Tag Archives: identity

My Favorite Thing About Myself

I’m pretty good at thinking of ways that I’m not quite good enough. Lame superpower, I know.

Today, I want to focus on my favorite thing about myself: my willingness to try.

Always Tries Gold Ribbon

It seems that I don’t know when I can’t. I’m not sure who I have to thank for this… the Girl Scouts, perhaps?

I’ve mentioned in the past that I’m not an athlete. This didn’t stop me from saying “Yes” when friends asked if I wanted to join them in the Hustle up the Hancock or ballet classes at the Joffrey. I join my sister in random 5-Ks whenever she suggests we need mobile bonding time. What’s the worst that could happen?

Last Fall, I convinced some people to join me in a jam-making class. Since then, I’ve learned that jaming’s not my jam, but pickling sure is. There are so many things to pickle! I can guarantee you that I’ll be trying a lot of them.

I’m a mad try-hard when it comes to crafts.

I bought a sewing machine on a whim. Seriously. I had no business buying a sewing machine. Since then I’ve made several pillow covers. Two Christmases ago, I decided to make a Snuggie for my sister’s cat. It never occurred to me that I couldn’t make a cat-Snuggie. (Though some may argue that it should have occurred to me that I shouldn’t make a cat-Snuggie).

Will had an ugly chair from a certain well-known Swedish home store. He asked me if I could reupholster it. I said “of course!”

I saw a telephone table on Craigslist and swooped it up faster than you can say “wood stain”. My power sander came in the mail last night.

If I mess up (and believe me, world-o-crafters, I mess up), I just make it into something else. Scrap fabric eventually finds its way into a quilt I’m mending. I’m a firm believer in painting over the ugly and trying again.

I suppose it’s just easy for me to see how little I have to lose by trying. Aside from the sewing machine, I’m not spending big bucks on these endeavors.

Anyway, join me! What is your favorite thing about yourself?

On Vanity

“Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves; vanity, to what we would have others think of us.”

-Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, 1811

My Inner Puritan and I have many struggles with the idea of “Vanity”. I rarely go anywhere without mascara (my eyelashes are blond otherwise!). Until this past year, I insisted on using a flat iron on my stick-straight hair daily.

Vanity vs. Pride in Self

If I learned anything from years of watching What Not to Wear it was that how you present yourself reflects very heavily on how you see yourself. Vanity in this case is a projected, public portrayal of your self-worth. It can go both ways. Sometimes, you feel down so dress “down.” Other times, you know your hair is obeying so you are more outgoing (so more people can see your lovely ‘do).

Don’t even get me started on Pride being another sin in and of itself. My guilt complex may just implode.

Vanity vs. Narcissism

If flights of vanity can be forgiven (or, indeed, are not something about which to seek forgiveness in the event that it is mislabeled pride), narcissism cannot. Right? However, sometimes the line between a “healthy” amount of pride and a “dangerous” level of narcissism is unclear. When is it too much?

Can pride and vanity really be separated that easily? It’s nice to tell yourself that you don’t care what others think of you (vanity) and that all that matters is your own opinion of yourself (pride) but do any of us live up to it regularly?

I was hoping to start a conversation today. Please share your thoughts!

For further reading, I loved the discussion here on Design Mom about make-up as a risk.

{Image: Zahia Dehar in V Magazine / Photography Sebastian Faena / Styling Carlyne de Dudzeele}

I Am: A Ginger

{via}

There’s this man I see almost every day on my walk to work. I smile in acknowledgement as he calls out “Good morning, Red!” It’s a brief interchange. About a year ago, though, he switched up his routine. He starting calling me “Blondie”. I stopped smiling in response.

I am a redhead. I was born with a full head of Ronald McDonald-esque plumage. Sure, it’s gotten lighter since then, but I still strongly identify as ginger, not blonde thankyouverymuch.

Part of my pride comes from a feeling that being a redhead sets me apart. As a child, there  were constant reminders that I was slightly more rare, slightly more precious. My childhood literary heroes – Anne of Green Gables, Pippi Longstocking – were redheads. The Little Orphan Annie was a redhead. With this coloring, surely I was destined for greatness.

I even feign annoyance at what I call The Redheaded Stigma - that being, in part, that I’m related to every other redhead who ever existed. In grade school there was this mysterious “Maggie” a few grades above me whom everyone assumed was my older sister.

In high school I briefly dated (ok, less than “briefly” – it was a two-week summer science camp program in Iowa but whatever) a ginger and people called us “The Kentucky Couple” – implying both that we were related and that people in Kentucky are more prone to date their relatives (sorry, KY, kids are cruel). I’ve even had someone at work protest emphatically when I informed her that the other redhead who sat on our floor was not, in fact, my sister.

