shades of gray.
The truth is there are good and bad parts to everything in our lives, there are light and dark characteristics in everyone. It’s what makes us human. Our light and dark sides shape who we are, and you cannot have one without the other, and you certainly cannot appreciate one without having experienced the other. Honestly, I don’t know if I would be able to exist–and certainly not in my current incarnation–without both sides. I need my darker moments, ugly relationships, poor judgement, heartbreak and hurtful experiences to help me realize how good I have it now. My dark parts ground me, they humble me, they remind me of my humanity. That doesn’t mean I glorify my mistakes or want to go back to relive those moments. I don’t. But I use them to learn about myself, about my strengths, my weaknesses, my relationships and the people around me. Usually this process also involves quite a bit of chocolate, you know, to sooth the pain. But I hope to be able to grow and learn and stretch and move on as a bigger, fuller, more complete person. (Please, no comments from the peanut gallery about how the chocolate from Part 1 directly correlates with the “bigger, fuller” person in Part 2, mmmkay?)
Without these pieces of darkness, without the blackest, hardest periods of my life, I fear I would be all fluff, so airy and light that I would actually float away. I fear I’d have no tangible substance and actually cease to exist. Is this a rational way to categorize my organic matter? No. Does it help me understand? Yes. Here’s to being real and authentic, black warts and all.
Did you all have a lovely holiday weekend? Canada Day? The Fourth of July? Whatever your flavor? My weekend was, well, it was a mixed bag. On the one hand, there was the awesome, and on the other hand there was the not so awesome and then the freaking annoying.
The Awesome:
- Lots of nieces and nephews saying and doing lots of adorable/hilarious things
- Homemade lime rickies, I take mine with extra sugar, extra lime, and a maraschino cherry
- Laying on the grass with my brothers and sisters, laughing and chatting and giggling until parenthood called and it was time for their kiddos to go to bed
- Dutch oven breakfast, with fireworks (yep, I’m just gonna link to that whole post instead of try and recreate with pics and what-have-you)
- Going to movies when it’s too hot to do anything else (Larry Crowne, which I loved, and Super 8, which I will have nightmares about for weeks.)
- Playing on the swings in my childhood backyard – I had to sit on the trapeze because everything else was so low my knees dragged on the grass. (Better my knees than my ass, right?)
- Showing my sweetheart around my hometown
- Afternoon naps snuggled up with that very charming boy of mine
- Snow cones and sour patch kids
- Playing Monopoly while waiting for the fireworks to start
- Fireworks, lots of them, right above my head
The Not So Awesome:
- The bookcase I bought from IKEA was too skinny, I picked up the wrong one which required a return trip to exchange it
- A chopped a piece out of the left thumb while making salsa (don’t worry, the salsa was phalanges free, pinky promise)
- I misplaced my keys, forgot where I parked, forgot I was driving, and had several “oh crap!” moments when I spied a police officer seconds after I *almost* (maybe) broke a minor traffic law.
- I dropped things, broke things, ran into things (big things, like people and furniture and walls) and generally had one of those days where nothing seems to go quite right
- I forgot how freaked out I get by scary movies, even moderately scary movies, or not-scary movies with moderately scary scenes. Super 8, I’m looking at you in your zombie-make-up spider-alien face.
- During one little game of Monopoly I was sent to jail no less than 11 times. The boy? He maybe went to jail once. For the record, I also went bankrupt due to his blasted hotel on Park Place. *shakes fist in the general direction of the dark blue properties
The Freaking Annoying:
- I love fireworks. Last 4th of July I didn’t get to see any big ones up close, so I was particularly excited about seeing some things year.
- The boy and I went to the park pretty early to grab a good parking spot, help stake out a spot on the grassy hill and enjoy the lovely evening. When I say “we went early” I mean we showed up almost 5 hours early. We scored a killer parking spot, brought some snacks, and some games, listened to some live entertainment, took a little nap, more snacks, a hilarious round of Monopoly (see above)… it was lovely.
