Of Holy Communion, Confession and Second Grade

Children dream big. It is only later that reality crushes those dreams out of existence.

When I was very small I knew what I wanted to be: I wanted to grow up to be Ricky Nelson. So what if I was a girl? Did it matter that I was denied the basic training for music, dance and acting as a child? You can, I was told, grow up to be anything you want to be.

           

Stages never scared me. How wonderful it is to stand on a stage and perform. It wasn’t frightening, like walking up to a child you didn’t know and asking if you could be friends, knowing rejection was the most likely outcome.

When you performed on a stage, people came to see you and paid money for the privilege. They weren’t waiting to boo you or walk away. Instead, they would applaud and smile and ask for your autograph.

           

I lived a good bit of my childhood in my head, turning the names of my brothers’ friends into characters I could become as I played alone in the back yard or swam in the pool.

The pretend world I created was so vivid to me that I usually forgot that any other children were not privy to it, and when I said something related to it, they didn’t know what I was talking about. Instead of asking, they’d look at me oddly and tell me I was weird.

           

I was used to that. My brothers called me worse things than weird, and even my own mother told me I was strange. Repeatedly.

If I didn’t know something, my brother would say I was stupid. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t learned it yet because he was four years older. The fact that I didn’t know everything he did meant I was stupid.

           

School was a different matter entirely. It wasn’t everything I was promised. We learned something new and then spent the next two weeks having it repeated eternally, so, I assumed, even the most brick-headed student would know it.

This of course caused me to miss the fact for years that I can’t memorize things by reading them; I memorize by hearing things. While I think I have somewhat of a photographic memory, often the photos don’t turn out.

Because of the slow and repetitious nature of the classroom, added to the fact that my bad handwriting caused me to have to write my homework over several times before my mother was satisfied with it, my hand spent more time in the air than folded in obedient stasis on my desk. 

When called on in class, I could give the answer. It wasn’t a matter of pride to me; hearing the same thing droned into your ears day after day, how could you not give the answer?

Yet for all of my shrugging off answering in class, I was hounded and what would now be called bullied for doing well in school.

           

“You think you’re a big shot,” was hurled in my direction more often than, “Hi, how are you?”

           

Why would I think I was a big shot? Because I could spell? Because I got 100 on a math test? Because I could tell which verb part to use in a sentence? Because I was almost never called on to read, since the teacher knew I could? Because I was sent to the back of the room for talking? 

My art projects were always failures, and I could never manage to write on the lines. Those were the important things to me, and in those matters I was a failure.

Big shot? School felt to me like hanging from a window sill, afraid that someone would slam the window down on my fingers.

I tripped up the stairs. I couldn’t cut on or color inside the lines. I didn’t know how to jump rope. I was a slow runner, and therefore, always “it” in a game of tag.

I essentially had no friends. Yes, I was allowed to hang around with someone for a week or two, but that was it. That wasn’t being a big shot to me; that was total failure.

At home, there were no girls in my neighborhood who were my age, and I was forbidden to play with boys. Most of the girls on my block and the next were a year or two older than I was. Until the teen years, that’s massive.

The rest were a year or two younger. That’s also massive, but younger was easier to get along with – until they decide they don’t want to play with you. Then you’re a big shot.

Then there was my big, empty yard to play in, with swings, a sliding board, a tree fort and a sand box. How could I possibly need other children?

           

When I was seven, there was a five-year-old girl who liked me. She was allowed to cross the street to come to my house to ask if I could play (when I was five, I wasn’t allowed to cross the street alone). 

My mother discouraged me from playing with her because she was so much younger than I was, but if she came to my door and I was home, it meant I had no one else to play with, so my mother didn’t want to be so cruel as to forbid me from going to her house. Her name was Sheila.

           

Sheila would play with me for about ten minutes, and then lose interest and go off somewhere else.

That didn’t bother me. She had a seven-year-old brother who was in my class at school. He and I got along very well, and he was always interested in playing some game or other with me when I came over – in fact, I think that’s why Sheila went off somewhere else.

The other children in school would tease that Michael was my boyfriend. He wasn’t. We were just pals. We played cowboys or soldiers or tree climbing or whatever other things I wasn’t allowed to play at home.

He never kissed me or tried to. In fact, that kind of thought never crossed either of our minds. He was the one person who didn’t mind that I could answer questions at school, who never, ever called me a big shot.

           

My parents were surprised when I was invited to Michael’s eighth birthday party. I was surprised that they let me go, since I wasn’t allowed to play with boys. And it still rates as one of the best birthday parties I ever attended.

           

I never told my parents that I spent my time playing with Michael and not Sheila. They wouldn’t have let me go to his house if I did.

I didn’t think of that as lying. I could never understand how not volunteering information was lying when you didn’t actually say anything. It might be a sin, but it wasn’t lying.

           

Sin was a big deal in second grade, although now I’m not sure whether or not a seven-year-old is capable of actual sin. I was far more afraid of my parents than God, if he existed – although I believed he did, just in case, since I’d never actually met him – and at the time I was a bit skeptical of whether or not people in history, like Caesar and George Washington were real.  I thought maybe they were like fairy-tales, and teachers made them up so they’d have something to teach.

I had already learned that a little lie that didn’t hurt anyone but kept you from being punished was preferable to having a grownup make a big deal out of something that wasn’t important, and hounding you about it for a year.

Like the time I went to a report card conference with my mother when – other than art, handwriting and orderliness – history and geography were my only two bad grades. I was in fifth grade by then.

The teacher asked me if I liked history and geography. That particular year, I did not. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by expressing hatred for something she taught, and I didn’t want to have to hear about it every time I answered incorrectly, so I said, “I guess.”

           

Now, I knew lying was wrong, but I figured I could make up for something that small long before I had to apply for my ticket to heaven. God wasn’t going to give me extra homework or yell at me as my parents or teacher would, so I decided to tell the lie and do the Hail Mary to make up for it instead.

But back to second grade, I tried to be an accurate student.

           

I found my First Communion prayer book not too long ago, with its pre-Vatican II Latin responses and pictures of a much different-looking Mass than what people see today. I also found, tucked in the pages, a paper with a list written in my second-grade handwriting.