Perhaps people are implying that I don’t come across as confident as to who definitively is and is not a member of my immediate family, but I digress.

I get asked with disproportionate frequency if I’m Irish – especially around the middle of March. When people find out my parents are brunettes there are jokes about the mailman’s hair color (or the milkman for people who are dating themselves while questioning my mother’s moral fabric). There are other mild annoyances – one involving tempers, the other involving “carpets” and “drapes” – that I suffer stoically. It’s not easy being Red.

… OK, but yeah. I don’t mind any of this at all. I love being a ginger. I love my orange eyebrows and translucent skin. It is one of my greatest dreams to one day birth wee ginger babies. I love being a member of our special Ginger tribe.

It’s entirely possibly I put too much stock in my hair color. I know I could always dye it if it were to fade further. I realize that we are talking about hair here. Triviality aside, being a Ginger is one of my favorite things about who I am.

I Am: A Reader

Throughout my childhood, books could get me out of all manner of unsavory things. Naps, for instance, could be avoided if I promised to read quietly in my room. 

I got my first library card on a Kindergarten field trip and that following Summer I enrolled myself in the California Raisins Summer Reading Program. We went to the library regularly and I could check out as many books as I wanted. While this often ended in tears as books were lost in the abyss under my bed, it fostered a deep love of reading.

I was always aces at reading competitions. Remember BookIt? My school also did “Read to the Moon” where every page read brought us a mile closer to our celestial goal. I was personally responsible for quite a bit of our travel. I crushed annual reading goals.*

Reading also provided an escape. The Summer I moved to New York I buried myself in Baby-Sitter’s Club books from the local library. Lost in the adventures of Kristy and her friends, I didn’t could ignore my anxiety about starting a new school.

Currently, I’m rarely found without a book in my purse. In fact, I’ve been known to select purses specifically because they are sized right for book-carrying. I’m avid, insatiable, always looking to start the next story. I swap books with friends and family and online via BookMooch. When people tell me they don’t have time to read, I smile and turn back to my book.

Reading is my favorite pass time. Books are slowly taking over my home but, as I tell Will, there are worse addictions.

I am a reader. Reading is a crucial part of who I am.

*Sadly, my early zeal for reading had a dark side. My first instance of plagiarism was forging my mother’s signature on a form attesting to how much I’d read that week. The give away? I’d yet to learn capital letters in cursive.

I Am: These People’s Daughter

One Friday in the Fall of 1994 I was flitting around my bedroom preparing for a school dance. Yes, we had dances in the gym of our Junior High – a scenario straight out of a stereotype. In addition to all the awkwardness that the tween years bring, I was new to the area and completely unsure of myself. That evening’s anxiety was only increased by my inability to find my favorite pair of jeans. Without them, I was toying with the idea of skipping the whole event.

Mom offered to help me search. I assured her the jeans were not in my dresser, MOM!, but – you know what happens next – she walked over to the dresser, opened the second drawer, and there they were. Right on top.

I burst into tears.

“I don’t have a best friend!” I wailed, a sobbing non-sequitur.

“Helena, I’ll be your best friend,” my mother assured me. And she has been.

***

My father taught me to ride a bike. Granted, the whole no-training-wheels push started with a lie. We were months away from leaving Virginia and I was told that no kids in Texas had training-wheels on their bikes. Like every previous bit of wisdom my father bestowed upon me, I accepted it without question and headed to the parking lot at our nearby forest preserve to learn to bike like a big kid.

Dad taught me many key life skills: how to swim, how to drive, how to properly use silverware, that candy was dandy but liquor was quicker, how to properly swaddle a babydoll. He devoted entire summers to improving my math skills, reluctant though I was to participate in such enrichment. He proofread school papers. He never complained when we offered all our friends on the Track team rides home after practice. He was, and is, a model of patience and kindness.

***

Beyond all the obvious bringing-me-into-the-world and feeding-and-clothing-me business, the most lasting impression my parents have had on me is the strong relationship they have with one another. They are totally and completely in love. It’s inspiring to witness.

I Am: This Girl’s Sister

My sister is my role model.

Yep, she’s the little one in the picture. I’m the big one. As the big one, you’d think I’d be the one setting the standards, but I constantly have to challenge myself to be as friendly as Kerry.

Two years ago, Kerry and I welcomed 2009 at a party at the Drake Hotel. Fancy, I know. We were dressed up, coiffed, and ready to dance. Our pre-paid tickets covered the open bar, but tips were still being accepted by the hardworking bartenders staffing the event. I had a wallet full of dollar bills and made sure the bartenders saw me drop one in the designated jar each time I got a drink so they’d know I was a baller.