- A few hours later some friends showed up and we chit-chatted for a little while, sharing picnic munchies and telling stories. Then some of their friends showed up, and then friends of the friends, and more removed “friends”…and by the time the fireworks started at 10:00 pm I knew perhaps 8 of the 30 people suddenly crowded onto too few blankets. More people stopped by, really LOUD people.
- One stepped on my hand, one almost sat on my head, one complete stranger plonked herself right in front of my fireworks view and I admit, I was not oozing charm and friendliness when I asked her to please move to somewhere that was not 3 inches in front of me on the blanket that I wove myself from cotton I grew myself and sewed together by hand using wool thread from sheep I raised myself…ok, that last part is a bit of a stretch. But seriously? I was getting bugged.
- Piles of loud, obnoxious strangers were holding inane conversations at eye-twitch-inducing decibel levels. ” LIKE, OH. EM. GEE!!1!11 DID U C STACY W/ THAT MANWHORE!? SRSLY, I DUN KNOW WHUT SHE’S DOING W/HIM. AND, LIKE, JUSTIN!? HE COULD DO SOOOOOO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT TIFFANY GIRL, LIKE, I MEAN, REALLY!!1! TIFFANY ISN’T EVEN HAWT! OHMYGOSH, DID YOU, LIKE, WATCH THE BACHELORRETTE? THIS IS JUST LIKE THAT, ONLY REAL LIFE! JUSTIN IS A TOTAL BENTLEY!! HAHAHA! I’M GONNA FACEBOOK THAT! LIKE IT, OKAY?!?!1!”
- I wish I was kidding. Sadly, I am not. And you guys, they were loud. Really, obnoxiously loud, and right next to my ears, and putting their feet and asses far too close to my face, and stepping on my hand (an accident, I admit, but still freaking annoying). I know that I was in a public space, and I can’t control the environment, and technically they had every right to be there, but this was a little ridiculous. They were loud, and pushy, and rude, and generally obnoxious.
- I’m usually one to roll with the punches life throws, but I was really disappointed in my fireworks show being taken over by this loud, pushy, rude, generally obnoxious ilk. The worst part is they showed up right before the fireworks started, it was already dark, and it was a little impractical for me to try and find a new, less annoyingly populated place to enjoy the fireworks spectacular.
Weekend Recap:
- Little people that are related to me are hilarious
- I get ridiculously excited about food (see multiple mentions above
- My man is awesome (I swear I’ll properly introduce you as soon as this fireworks etiquette rant is out of my system, mmkay?)
- I love fireworks but can’t stand obnoxious people, good thing I have another 12 months to come up with an alternate plan. And/or alternate “friends of friends of friends.”
For better or worse, I have never been entirely alone in this world. On Sunday evening, February 13 at 7:15 pm my identical twin, Erika, made her entrance into the world. At 7:16 pm, I was born.
Erika and I with my big brother, 1983
Being an identical twin is a blessing and a terrible, terrible curse. Erika and I look remarkably alike, as identical twins are wont to do. But I mean, we look A LOT alike. When we were kids our dentist, Dr. Ed, was astounded to discover that if you layered our dental x-rays on top of each other you couldn’t tell you were looking at two different slides; we had the exact same teeth! In addition to matching dental records, we have the same blood type, the same DNA, and are unofficially each others designated organ donor should it come to that. (I’m not being morbid, these are practical things one must think about in advance.) We also have the same white-blonde hair, the same green eyes, and the same fair skin; our hands and noses are identical and we have the same weird bone spurs on our feet. Erika has always been about 1.5 inches taller than me, she was born that way and I just never caught up. I think it was because she was a food hog in utero and I’ve spent my life trying to make up for it by downing jumbo-sized bags of Sour Patch Kids. I’m still short. Well, shorter. Hence, I wear heels. Problem solved.
1983
Matching DNA aside, there are some things that are not the same:
(1) Our names. Heidi and Erika are both Germanic, and our childhood nicknames, Heidikins and Eriklein mean “Little Heidi” and “Little Erika” in German. Do they “go” together? I think so. But they don’t scream “ZOMGOODNESS!! TWINNY NAMES!! ADORBS!!11!!” Our mother also has a very German name, Gretel, and our little sister has a German name, Liesl, and diminutive nickname, Lieslchin. In that respect, our names went with our family, not with just each other. No Heidi and Heather, or Erika and Erin. No. And Thank You.