It was a list of sins I’d committed since the previous visit to Confession. I wanted to be accurate so I wouldn’t commit an additional sin of lying to the priest in Confession by giving an incorrect account of my failings.

I’m not sure whether or not I brought the list with me to Confession, but it’s  documentation of what I thought I was doing wrong at the time.

           

Children’s understanding of wrongdoing is amusing. I wonder if other children thought to impress the priest by confessing to a murder or theft they hadn’t committed (I never did).

But so many of the commandments, at least the way they used to be worded, were difficult to understand. I knew lying was wrong, but I could never find a commandment saying that. There was one about bears, which made no sense to me.

And my classmates didn’t understand the word “covet”. They usually mispronounced it as “cover”. What would be wrong with covering your neighbor’s things? What if it was raining? Should you just leave them out there to get wet?

           

God had some strange rules. His were even odder than the ones my parents had, like looking up and down before you crossed the street. Shouldn’t you look for cars? But then, God could turn into a wafer, so I wasn’t too surprised.

           

By second grade, I was pretty good at riding my bike. The training wheels were gone and I had even learned to ride around corners.

I still had minor accidents, like the time I decided I was going to let go of the handlebars because I wanted to learn to ride without holding on, as I had seen some of the older kids do. I wasn’t sure how that was accomplished, so I decided to let go and count. As soon as the bike got a bit wobbly, I’d grab the handlebars again. Once the bike was steady, I’d try again.

           

I could ride for a fast count of ten. My goal one day was to wait until I reached twenty. So, as I started down my street, I let go. I reached ten.

On the next try I was almost able to reach fifteen.  Almost was close. I let go again, determined to reach twenty. The road slanted down slightly as I counted. I could feel the wobblies return, but determination won out, and I didn’t grab the bars.

As the bike started to fall over, I was only to eighteen, but I grabbed the handlebars once again, just as Jimmy, a seventh-grade boy who lived across the street was walking past. I was too late, and the bike went completely over, with me on the street below it. I couldn’t seem to get myself up, and Jimmy didn’t give me a second glance.

Finally, I called out to him, and he grudgingly, picked up my bicycle so I could stand up. As soon as I was off the road and able to take the bike, he let it go, leaving me to my cuts and scrapes, and went on his way.

           

School might be easy, but being a second grader was definitely difficult.

Ms. Manners’ Rules of Etiquette

Americans need to grow up.

I can see the eye roll coming if I say, “When I was younger – or as some like to say, back in my day -- people were more responsible.” But it’s true.

When I was growing up we were taught from a young age that each of us had responsibilities. We learned our responsibilities long before we were given our freedoms. Complaints of, “It isn’t fair!” were met with, “Life isn’t fair,” or “I’ll show you fair,” followed by the threat of worse things to come.

And there were consequences. If you chose to break your new toy, Mommy didn’t run out and buy you a new one. No, that was one less toy you had. And you were punished for the willful disregard for how hard your parents had to work to provide you with the pleasures they never had.

School was our job as children. You were taught, and given homework to help you better understand what you had been taught. You weren’t rewarded for doing what you were supposed to. There were no toys, stickers or parties because you completed a page of multiplication table exercises. The only stars on papers were for 100% on a test – if that particular teacher did stars, or on a piano lesson page once it had been mastered.

It wasn’t all drudgery. We had actual recess, not what passes for recess now recess. Today it’s  about 10 – 15 minutes of children standing around talking or screaming, with one or two running around.

When I was younger it was 30 minutes in the morning and an hour at lunch outside, every day, unless it was actively raining. There were no heat indices or wind-chill factors. We went outside to run, play tag, jump rope or play hopscotch. Yes, a few sat on the pavement to play Jacks. The only people standing around were the teachers who were guarding us and the upper classes who thought they were too cool to “play.”

No one mollycoddled us. If it was cold, you were expected to dress appropriately: coat, hat and gloves. If you lost or forgot any of these, oh well. That would teach you to remember. Since I attended Catholic school, replete with uniforms, if it was hot, you could offer your suffering up for the poor souls in Purgatory.

I’m sure there were children with asthma when I was in school, although I didn’t know any.  Perhaps someone, somewhere was allergic to peanut butter, but again, I didn’t know that individual. There were no bans on any particular food at our school.

If a teacher accused you of wrongdoing, you were guilty unless you could demonstrate that you had not done the act. Even if your parents didn’t agree with the punishment, the teacher ruled in the classroom, and you were punished. In our family, if you got in trouble at school, just wait till you got home!

Parents didn’t show outrage over a teacher rightly or wrongly accusing their child of wrongdoing. Even if you were not in the wrong, it was more than likely that your parents would say, “Well, I’m sure you got away with something else at some point, so this is punishment for that.” No one got a free pass at school for not being read their Miranda rights.

Report cards were like an annual review at work. We were expected to do well. If we didn’t, our parents worked with us on the subject until we understood it. If we did well, you might get such high praise as, “Good job.” There were no prizes for good grades. No money passed hands.

If you wanted to join a sports team, the expectation was that you could play the sport. You had to try out, and if you weren’t good enough, you didn’t get on the team. If you didn’t listen to your coach, you didn’t get to stay on the team. But you learned how to work as a team, and that you don’t always win at everything.

Adults took responsibility, too.

They didn’t leave it to the village to raise their children – although if you did something wrong in the neighborhood, an adult who wasn’t your parent didn’t hesitate to reprimand you for it.

Parents didn’t send you off to school with the expectation that school would teach you everything. You knew how to tie your shoes, zip your coat, wipe your own nose – and bring your own tissues with you – and use appropriate manners long before you set foot in school. Parents helped you with homework, or at least made sure you got it done.

Other families did things differently, but in my family, we received an allowance that was unrelated to any tasks we were expected to do in the home. The purpose of the allowance was to teach us how to responsibly handle money. That money was ours to do with as we pleased. It wasn’t much: a dime, a quarter, and you had to be in high school before you got a whole dollar. But the point was, we had our own money. And payday was Friday after dinner.