Kerry seemed surprisingly bad at this show of baller-tude. Her dollars always landed in the jar while the bartender was turned away.

“You’re doing it wrong!” I exclaimed, “you have to do it when they are looking so they know you tipped!”

Kerry told me that she prefered to tip “in private” as there was no need, on her part, for recognition from the bartender. She knew she tipped – no one else needed to. I was humbled by my sister’s quiet kindness.

 

We weren’t the only people ringing in the New Year at the Drake, and many ladies + open bars = much time spent in or waiting for bathrooms. It was in these crowded situations that Kerry glowed. She complimented other girls in line. She smiled at everyone we saw. She was, for a moment, everyone’s friend.

Most memorable was the way she interacted with the Drake housekeeping staff who were working non-stop to keep things clean and orderly. While everyone else – myself included - barely looked at these ladies, Kerry started up conversations asking them about their night. They all lit up with her attention; sunflowers to her sunshine.

We’ve had two New Year’s Eves since that night, but Kerry’s kindness that night lives in the front of my mind and is frequently called upon as a template for my own behavior. Now that she lives around the corner, I can spend time with her whenever I want. Perhaps some of her friendliness will rub off.

** For those of you wondering what the heck Kerry has on her feet, it looks like several pairs of ski socks layered over one another. I’m thinking the snowstorm caught my parents by surprise (we lived in Virginia at the time) and my sister didn’t have boots that fit.

I Am: This Guy’s Girlfriend

Currently, my favorite place on earth is the beige, microsuede couch in my living room. That’s where Will and I curl up to eat dinner, watch movies, or sit to enjoy beer and each other. On the rare occasions when we’re able to coax both cats to join us, I’m positive there’s no greater happiness to be had.

By this point, you’ve heard a lot about Mr. Will. You know that we met online (and, as such, I’m a big fan of online dating). I still can’t believe how lucky I am.

For those of you fit to die at hearing a girl define herself as being “someone else’s girlfriend,” let me assure you that this is no barefoot-in-the-kitchen relationship. Well, I’m barefoot as much as possible, but he’s the one in the kitchen. I prioritize Will and he prioritizes me. It’s a relationship of equals (though he’s a better cook).

Will is incredibly supportive – if I came home today and told him I wanted to quit my job and be a dolphin trainer, he’d pack our bags and look for new homes near Sea World. I love spending time with him. I love who I am when I’m around him. With him beside me, I could be the best damn dolphin trainer Central Florida ever saw.

Will makes me feel like the prettiest, wittiest girl who ever lived. I get told how good I look every morning before I go to work. He’s this blog’s biggest fan.

In our relationship, I’m the big talker. My stories never go from start to finish without a few tangents along the way but Will drinks it all up and stores it away. When I mention something, like my hatred of mangoes, Will remembers that I originally informed him of that on our first date. Why I was talking about mangoes on our first date is beyond me, but I love that he was listening and remembers.

Oh, and I like mangoes now, so you can put your pitchforks away. “Mangoes are Tasty” was one of Will’s first lessons for me.

I love Will. I love being Will’s Girlfriend – it’s one of the greatest facets of who I am.

Who I Am: How My Relationships Define Me

Recently, I’ve been thinking about the ways we define ourselves – what we say when we introduce ourselves to others, how we talk about ourselves. All to often, I think our occupation is our primary identifier. As I’ve said, there are other things I’d rather know about you.

I think I’m best defined by my relationships with the people I love.

It’s these relationships that help me prioritize – my time, my energy, my resources.

See, I’m a list-maker. I’m constantly creating lists, editing lists, crossing things off lists, creating new lists. I even think in lists. This seeming rigidity actually helps me relax. Once things are on a list, I know they are going to get done.

I’ve long maintained that everyone has time for what is important. We’re all busy. We all have demanding jobs or young children or something else eating up our days. In the haze of competing responsibilities, we have to choose what to do with the twenty-four hours we are given each day.

I choose to spend as many hours as possible with the people I love. It’s that simple.

If a task or errand can wait until tomorrow, I’m headed home to spend time with my boyfriend. Invitations for events during the week aren’t accepted until I know which day my sister is coming over to watch The Bachelorette. Wednesday at lunchtime, I have a standing date with my father.

This is not to say that I refuse to attend events if I’m not allowed to bring a friend or that I have no interest in meeting new people. Quite the opposite. I just want to be sure, each day, that the people I love know how important they are to me.

For the rest of the week, I’m going to focus on the three most-important relationships in my life.