(2) Our dominant physical side. We are both right-handed, but my Mom says that Erika could easily have been a lefty. She can hit a baseball and a swing a golf club with either hand and be equally successful. I am right-leg dominant while she is left-leg dominant. When I do a left-leg-first cartwheel I look like an utter buffoon, while Erika’s are graceful and smooth. This difference does not mean we aren’t identical twins, it means we are a mirror image of each other. If you question it, take a look at our dental records again.
(3) Our freckles. Patterns of melanin mutations on the outer epidermis–the scientific way to explain freckles–are not genetic, they are mutations due to a variety of independent factors (i.e. sun exposure) that are not controlled by your genes, got it? So, just because the dominant freckle (and, coincidentally, the most common way to tell us apart) on Erika’s face is on her left cheek and mine is near the corner of my right eye does not mean we are not identical. When you try and argue away my 28-year status as an identical twin based on something as surface-y as freckles you sound uneducated and ridiculous and I will mock you behind your back. Or, if you are particularly assinine about it, I’ll mock you to your face.
1985, age 3
(4) Our personalities. (It pains me to have to mention this, but it’s the thing most people confuse about identical twins: they are two, separate human beings. Hold onto your boots, it’s about to get a little ranty around here.) Erika and I routinely show up to family functions wearing the same outfit, and while we have very similar voice and speech patterns (ok, almost identical), we are two different people. She is crafty and creative and full of brilliant ideas and recipe concoctions. I sometimes pretend to know how to sew, or craft, or cook…but compared to her I am paltry at best. I read geeky economics books and non-fiction while she looks for new ideas in beautiful, glossy magazines. She has piles of fabric and other tactile supplies to feed her creative habits. I have a room for my shoes and more books than I know what to do with. We went to opposing schools–really opposing schools–we studied completely different subjects and are interested in vastly different topics. She married her sweetheart young and they are still very much in-love. I, well, I had a very different story. She is a wonderful mom to a hilarious, angelic, sassy and precocious 2-year old, and I am content being that child’s favorite aunt. I’m snarky and at times acerbic, determined and stubborn and while Erika has bits of all of those characteristics, they are not her dominating personality traits like they are mine. We have different smiles, different humor, different facial expressions; it is only when we are make-up free and sleeping (i.e. all facial muscles are relaxed) that we become freakily identical, even my Mom has to do a double-take.
People ask me all the time what it’s like being a twin; and my standard response is that I don’t know. I’ve always been a twin, it’s status quo to me and I have no frame of reference as a non-twin. I’ve always had a mirror image. I’ve always had someone I was compared against, someone who, for years, I competed against (whether of my own choice or because I was forced to). I’ve always had someone I was somehow expected to act like, be like, and imitate. And the craptastic part of all of that is that she has my face. It’s a nice face, don’t get me wrong. It just makes the problem of individualization much trickier and, more often than not, a palpable fight. It took us a while to realize that we were much happier doing different things, we were both good at most things we tried, and in time we discovered that we enjoyed pursuing different subjects and interests, for the individuality as much as for the subject or interest itself. My siblings have always been able to tell who is who, my little sister can even tell us apart in baby pictures where both Erika and I have to rely on names written on the back. (What? You act like you’re surprised. I knew who I was and who she was, but I didn’t spend my young life looking in the mirror to memorize the differences and defining characteristics of my face. What 3-year-old does that?!?) But my extended family still cannot tell the difference between the two of us most of the time, like 95% of the time. Most of my childhood and high school friends can’t either, with a fantastic few exceptions. Would you like to know the kicker of all of that? My Mom did everything she possibly could to encourage our differences. She didn’t name us matching names. She didn’t make us dress in matching outfits*. I had my own shoes that I wore, even if my outfit–the outfit I picked out myself–better matched my sister’s shoes. You hear that people? My. Own. Shoes. It was important. She allowed and encouraged us to be our own person, and people still couldn’t keep us straight. Besides being down right frustrating, this situation can be terrifyingly dangerous.