My parents bought us gifts for Christmas and our birthdays. That was it. It was a rare treat for them to buy us toys for no reason at all. So, if we wanted something else, it was our responsibility to save allowance money to buy it.

Parents and other adults took responsibility for themselves and their families. Yes, there were, I’m sure, those who didn’t, but the majority did. And I’m sure today the same holds true, but what we see is more disarray.

Adults had certain rules they played by. One was that religion and politics weren’t discussed in polite conversations. That didn’t necessarily hold true if you were having a private conversation with a friend or co-worker. But people were generally civil when discussing these things.

 In a conversation between two people of different Christian faiths, no one told the other they weren’t Christian because their beliefs were different. Friends could disagree on politics, but it didn’t turn into a bloodbath of invective and name-calling. Politics generally didn’t create violence against those who disagreed.

No, things weren’t perfect.

We had racism.

We had religious sectarianism.

We had sexism.

We had McCarthyism.

GBLTQ identification was considered criminal.

People with physical, mental and developmental difficulties were labeled “Retarded” and “Crippled” and kept out of the mainstream.

But is it really better now?

Some of it is slowly getting better.

Those with physical, mental and developmental difficulties are now seen rather than being “put away.” They are mainstreamed in the public schools. Buildings and sidewalks are designed to allow them access. But there are still those who stare, still those who judge someone who “looks normal” and parks in a handicapped space, regardless of whether or not they have the appropriate card or license plate.

The GBLTQ community is actually that now. People are allowed to be open about who they are, and live their lives openly. But there is still a stigma. Businesses are still legally allowed to refuse to serve these people by stating “religious objections.” Despite their increased visibility, people in the GBLTQ community continue to face discrimination and hate crimes.

McCarthyism did die, but not before unjustly ruining people’s lives. It should forever stand as a stain on our national reputation. It should stand as a warning to us now and to future generations.

A bit harsh? Look around at what is happening politically now. Those who are supposed to be our leaders are condoning muzzling the media or anyone who doesn’t share their view. Some might call it rhetoric, but it stops being rhetoric when  people are gunned down for stating views opposed to what those leaders espouse. No, not McCarthyism. Far worse, although made of similar fabric.

Sexism is far from over. While not as overt in our media as it once was, sexism is alive and well. The “Me too” movement has exposed something people generally think of as either a policy that was carried out during the “Golden Age” of film or a given if you want to get ahead in acting. That anyone could be complacent is outrageous.

It isn’t just in the acting industry that this goes on. Everything from the little slights like being told you can’t do something because, “You’re just a girl,” (which I hope doesn’t still happen, but I’m sure it does) to military personnel being raped by their colleagues is part of the continuing sexism that goes on in this country. As long as any of those things occur here, we will be a sexist country.

Religious sectarianism never went away.  The venue simply changed.

Instead of Catholics and Jews having to worry about being openly discriminated against, it’s mostly Moslems. Don’t get me wrong, the Catholics and Jews still face moments of discrimination, albeit less overt most of the time, although recent events have proven that anti-semitism is still too much alive, but it seems to have become acceptable to hate Moslems. Sikhs get pulled into the discrimination because the bigots can’t tell a Sikh from a Moslem.

Even Protestants don’t get off scot free. In some places, you can be Christian, but if you’re not Christian enough (i.e. Evangelical “Christian”) you just aren’t good enough.

Of course, those who call themselves “Christian” and set themselves up as judge and jury to those they meet are hardly espousing Christ’s rules or example. If you’re truly Christian, you should be quoting the Beatitudes or the Gospels, not Leviticus.

It’s enough to make me want to be an atheist so that everyone can tell me I’m going to hell. I wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t believe in it.

And then we get to racism. Until about three years ago, I was under the happy delusion that racism was gradually going away. Look at all the interracial marriages. We don’t have race riots any more (for the most part). People I know don’t care what color you are. Besides, I was raised to treat everyone equally, regardless of race, creed, gender, sexual identity, ancestry, etc. Boy, was I deluded!

It isn’t a matter of how many days or weeks go by between reports of violence against people of color. It’s a matter of how many people of color were victims of violence today.

Yes, it’s a two-way street. But by far, people of color are more likely to have violence done to them. In today’s society the people of color includes those of Hispanic/Latino heritage. Our so-called leaders are making them out to be criminals, regardless of their age, sex or actual background simply because of their ethnic heritage.

But why do things seem to be going backwards rather than forwards?

There is no one reason but there does seem to be a general laxity of what is appropriate that has been going on for decades.

It starts with a lack of respect, both for ourselves and others.  The “I don’t have to respect you because I don’t like you,” attitude of the schoolyard bully that isn’t corrected while the person is still young. It continues with lack of simple common decency, also known as good manners. And it escalates into a lack of responsibility. “It wasn’t my fault!” may be expected from a six-year-old, but shouldn’t be tolerated, even then.

These things have been more and more widely accepted over the course of years. We’ve devolved into a people who don’t dare correct someone because, even to beep your horn at someone who has failed to notice the light has changed could get you shot. And in certain states, that shooter won’t even be charged with a crime because they were just “standing their ground.”

Even if this is an exaggeration,  the litigious nature of this country makes people afraid to take action. If I reprimand your child for being a brat – even though I would never actually call him/her that to their face – you might sue me.

Americans have become a polarized, wussy bunch of whiners, yet it’s mainly the lazy, couldn’t-be-bothered variety who deserve the largest portion of blame for the country being the way it is.

Americans need to stand up and start taking some responsibility.

Everyone is quick to blather on about their rights. Yet no one bothers to acknowledge that every right bears a responsibility. As they say in science (which really does exist): To every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

You have the right to cross the street. But if you don’t take the responsibility of looking both ways before you cross, you may be hit by a car. And yes, it is your fault.  That’s how responsibility works.

America may not be any worse in these things than any other country (that’s a whole different debate), but it certainly isn’t any better. What is needed is for Americans to grow some integrity. You are responsible for what you do, and if either good or harm comes of it, it’s entirely your fault.

Don’t like something? Fix it. Do something. America is in the state it’s in because people left if to the other guy.

