For God’s Sake, Sort Yourself Out:

 

You women, you.

VALIDATED:

 

Held Hostage

I fucking hate gynecological exams.

This new research makes me feel like I can actually argue against having to go through them as regularly as they are “recommended” (ie: foisted upon me).

I made an appointment a couple of months ago
to get suspicious lumps in my breasts examined.
The doctor I saw would not examine my breasts
without subjecting me to a pelvic exam.
I was furious, upset, and completely traumatized by that exam,
and it was utterly, entirely pointless for my health.

It’s less about access to birth control for me
and more about not being guilted, forced, or compelled
to let a complete stranger both see me naked and poke around at my cervix.

As the writer says:

“…in a year, I might go back for a checkup with a doctor. But if I do, it will be because I think it’s the right thing to do, not because I don’t have a choice.”

Everything That Rises Must Converge:

 

My extended family is converging on Southern California
for my grandfather’s memorial.

Among the ridiculous things I have done to prepare for this onslaught:

1) Situps and pushups every night because my family is a family of skinny asses, except for me and my mom (thanks for the thighs, MOM)
2) Squats in the shower (see above)
3) White strips for my genetically murky teeth (DAD)
4) Frenetic face washing in the hopes that those pores will shrink (MOM!)
5) Spanx dance
6) Trying on every. single. piece. of. clothing. in my closet because showing your collarbones in my family is immodest
7) Realizing that I own ONE boat-neck blouse, and it is probably “informal”, according to the Boyo
8) Panicking about the correct date to get a manicure, since I will be making floral arrangements for the services
9) Putting a tablespoon of coconut oil on my morning toast, because
Someone Said it will make my skin prettier
10) Dropped almost $300 on a haircut and color so at least
my head looks presentable
11) Started counting calories again

12) Cried.

13) A lot.

 

And if all of this sounds like just so much sturm und drang…
You haven’t interacted with my family.

Because what I should be thinking about are the
memories I have of my grandfather.
What I should be thinking about is how much I’m looking forward
to seeing my cousins again.
What I should be thinking about is how to help my grandmother.

 

I am not.

Because I am not good enough for my parents.
Never have been.
Never will be.
Nor am I good enough for my grandmother.
I was never defended from her acerbic tongue by either of my parents,
not as a child,
certainly not as an adult.

I could show up at the memorial,
dressed to the homeschooled nines
(because we’re not legalists like those Mennonites!)
in an ankle-length jumper,
crewneck blouse,
tights,
and flats,
with my hair hidden under a long-ass wig,
and my family would still find something to criticize.

Your ELBOWS are showing! HUSSY.

 

That’s just what they do.

Thirty years of this,
and I am still voiceless.

 

So I will do what I have always done:

Go.
Wear something reasonable.
Smile.
Say very little.
Find a corner to hole away into every couple of hours.

 

I wish my sister was coming.

 

Update: Sister was able to get a ticket after all!
I am so, so grateful that she will be there.

Yesternight’s Workout:

 

x5
200m run
10 pushups
10 squats
1 min plank

…

Nothing really to say about this one,
except that it was good to be with LauraJane.

 

I often miss what my home was like, two years ago.

With Jessie, Lexi, Laura, me.
Deniece next door.
People over every Sunday night.
Mary still in Santa Clarita.
And later,
Tam and her wonderful clarinet practicing.
Katie and the scent of her paints.

I miss Disneyland with Lex.
I miss getting ready in the morning with Jess.
I miss giggling with Laura.
I miss girl days with Mary.
I miss Project Runway with Tam.
I miss the *hours* of talking with Katie.

 

It’s not like friendship is so much harder
when your friends aren’t living with you…
and yet…it is.

It’s still worthwhile.
It’s still there.

It’s just that I no longer fall asleep,
knowing that the women who love me are in the room next to mine.
And that hurts a little bit.