1987? Age 5-ish?
When we were four or five years old my cousins and I thought Erika had fallen into a swollen, swift-moving creek in the canyon where our grandparents lived. She had actually just gone back to the house to go to the bathroom, but no one saw her leave the bridge where we were all standing watching the water; we just noticed she was gone and assumed the worst. We freaked. Search and Rescue was called. Mom and I spent hours down by the creek with dozens of volunteers up to their thighs in frigid, mountain run-off tying to find the body of a small girl, they combed the water as afternoon turned to evening looking under every root and submerged branch, hoping to find her. My mom called everyone who lived in the canyon, hoping Erika had just wandered into someone’s backyard or barn. She wasn’t anywhere. During the entire afternoon I was with my Mom because she wasn’t about to let me out of her grasp, let alone out of her sight. Hours later she took me back to my grandparent’s house, she was an emotional wreck, convinced Erika was gone. As you have probably already guessed, Erika was not, in fact, drowned. She had been roaming through my grandparent’s house with a group of cousins, checking every crack and cranny from the attic to the basement, calling her own name. Erika thought that I was the one that was lost, and she knew that I would answer to her name as well as my own. (That was a learned coping mechanism; we both answered to each other’s names because half the time the person was using the wrong name anyway. As a 28-year old I still turn my head expectantly when someone calls for an “Erika.”) Erika’s pre-Kindergarten self had no idea about the deadly risk of the fast, freezing river, or the search and rescue teams that were still being trucked in to find her, or my Mom’s desperation. And you know what, of the dozens of relatives in that house, adults and children, not a single one of them could tell that she wasn’t me. Not a single one. When I walked into my grandparent’s kitchen with my Mom my Grandpa nearly started crying because he thought I was Erika and someone had found me. Mom, choking on tears of heartbroken grief, confusedly explained that this is Heidi. Two minutes later Erika walked into the kitchen, happy, dry, and perfectly safe. I’ve never forgotten the look of horror on my Grandpa’s face at that moment of recognition, he never mixed us up again. Most of my other relatives that were around that day didn’t ever bother to figure us out.
First day of Kindergarten, 1988.
Teenagers can have a rough time trying to find out who they are, and when 98% of the people you know routinely get you confused with someone else it makes it even worse. I felt like I had to fight to be myself–way more than the typical teenagers fight to be understood–and my fight was not to be only understood, but actually recognized. I’m not talking about some metaphysical, existential, angsty mumbo-jumbo from an Ani DiFranco song. I mean, it was a conscious struggle between physical disgust, anger and despair every single time an aunt or cousin, down the street neighbor, teacher or school friend who had “known” me for years didn’t actually know my name. Do you know what it’s like to have a mirror image and still feel invisible? Allow me to give you the short answer: it is a never-ending, hellish cycle of frustration.
Photo by Alyssa, 2001
This is the part where you non-twins argue that “I just caaaaaan’t doooooo it!! You’re just soooo similar! You look the saaaaaaame! How can little old moi be properly equipped to differentiate between your twinny sameness!!1!!” That irritating whine is followed immediately by my mentally flipping you off, re-categorizing you as an imbecile, and acidicly reminding you that while you have a completely average, non-descript face and personality I still manage to not confuse you with a donkey, a clown, or any other dolt. Alright, that might be a little harsh, but that doesn’t make me wrong. Can you see where I’m coming from here? Calling me “Twin” is not a bandaid for the fact that you never took the time to learn some defining characteristic about me. If you know a set of twins, identical or otherwise, make the effort to learn who they are and what makes them unique. Okay? Learn it. Don’t ever forget it. And don’t you dare lump them into the same person. Ever.