And please, don’t allow politics to divide us. I have friends who hate my politics. And I hate theirs. But politics aside, we’re decent people, so like the polite people we were raised to be, we don’t discuss politics and we remain friends.

Adventures in Travel Packing part II

Last month I discussed the trials and tribulations of traveling with a large, somewhat heavy suitcase. This month I continue with the theme of travel packing.

Having researched, I have found that the lightest luggage out there is a 24-inch, 6.5 lb. case.  I was able to pack for a month in one that size, although mine was about 10 lbs. That is a major difference. But since I was able to get everything in that size, I don’t need anything bigger.

Now that the luggage has been taken care of, the next hurdle is what to pack.

Personally, enough underwear and socks to last my stay plus one extra in case of flight delays is essential. If you don’t wear socks, you have that much more room.

My rule of thumb is three days for each shirt and three or four days for each pair of trousers. If you’re more fastidious than that – or a sloppy eater – you might want two days each. If you need an outfit for each day, this specific blog is probably not for you.

I don’t recommend wearing the same thing two days in a row. Your clothes need time to air out.  Also, you may not want people to notice you’re wearing the same outfit you wore yesterday.

  The sniff test can help determine whether or not your clothes are acceptable – along with whether or not you have any obvious stains on your clothes. Last month I mentioned spraying your clothes with Febreze. I noticed their commercials now recommend the same thing.

In addition to clothes, I recommend a washcloth – a flannel for the British reader. Maybe it’s just me, since I prefer baths, but if I take a shower where the shower head is attached to the wall, I find it difficult to get completely rinsed everywhere, so a washcloth is a great help. Unfortunately, washcloths are one of those things that have fallen out of favor, at least in Europe, so most hotels and B&Bs don’t provide them, although most places do provide towels.

A washcloth is also helpful if you don’t like those air hand dryers in public washrooms. Many places no longer have paper towels. I find the air dryers don’t actually dry my hands, and I end up using my shirt as a towel. Washcloths are also more environmentally friendly than either paper towels or using the electricity for the dryers.

Of course, as with anything else, if you don’t find washcloths useful, don’t bother. But if you do bring one, I recommend a zip-lock bag to store it in, in case you have to pack it before it’s dry.

Speaking of things to dry yourself off with, you might also want to pack a towel. While they are usually provided by B&Bs and hotels,  if you’re using youth hostels or some other uber-cheap place, or if you plan to go swimming during your travels, you may want to pack a towel.

And while you’re at it, pack a bathing suit, just in case. If you don’t plan to swim, don’t bother.

When choosing what clothes to pack, know your country’s climate. My vacations have generally been in late spring or summer, so a winter vacation might require bulkier clothes and a bigger suitcase.

Most of Europe would usually be warm or hot in summer, so shorts or capris are suitable for women most of the time, and a couple of pairs of lightweight trousers, especially for evening.  If you’re going somewhere dressy, a pair of dress trousers and a blouse that won’t wrinkle easily, or a non-fussy dress are easy choices.

If you do decide to bring shorts I recommend that shorts be at least finger-tip length, especially if you’re touring places of worship.

Tops can be whatever you like to wear, but it should be noted that in some countries, if you’re visiting places of worship, women are expected to have their shoulders covered, so if you plan to wear sleeveless tops, bring a shawl or sweater for these visits.

 In a few countries, the places of worship have loaner shawls, but without knowing how many other people have worn that shawl, or when it was last laundered, I’m not sure I’d want to borrow one.

Men should pack a combination of shorts and lightweight trousers, depending on their style, and golf or polo shirts. Casual trousers and golf shirts are generally as dressy as is necessary in most places. If you’re going somewhere dressier, a dress shirt, dress trousers, sports coat and possibly a tie might be in order. But leave them home unless you know you’ll need them.

 I’ve been told that nothing makes one stand out as American faster than T-shirts and jeans, but I don’t think this is true any longer, considering the number of Europeans I’ve seen dressed this way. I think it’s more what’s written on the T-shirts that makes one appear especially American. My recommendation is to steer clear of political statements on clothing.

The UK and Ireland are generally cooler in summer than other places in Europe. However, it’s important to check the current weather. When I went they were experiencing a drought, and the temperatures were much warmer than average. While I packed a couple of pairs of shorts, some of the trousers were a bit too warm. But on one day when it was particularly cool, I was thankful for the long sleeve shirt I packed.

It’s always a good idea to be prepared for rain. While an umbrella is always in my suitcase, wind can make it useless. If you carry a day bag/backpack, a poncho that fits over you and your backpack is a good idea. They make great ones that fold into a pocket on the front of the poncho, which makes it very compact.

An alternative (and a good idea anyway) is a waterproof windbreaker. It’s usually enough for chilly evenings, and doesn’t necessitate an extra rain coat.

Shoes are a major part of the packing process. If you have dress clothes packed, you’ll likely need a pair of dress shoes. Additionally, a pair of slippers or flip-flops is a good idea in just about any country. I usually pack a good pair of comfortable shoes for walking. I pack them because I want to wear an easy pair of slip-ons to get through TSA at the airport.

If you have a good pair of walking shoes that also happen to be slip-ons, or if you simply don’t care about having to take extra time with shoelaces on top of everything else at the airport, then you can get away with one less pair of shoes. But depending on how long your vacation is, a second pair of shoes for touring isn’t a bad idea.

Jewelry: less is more. Unless you’re going somewhere dressy, you don’t need it. If you typically wear a bracelet or necklace of some sort, bring only your usual – or you’d probably be wearing it anyway, so it won’t take up any room. If you have pierced ears, two or at most three pairs are more than enough. I recommend putting them in some sort of pouch so that they’re all together and easier to find.

Where you pack your things is also important if you have checked luggage.

I only use my phone as a back-up camera, and I usually bring a laptop/tablet mainly to download my pictures before I forget where they were taken. So I have a carry-on for camera, laptop, phone and sundry small things, such as toothbrush and toothpaste for overnight flights. Wet wipes to clean off your feet after going through TSA isn’t a bad idea.

On my latest trip,  my flight was delayed, so I had to take a different plane to get to Dublin. With a delay you’d think there would be no luggage problem. Not so.

I got there but my bag took an extra 12 hours to arrive.  So, now I recommend packing a change of clothes (at the very least, underwear) in the carry-on.

It’s also a good idea to make a list of everything you plan to pack. Check it frequently as you pack. Check off items as you put them in your bag, and ask yourself if you really need each item. Once everything is packed, put a copy of that list in your carry-on in case you luggage is lost. You will need to be able to list what was in it. It’s also a good idea to leave a copy of that list at home.

As far as packing, there are many theories about what is best. Some recommend cubes, others rolling clothes and still others, vacuum bags.

I use a combination of these. I don’t find that rolling clothes keeps them from wrinkling, but they do take up less room that way. Vacuum bags can be difficult to flatten for the trip home unless you can find a means to vacuum out the air.

It’s important to find what works best for you. Try different methods in a pre-vacation run-through. A method can be great for compacting things, but miserable when you’re trying to find them. Packing depends on what is comfortable for you.

And lastly, don’t forget to have a great vacation.

Adventures in Travel Packing, Part I

Most of my friends would agree, I think, that I’m reasonably well-travelled. So when they take a trip they  often ask me how much of each item to bring on a given trip.

I admit I have packing lists based on country or state – or time of year – and length of stay. I’m not obsessive. I’ve simply made packing lists for vacations and never bothered to delete them.

It simplifies things for the next vacation. And I’ve updated several of them based on what did or did not work.

Having just returned from my longest trip since my semester abroad in the ’70s, I have learned some valuable lessons: chief among them finding lighter, more compact items.

 Recently, I was away for a month. While some practical people would assume I’d do laundry at some point, that was not part of my agenda (And yes, I do have that much underwear).

Why not?

The first two weeks I was with family members. They had only the two weeks, and I didn’t want to take away from their tour opportunities to do laundry.

Next, I had four days on my own to discover some places I’d never been to before in Northern Ireland. Being in new territory not only meant opportunities to explore, but also no idea where to find a laundromat. The only time I saw one in all of Ireland was on the way out of Dundalk on my way to Dublin Airport.

The third leg of my trip was a week in County Donegal for a total emersion Irish language course. We spent all day in class, and most of the evening in enrichment events, such as Celtic Dance, story-telling sessions or going to the pub for the craic (although pronounced crack, it has nothing to do with drugs). There was nowhere and no time to do laundry.

My final three days involved meeting and spending time with distant relatives, and by then, there was little point in doing laundry. If my cousins didn’t like seeing me in the same trousers and shirt two days in a row they were too polite to say so. It was the last of my clean clothes.

Most people don’t think about finding laundromats. They simply assume they exist. After all, when was the last time you used one? For me, it was 1979 in Manchester, England.

Hotels may do your laundry for you, but the charge is usually high. I’m generally trying to save money for important things, like seeing someplace new, so using a hotel laundry is out of the question. Besides, I mainly stay in inexpensive hotels or B&Bs. While they may offer ironing boards or hair dryers, laundry is not part of the deal.

Assuming doing laundry while vacationing is off the table, here are a couple of suggestions.

Some people do their “delicates” in the bathroom sink. A good option, but personally, I never feel like they’re really clean unless they’ve been scrubbed on a rock by a professional washerwoman (or man). But that’s me.

Febreeze.

I was introduced to this concept by a fellow traveler, and by the fact that they sell travel-sized containers of it in places like Target and the local drug store.

At the end of the day, spray your outer clothes in the areas they may develop odors with the Febreeze. Hang them up and plan on a different outfit for the next day. When you come back to them, they will most likely smell clean.

A clothes brush (or your hair brush if you’re desperate – I am talking discount travel).

 If you spill something other than drinks or oil on your clothes, once it’s dry, you may well be able to give the clothes a good strong brushing and remove the offending dirt/stain. Wine and olive oil, I’m afraid, do not respond to brushing.

If you do spill wine, oil or something similar on clothes you’d like to wear again, by all means, rinse the area with cold water as soon as you can, and do a spot clean with soap and water. It may or may not work.

Now that we have laundry out of the way, I discovered a few things about my luggage.

Over the years, I have had a variety of cases for traveling. I have whittled those down to three different sizes. And for me, any that are large require wheels and pull handles.

My largest isn’t the largest size made. It’s just too big to fit as carry-on. It’s about 27 inches. But it is large enough for me to fit at least two weeks’ worth of clothes in it, with room for a souvenir sweater or two. I generally only use this when I’m traveling overseas or other places that allow a free checked bag. (Obviously, there are certain airlines I don’t fly.)

However, this trip I discovered, not for the first time, that, when it’s fully loaded,  I can barely lift this bag on and off trains and buses or up a flight of stairs.

If I’m going on a cruise, where we’re picked up at our doorstep, dropped off at the airport, and then chauffeured to our ship, where all lifting and carting is done by someone else, this bag is just fine.

If, as it happened this trip, you are on your own for the lifting – or if you can’t afford/ don’t do the airport limo – you can hope for the kindness of strangers, which I found in abundance in Ireland. But be prepared to fend for yourself.

The fending for myself has made me want to look for a lighter-weight case for my big trips.

My second case, which is the largest carry-on size, is my go-to for under two-week trips. If I get creative, or most of my clothes are shorts and T-shirts, I can get away with it for a two-week trip. It’s all a matter of finding the packing method that works for you. I use packing cubes and some rolled clothes. I find rolling actually does make them take up less space. The downside is that larger items (shirts, trousers) tend to wrinkle, so if you don’t like ironing, they may be better flat.

The down side to the second case is that it is the same construction as the large one, so that, when stuffed to the gills, with the expansion part open, it’s nearly as heavy as the bigger case. But it’s still manageable, as long as I keep up with my fitness program.

The third case is a weekender, designed to fit under the seat of an airplane (and it actually does!). I can pack for a week in this. If you’re flying and need leg room, you’d want to put this one in the overhead compartment. If you’re like me, and short, this one will suit a short vacation when using those ultra-stingy flights that don’t let you use the overhead without charge. (I never fly the airlines that don’t even allow carry-on without charge.) And it’s lightweight.