Disclaimer: Some sets of identical twins like their twin-ness. They dress in matching ensembles well after their mother no longer chooses their outfits–which, in my opinion should end as soon as the kid can choose their own clothes, like by age 2–some dress and/or act alike through their teen years or even their twenties. They go to the same college, they may even choose to be college roommates, major in the same thing, or even date a set of best friends. I think that is partially (mostly) a function of never being given the chance or encouragement to learn to be their own self. Seeing two toddlers dressed exactly the same, answering to Annie and Allie, or Mike and Mitch is one of the most horrible things I can imagine; and I see it all. the. time. It is not cute, or precious, or adorable and charming. It is a demonstration of a selfish mother looking for “oooh’s” and “ahhhh’s” in the grocery store over her identical darlings. It is pathetic and sad and makes my insides clench up for the decades of inevitable frustration and hurt she is setting up for her children. That mother should be held responsible (and heart-whipped and branded) for treating her children, two independent humans, like a pair of trendy, twin-sized accessories with matchy-match names and matchy-match outfits. You would give any single-born child the chance to be their own person, so don’t deny that right to another child who happens to be born the same day as a look-a-like sibling. Give your kids a chance to be their own person, alright? Let them just be siblings who are in the same grade instead of half of one all-encompassing entity, expected and encouraged to mold and form to the other. They already have the same face, do you have to enforce identical personalities as well?
Photo by Alyssa, 2001
You’ve heard of twins who feel each other’s pain or can read each other’s thoughts? Yeah, Erika and I aren’t like that. As kids she would usually cry if I got hurt (I got hurt a lot), but that was more out of empathy than her feeling the need for stitches in her own face as well. (Also, I feel like I should point out that as kids she was always more empathetic than I was.) And yes, we finish each others sentences, but you probably can finish the sentences of most people you live with and go to school with for twenty years. Am I right? Truth be told, Erika and I kind of hated each other from about age 10 through puberty and even into our twenties. We didn’t take the same classes once we could choose our school schedules, we didn’t have the same friends, we didn’t even hang in the same crowd. In our mid-twenties, when we had finally moved away from each other, attended opposing universities, had brand new worlds of friends that did not overlap at all, had stopped being called the wrong name every single day, and had started to love the lives we had independently chosen…that’s when we started to be friends. And now, I presume, we behave like any two siblings who are close to each other. We send each other funny links, go to lunch, giggle until FAR too late over old photos and get along swimmingly. But that was something we had to consciously choose to do, it wasn’t a natural thing for either of us to start.
Christmas 2008, Erika is 8 months pregnant and still looks awesome. It is important to note here that Erika’s 2-year old daughter, Creamie, has never once mixed us up. Even in pictures.
I suppose Twin-ness On Purpose could be because the two parties involved actually enjoy matching someone else every second of every day, although I can hardly fathom a situation where this is true. If you are their mother or father (or aunt or uncle or teacher or friend), you better make damn sure that matchy-match behavior is their choice, not yours. Okay? Your job is to treat them as their own person, not half of a twinset. Do me the favor of treating twins, and frankly, anyone else, as individuals. Learn what makes them themselves, commit it to your long-term memory and treasure that part of their self, their uniqueness, their individuality. And never tell them that they aren’t really a twin because their freckles don’t match, or because she is an inch taller, you sound like an idiot.
April 2011, Photo by Lurch (that’s my Dad)
(*Family picture days were the exception when all three girls wore the same outfit. We went through a roll of film about every six months, so the vast majority of my childhood pics are in similar outfits. But, be assured that “Picture Day” was the exception on coordinating clothing, not the rule.)
Yesterday afternoon I ended a relationship that I’ve both loved, needed, and relied on for the last five years. Yesterday, I broke up with my shrink. Dr. N is moving to Russia in a couple of weeks (RUSSIA!?! What the WHAT!?!) and won’t be doing the long-distance head-shrinking thing; and as much as I would love to visit Siberia I don’t think that my insurance would cover the plane ticket to Moscow. Admittedly, there is a chunk of me that is scared of trying to do this without her. I’m sure she has great things to do in Russia, but right now I’m harboring a not-so-secret grudge against Siberia At Large for stealing her away. Yesterday was my last appointment with her before her move, and while we talked about a few new developments and she made some excellent points about how to better deal with a few situations and people that are causing me a little grief (my harboring angry thoughts against Russians for her choice to move to their country is not something she condones…I’m working on it, give me a minute), we mostly talked about where I was 5 years ago versus where I am now. People, it has been quite the journey.