You may think, at this point, why not ditch the large one and use the two small ones? Well, they’re both on wheels, which is great for pavement walking, but cumbersome when going up and down stairs or getting on and off trains.

Generally, I have a second bag, my true carry-on, cleverly posing as my computer bag. It’s a backpack. This is for my electronics and the insignificant things like passport, wallet and keys.

When traveling overseas or somewhere I think I might need entertainment like email and Facebook, I pack my Surface, which is a pseudo-laptop. I know, Blue Scream will rant it’s not called that. It’s a sort-of tablet with an attachable keyboard. But that’s my name for it.

In addition to the Surface (which I also use to download and title any pictures I take before I forget what they are of), I have my phone, my DSLR camera, a Kindle, an iPod, a converter and a plastic bag with any small liquids I may need before I arrive at my destination.

Ok, at this point, you’re probably shaking your head and saying I’m over-packed. Let me ‘splain it to you.

Yes, my phone takes pictures. But I don’t find the quality or the ability to take anything more than instamatic shots to be very good. Yes, I could get all the gadgetry to turn it into an alien being that takes the sorts of pictures my DSLR does. But the DSLR is already set up for that.

However, the DSLR is big and clunky and it is probably the heaviest item in my backpack, making carrying the backpack almost as trying on my muscles as lifting the big case. I am looking into getting a smaller, lighter version that isn’t simply a point-and-shoot.

Yes, I have the Kindle app on my phone. But it eats up battery almost as quickly as using the phone as a camera (I’ve used up battery power while touring around and needed a back-up camera). I would have to be in constant contact with a recharge station in order to multi-task the phone in this way.  Also, I prefer a larger medium for reading than that little screen. And the Kindle stays charged the whole trip without a recharge.

 For very short sessions I will read on the phone, or use it to take a few pictures so I’ll have the place recorded. But long term, the phone doesn’t have enough battery power or storage for me to give up my over-packing ways.

I also have access to the internet on my phone, but I don’t like the way it accesses it. And overseas, unless you get a special plan, there is a charge for data and calls. Why pay for an extra plan when I already have internet access on my Surface?

And let’s not forget the iPod. Yes, I could somehow get music on my phone. However, I’m not sure how that works or if I can multi-task the phone to play music while I’m doing something else with it. And how much battery does that eat? As long as I have a perfectly good iPod that works and still isn’t full, why not use it?

Ok, I could leave the iPod home. I really only use it on the plane. And there are generally pretty good movies on the plane that Blue Scream was never interested in seeing, so I missed.

One thing I regret leaving home this time was the noise-reduction headphones. I usually use these with the iPod, but since I got ear buds that actually do fit my ears (long story), I decided the headphones were too cumbersome, since I usually only use them on the plane.

Bad move! On the flight home this time, there was a toddler who screamed throughout the entire flight (except take-off and landing, when most babies cry). Having experience with children, I could tell this was not a fear or pain scream, it was a brat scream (The accompanying behavior made this obvious), which his caregivers did nothing to make stop.

This is where noise reduction headphones become a necessity. Had I only packed them, I could have had seven blessed hours of just listening to movies or even a peaceful nap. But no. Seven hours of some 3-year-old screaming for no very good reason made it difficult to even hear the movie through my iPhone earbuds.

On my next trip I will carefully think through whether I’m going to read enough to bring the Kindle. If I can also find a smaller, lighter DSLR camera, that would allow me to bring a smaller backpack (which I already have). But the noise-reduction headphones will definitely be in it.

Lessons learned: Think carefully before packing; find lighter suitcases; find a smaller camera; reading may be fundamental, but do it on a smaller screen when traveling.

Tune in next month, when the topic of the blog will be: Adventures in Packing, part II, in which I will discuss the things inside the suitcases.

The Not-So-Okay Corral

Want to start an argument with an American? Mention guns.

For most Europeans, I may be preaching to the choir. I’m not sure some Americans understand quite how provocative guns are in your own society. It goes to the subject of violence, something taken for granted in large swaths of America: there is it; what can you do?

Yet in the rest of the free world, violence is more shocking, whether terroristic or man vs man, because it happens far less frequently. Disagreements, or even bumping into someone is not a usual cause for bullying or violence outside America. A quick, “Sorry,” is usually sufficient.

I didn’t realize the attitude Europeans had about America until I spent a Christmas in Wales. A friend and I were spending the three-day Christmas holiday at a castle filled with mainly touring Australians and wealthy Brits.

During a lull between Christmas brunch and a seven-course dinner, they had a clay pigeon shoot. While people in the UK don’t generally own hand guns, I thought it nothing unusual to see a clay pigeon shoot with rifles. The hunt, after all, was a thing amongst the very rich, so I have always been led to believe.

I had never before handled a gun of any sort above the level of water pistol or childhood “six-shooter” when playing cowboys and Indians (although what the politically correct term for that is now is anyone’s guess). In fact, I’d only gone outside to watch.

But my friend, who had probably learned to shoot before she learned to ride a bike, talked me into having a go. With no expectation of being able to hit anything, I joined in the friendly competition. I let the gun master – or whatever he’s called – teach this lefty how to shoot a right-handed rifle.

At one point during my turn, I realized that when the clay pigeon disappeared from view (blocked by the rifle), if I pulled the trigger, I actually hit it. I can’t say my, “Wow, I hit it!” was actually joy in shooting. I was more than happy for my turn to be over, despite three hits out of five tries. I’m certain the next contestant was far less skittish about guns.

When I showed surprise at having placed in the top three for women, an English woman commented, “Well, America is a gun culture, isn’t it?”

I was taken aback. Yes, we’re allowed to own guns. I don’t. I wasn’t raised around guns. I didn’t grow up in the wilderness, so, as I see it, I have no need for a gun.

I hate guns. I abhor the sort of violence they engender. I find commercials about the military that extol the virtues of warfare offensive. Thank you for your service, but keep your wars away from me!

This does not mean I would deny you your right to have a gun, provided you can demonstrate you’re neither a terrorist nor mentally ill. But keep it away from me.

The very fact that I would say something like that spurs some of my gun-loving friends and family members to feel threatened to the point of argument.  They often feel the need to try to convince me to like guns, as if they are entitled to their opinions, but I’m not entitled to mine.

I will never be convinced to like guns, to want one or – God forbid – to own one.

My lack of gun ownership in no way compromises the second Amendment.

I do believe the Constitution says Americans have the right to bear arms, not the duty to own them.

Be on your way. Cherish your pistol. I will continue to exercise my right not to bear arms.

As Hawkeye Pierce on M.A.S. H. said:

I will not carry a gun... I'll carry your books, I'll carry a torch, I'll carry a tune, I'll carry on, carry over, carry forward, Cary Grant, cash and carry, carry me back to Old Virginia, I'll even 'hari kari' if you show me how, but I will not carry a gun!

Empowerment

I did not grow up in the age of “girl power.” While I was encouraged to do my best in school and found most subjects fairly easy, girls were encouraged to be polite (I excelled), pretty (I failed) and fit in (I failed miserably).

I started high school to the strains of “I am Woman, hear me roar,” but somehow, I didn’t get the memo.

It started in elementary school. I was sent to school in the belief that 1) I would learn to read, and 2) I would make friends.

For the first half of my first year, I waited to learn to read. We recited the alphabet daily, were drilled on phonics and sight words and learned to write them in cursive, but as far as I was concerned, we weren’t reading. Until Christmas, we had no readers. When we finally received them, the stories fell into the category of stupid. I made up better stories, and I was six.

As for friends, I was clueless. I decided to play with the girl who sat in front of me in class, mainly because I knew her name (Debbie). That didn’t last. She had a pushy friend who said Debbie was her friend, and I couldn’t play with them. I learned about crossed games (“You can’t play; the game is crossed.”), playing tag with girls who could run faster than I could, and being told I thought I was a big shot because I usually knew the answers in class. I was told this by those who didn’t.

When I came home in tears because I had no friends, my mother would tell me I didn’t need friends like that. If I mentioned some mean retort I’d thought of saying back to the girls, she would tell me not to stoop to their level.

“Just think how you would feel if someone said that to you.”

But… someone did.

Years of being told that taught me to choke on standing up for myself. I learned enough empathy to spirit away others who were being bullied. I couldn’t stand up to the bullies, but I was friends with their victims until they got tired of me.

People often thought I was a push-over. They were wrong. I simply learned to be passive-aggressive, and wander off. Unfortunately, my lack of ability to stand up to people, and the ingrained admonishment to “be nice” caused me to date several people I didn’t want to date because I didn’t know how to turn them down without hurting their feelings. Fortunately, I knew how to be boring enough to help them decide they didn’t want to date me. They had no worries about hurting feelings.

I remember a nun in seventh grade telling us that people were meant to either get married or go into the religious life. The only reason to remain single was to care for aging parents. Anyone who stayed single for any other reason was selfish. At that, I raised my hand.

“Sister, what if no one ever asks you to marry them?”

My question was met with chuckles by my classmates. I took that to mean that they also understood that it was highly unlikely that anyone would ever ask me. And there was no way I was ever going to be a nun, no matter what.

“Sit down,” she said, as if it were inconceiveable that any woman anywhere could fail to be asked.

The women I see today are so much more confident than I ever was. I see that in teenagers as well.

I’ve attended several bat mitzvahs in my husband’s family, and I’m always amazed at the poise and style of the girl in question and her friends. Of course, they have the advantage of public school, where they are allowed to fraternize with boys, as we were not in my Catholic schools, so they have male friends as well as female ones, and are at ease with all of them.

When I think of myself at 13, I remember a pudgy tomboy who was awkward in every situation that didn’t involve having a guitar in my hands and singing. At 13 I was still very much a child, unlike my nieces and my husband’s cousins. I wouldn’t have fit into the kinds of dresses they wore, much less been able to walk in the heels or dance in said clothes.

Teens and college women are very nonchalant compared to who I was at those ages. I recall several times having people approach me when I was in my first year at Penn State and asking if I’d gone to Catholic school. When I said I had, the response was, “I thought so,” and the stranger with the strange question would walk away.

I don’t to this day understand what that question was about. I thought I was fairly cool in my layered hair, earth shoes, corduroy trousers and blazer over an Oxford shirt. I’d still dress that way, but they don’t make earth shoes like that anymore.

My colleagues at work seem to take all sorts of social situations in stride that I still struggle with. When I listen to them talk about dating, if they’re single, I think I never would have gotten away with talking to guys the way they do. If I’d even looked like I was going to give an ultimatum or make a demand, the guys who dated me would have taken me home, leaving me with no expectation of a call. Ever.

I wonder how people get that way. I was always made to feel that I didn’t have the right to be like other people; I was the outsider.

While I’ve improved with age, I still hate confrontations. I can usually avoid unpleasant situations. And there is something empowering about being happy keeping one’s own company. As the saying goes, “I live in my own little world, but it’s all right: they know me here.”

How Gauche

I’m left-handed. The world was not built for me.

Ok, I know what you’re thinking: good grief, one of those poor, poor, pitiful woe-is-me pieces about how unfair the world is to left-handed people. And you would be wrong. The world might be, but that’s not what this is about.

As a lefty, I tend to notice things. Things that don’t occur to my right-handed counterparts. I suppose it started when, as a child, I started learning to dress myself. Buttons were on the wrong side – although girls clothes do tend to have a left-handed bias for things like zippers and buttons. Learning to tie shoes with a right-handed mother teaching me was a revelation.

We had a plastic bank that was shaped like a shoe at our house. It came complete with a shoelace. The deal was, every time you managed to tie the lace correctly, you received a nickel. Before you laugh, you could actually buy a regular-sized candy bar with a nickel in those days, and the going rate for our tooth fairy was a dime.

My second oldest brother quickly managed to run my mother out of nickels, and he was cut off because he learned to tie his laces so quickly. But when it came to me, my mother despaired of my ever learning.