I know that sometimes therapy is seen in an ill light, like it’s some sort of blot on an otherwise clean and shiny figure. But I see therapy more like going to the dentist, or getting a tune-up on your car. I get my teeth cleaned every six months, whether I have a cavity or not, whether my incisors have turned black and fallen out or not. I go to the dentist and attempt to chit-chat while his fingers are all up in my mouth. See, it’s called “preventative care”, regular check-ups to prevent your teeth falling out, or, more likely, the need for a root canal or something like that. (And yes, this is a shout-out to my dentist, Dr. McLachlan, good friend and fab dentist. Go see him, he’ll shine your teeth and send you on your way.)
You take your car in for service on a regular basis, whether the “check engine” light comes on or not, whether it is leaking strange fluids or smoking or not. You maintain your vehicle to prevent explosions and cracked engine blocks. Most of the time, with an honest mechanic, there is nothing more to do than change the oil and top off your fluids. But you still take it in for a once-over, right?
Therapy is the same way. It’s preventative mental care to make sure you have figuratively shiny teeth and clean oil. If your therapist is worth his/her weight in salt, they will also be able to diagnose potentially harmful situations, the root canals or seizing engine’s of your emotional well being. There shouldn’t be any kind of stigma about seeing a professional to help you navigate the hardest, trickiest situations in your life. There is, but there shouldn’t be.
So, I see a therapist. And I have seen her on a regular basis for five years. Actually, I began seeing her at the gentle prompting of my former boyfriend, who, by the way, is also my current dentist. (Yep, that’s right. No, it’s never been awkward or weird. He is awesome and his wife is equally awesome.) This not-so-small feat of encouraging me to seek professional help was probably the best thing he ever did for me. I had been single again for only a few months and I thought I was fine. I had made it out of that situation in one piece, and I assumed that’s all it took to be okay. Boy, was I wrong. I was a mess. Dr. Mac (who I nicknamed Berkley) suggested I may want to see someone about some of my stuff, and was so kind and sweet about it, he promised he’d go with me if I wanted him to, he’d sit in the waiting room, or hold my hand in the shrink’s office, whatever I needed. I went alone, but his support was what got me there.
My first appointment I told this complete stranger that I had recently gotten divorced, that it was a messy relationship, and that I wanted to be the best version of myself, and I wasn’t sure how to get there. She asked me to tell her what had happened. At that point in my life I had told this story with all it’s hairy details several times, and I was to the point where I could recite the facts without breaking down into a sobbing mess if I was uninterrupted, and if I didn’t look anyone in the face. I told her it would take me about 45 minutes, and if she could please just listen and ask questions at the end. She agreed, and I launched into the story of the hardest, ugliest, scariest parts of my life; events so recent some of the scars were still red and hurty-looking. I didn’t cry, I didn’t display much emotion at all, actually. I just recited the story, like it had happened to someone else. When I finished I looked up and Dr. N had tears streaming down her face. It was at that point that I realized I probably wasn’t okay, and that I needed to be there.
We went to work, it started out with visits twice a week, I was determined to fix myself and I wanted it to happen as quickly as possible. I read everything she told me to read, did all the little (and big) exercises she had me do, made the lists, dissected the relationships, had the difficult, brutally honest conversations and dug out all the rotten bits. I won’t gloss over this, it was hard. At times it seemed impossible. However, a year later I was seeing her only once a month and doing remarkably well. I was happy, healthy, and had the ability to think rationally and critically about myself, my decisions, and my relationships. Five years later, I’m on the “every three months” appointment track, I have had some ups and downs, but I am happier, healthier, and more rational. I am myself, I am a really good version of myself. I am strong, I am heidikins, I am me.
Dr. N is moving to Russia. I’m still kind of unsettled about the whole thing. She recommended another therapist, but for reasons I can’t necessarily get into right now, it’s complicated and I don’t know if I’ll be taking the recommendation. I figure I have three months to find someone new, right? And until then I will be on my best behavior to prevent my frantically emailing her about some relationship or some boy or something. Project: Find New Shrink Who Will Not Abandon Me For Russia is commencing.
Under normal circumstances, it is pretty difficult to rock me, I usually only fight the Big Fights, and they have got to be pretty important for me to get involved. I don’t lose my temper, I don’t throw a fit, I let most things slide off without a second thought.
When I do get hurt, I usually react like a potato bug/rolly polly/pill bug*. I curl up inside a hard shell and wait until the danger is gone. Then I come back out and mosey along on my way.
Most of the time.
A small, small, percentage of the time when I am poked and prodded long enough and hard enough instead of curling up into a little ball I explode into a puff of thorns and spiky bits. When I get upset and I lose my cool, I turn into a porcupine.
No, not like that. That is an adorably cute baby porcupine with a charming case of bed-head. When I turn into a porcupine, I am not cute, I am terrible. I become a pissed off, barreling ball of spikes and anger heading directly towards your jugular.
It’s not pretty. In fact, it’s downright terrifying for the person on the other end of my rage. And the worst part is at that point, after I’ve been provoked long enough to become a porcupine, I rarely feel much remorse about my explosion. I feel completely justified. The good news is that in the last 6 years I have only lost it twice. I have learned to keep my cool and I know when I’m about to turn into the Wicked Witch (Porcupine?) of the West, and I get out of the situation before that can happen.
Calm down, I won’t chomp down on you and chew you into little bits, nor will I spear you through the face. It takes a hell of a lot of poking to result in my exploding in prickles and biting someone’s head off
This week has been a potato bug kind of week. I’ve been poked, and prodded, and pushed, and barked at, and accused, and bossed around. Last night it kind of came to a head and I spent 45 minutes in the shower sobbing I curled up in my ball, snuggled in an oversized hoodie with my ultimate chick flick and a cookie (or three). I thought that would be it, I’d had my cry cookie and I would be fine.
Nope. Today my boss made me cry.
No, I did not cry in front of him. Nor will I tell him that he made me cry. And no, I do not have a habit of dissolving into tears at work. In fact, this is the FIRST time I’ve ever shed tears of frustration at work. I am completely unfamiliar with the alignment of elements in just such a way that I can no longer keep my shyte together while at the workplace, and I don’t like it. I quickly excused myself to the loo, made myself as small as possible, and had a little cry. Then I washed off my face, gritted my teeth, and went back to work.
I feel like an emotional disaster. Not to say everything is bad, not even close. There are some things that are really great; really really great, exciting, wonderful, you get the idea. But most things are really sensitive and stressful and must be handled carefully; these are my things and also the things that I handle for other people. And after several days (or weeks) of walking on eggshells and juggling all these balls I inadvertently stepped a little too heavily in my 4-inch heels and the whole thing came down in a pile of goo and shattered shells.
I’ll spare you the run down of all that is not going well. Frankly, it’s exhausting to think about (again, some more) and if I get into it I can guarantee that the tears will start leaking again. For now I think I’ll just stay curled up in this little ball and wait for the worst of it to pass. Is this the most adult, responsible, emotionally healthy way to deal with this situation? No. It’s not. But I can feel the porcupine quills flexing and this fight isn’t worth turning into a monster.
*I seriously don’t know what these are supposed to be called. When I was a kid we always called them potato bugs, but doing an image search for potato bugs leads one to these nasty, waspy creatures that I certainly hope are not something that would ever infest a potato crop, because they are creepy looking. I think my nieces and nephews call these critters rolly polly’s, and then the more scientific set refer to them as pill bugs. Which one is the most prominent? Most accurate? Please advise.
On yesterday’s post about doing something to commemorate Lent I got one comment that really struck a chord with me. It wasn’t mean or hateful or anything like that, quite the opposite. It was questioning. This commenter wanted to know why, as a non-Catholic, I would do anything at all to commemorate Lent. She made the point that as a non-Jew she would never consider keeping kosher during Passover simply to show support for her Jewish friends. Firstly, I’d like to thank her for throwing something at me that has been cause for a little contemplation. I was half-way through a lengthy comment-reply when I decided I wanted to skip hijacking my own comments and write this as a separate post. Secondly, I’d like to explore this a little, because I think it’s important.
I think that by celebrating and learning about traditions that are different from our own we learn more about acceptance and respect of new or different people, things, or cultures. And in our world I don’t see that as a bad thing. At all. I think as people we generally fear things we don’t understand, and that fear can quickly lead to hate. I think it is important to learn as much as possible about the history, traditions, cultures and people that surround us. Particularly as the world becomes smaller and smaller through advances in technology and communication.
Most people who celebrate Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, and Halloween–traditional Catholic holidays–are not Catholic. I am not Mexican but I celebrate Cinco de Mayo; I’m not French but I have a crepe party for Bastille Day. I am not Jewish, but I celebrated Hanukkah this year. A friend of mine generously invited me to celebrate with him and his Jewish friends and family, and I loved learning more about the history, the symbolism, the food (oh goodness, the food was to die for), and the religious ceremonies. It was beautiful.
Does that make me less of a Christian? Absolutely not. Was it disrespectful to the Jews or to the Gentiles? No, I don’t think so. Even Christmas, the ultimate Christian holiday, started out as a pagan holiday celebrating the return of light and has since evolved into a hallmark of consumerism. Is there a difference between a traditionally religious ceremony or holiday, like Lent, and something that is now considered much more secular, like Halloween? Absolutely. I am not comparing the two. I am just saying that I only think good things can come from trying to understand, appreciate, and respect other ways of looking at the world. These ceremonies and celebrations are sacred to someone–whether it’s Hanukkah or Solstice or International Talk Like A Pirate Day (an official holiday of The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster)–and should be treated with the appropriate levels of respect. I’m not Jewish, or Catholic, or Pastafarian, but I am human and all of these traditions are part of this human planet on which we all live and take part, and are worth understanding, respecting, and celebrating.
What are your thoughts? I’d love to hear what you have to say.
I am not Catholic, I am so not-keyed-in to the various Catholic-Christian celebrations that I didn’t even remember it was Fat Tuesday until a woman at work announced she’d made Jambalaya for everyone to celebrate. I happily skipped upstairs for some complimentary Mardi Gras beads (no flashing required) and dirty rice.
It didn’t occur to me until later that evening that Mardi Gras signifies the beginning of Lent. I have never celebrated Lent, I’ve never chosen to give something up for 40 days–well, not those 40 days. At any rate, I was thinking all day about attempting to commemorate Lent this year. I read a dozen blog posts about people giving up meat, or sweets, or spending, or whatever. Here’s the thing–I don’t want to be a vegetarian for 40 days. I don’t. I spent all of February in a spend-thrift way, so I’m not about to do that either. What about giving up movies or TV or Facebook? Yep, not gonna happen. I had thought about giving up sugar–but then my order of Girl Scout cookies was conveniently delivered yesterday, and I just don’t see the point of saving those until after Easter. It seems disingenuous to the Girl Scouts. Or something.
(Confession: I ate 2/3 of a box of Samoa’s yesterday. And they were delicious.)
Ok, so I’m a meat eating, sugar loving, media obsessed, money grubbing, non-Catholic. Lent just doesn’t seem like it’s in the cards, right? Well, last night I came up with something that I really like. I’m pretty sure it’s not in the “true spirit” of Lent, but I think it will be tricky for me and therefore counts. For the next 40 days I will write a handwritten note to one person every day. Am I good at this? No. Will I fail? Maybe. Will I attempt? Sure!
What about you, are you celebrating Lent? Are you giving something up? Adding something? Or are you going to celebrate 40 days of Fat Tuesday and then gorge yourself on Cadbury Mini Eggs? (Please tell me I’m not the only one who does that. Please!)