To be fair, my mother started training us in shoelace tying at age five. As an adult, I learned it’s actually a seven-year-old skill, so I shouldn’t be blamed for being slow on the uptake.

The trouble was, I was being taught to tie right-handed, something I was unable to do. Of course, being wired differently, I think coping strategies came more naturally to me than alternative methods came to my mother. I eventually worked out mirroring what I was being taught, and was able to tie my shoelaces by the time I was five and a half. It just took me a little longer to collect any nickels in the shoe bank.

Scissors were another hurdle. Back when I was in school, there was no such thing as left-handed or ambidextrous scissors. They were right handed. In case you’re wondering, left-handed scissors are hinged in the opposite direction, so that the fingers control the blade closest to them. This is the same way right-handed scissors work for right-handed people. This lends a little more power to the down blade.

Also, “in the olden days,” scissors had handles meant to be held in the right hand, and were slanted that way. That meant that, if you were a lefty and you had to cut more than a straight line, the handles began cutting into your fingers. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that if I turned the scissors upside down, so my fingers were squished into the thumb hole and my thumb was able to slide around in the larger one, I could enjoy pain-free cutting.

When I learned to sew as a teen, I discovered I couldn’t turn sewing scissors upside down because the bottom of the scissors was flat and at an angle to the handles to allow it to ride along a surface while cutting. Turning them upside down actually made it harder to cut. Fortunately for me, left-handed scissors became accessible right about the time I was learning to make my own clothes. They were twice as expensive as the regular kind, but such is the price of being unique.

In my career as a pediatric occupational therapist in schools, teachers often ask me what they can do to help their students cut better. My first question is, are they left or right handed? Most teachers are puzzled by the question. Handedness matters. While right-handed students cut circles in a counterclockwise direction, lefties should cut them in a clockwise direction. The reason for this is, if you’re doing it the opposite way, your hand is in your way, so you can’t properly see the line you’re cutting unless you angle your body in an awkward way. Even when cutting a straight line, the line needs to be on the opposite side of the scissors from the hand.

I learned young to watch people in a mirror if I needed to learn something fine-motor that they were doing. When people are explaining things to me, I often close my eyes, not because I’m trying to shut them out, but because I’m reversing the image in my head to understand it from my perspective.

I play guitar. I can play both left and right handed guitars. As a young teen, I spent hours sitting on my bureau, guitar in hand, playing into the mirror. I was trying to mimic rock star moves. As a consequence, I know what the guitar chords look like from both directions. I have, on occasion, when playing with other guitarists without music in front of us, said, “Just watch what I’m doing and do the reverse.” Right-handed people can rarely do this, and think I’m strange for even suggesting such a thing. I guess they didn’t play rock-star-in-the-mirror as kids. I guess they didn’t have to.

I truly believe that being left-handed gives me an edge when it comes to problem-solving. I never thought I was particularly gifted in this area until a few teachers met some of my suggestions with, “I never would have thought of that!” or with gaping mouths as they looked at me as if I’d just landed on the planet.

Once, after such an experience, I told a teacher, “I tend to think a little outside the box.” Her reply was, “A little?” When I came home and told Blue Scream of Jeff, he said, “You knew there was a box?”

I guess that means lefties are really a little more environmentally friendly. After all, we arrive without the packaging.

The Last Day of a Praying Mantis

When I started my blogsite, I promised the occasional short story. Here, for your perusal, is one of them.  I give you "The Last Day of a Praying Mantis."

While he waited for the shop to open, Martin sat on the curb and drank a cup of tea. Something on the sidewalk caught his attention: a praying mantis. He’d never seen one before. The light green bug, its front-most legs together, looking like praying hands, stood balancing itself against the ground breezes. It appeared ready to fly off, yet it waited, as if not sure how to proceed.

            Its movements were so small as to be nearly imperceptible. Still, it managed to come closer to a thick black tar line across the sidewalk. Martin watched the bug so intently he didn’t see the bicyclist coming until the wheel was nearly level with the bug. Before Martin could utter a sound, the front wheel rolled over the bug, pinning its head to the cement.

            Martin watched its wings flutter as if in pain, with stuttering attempts to flutter that seemed a dance of death. Martin could imagine the pain screaming through the tiny bug, and wondered how long it would be in these death throes. He watched, hoping the little bug wouldn’t suffer much. It moved in a circle around that pinpoint that was now its head stuck to the ground.

            But death did not come. As Martin watched, the determined bug managed to get his head unstuck from the cement, and gradually regained an upright posture. It stretched itself like a rubber cartoon character, and then stood unsteadily, taking tentative sideways steps to cross over the tar strip that the breeze and its efforts to stand had moved it toward.

            The shop finally opened, and Martin stood. As he did so, a woman approached the shop, and without noticing it, crushed the praying mantis as she passed. Martin wanted to scream. He had debated about killing the bug after the bicycle had run it down, not knowing whether to put the insect out of its misery or wait to see if it lived. He’d had little hope that the bug would live, but a sense of relief and triumph had suffused the young man when the bug finally regained itself. To see its life snuffed out so suddenly after all of its efforts to live made him angry at the carelessness of everyday acts.

 He wondered how many creatures he’d consigned to the grave by just such an ordinary act. He didn’t feel much pity for ants or mosquitoes, but to watch something larger make such a struggle made him stop to think. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the man on the bicycle had simply killed the praying mantis outright. The valiant struggle became meaningless in light of the fact that it had only prolonged the bug’s life for a few painful moments of suffering.

Life, Zen, whatever it might be taught no lessons but cruelty, he thought. Tread softly through life, he thought. Perhaps that could be his mantra for today, at least. He stood, and went into the shop for a haircut.

Why I Don't Like Dresses

I was raised in an age people like to think of as “simpler times,” where life was so much better.

Well, every age has its good and its bad, but let’s be clear: I was raised in the late ‘50s and the ‘60s, a time of racism, sexism and negative stereotypes of every ethnicity you weren’t. Life was fine if you knew your place in the hierarchy.

I was indoctrinated with the notion that for the female of the species, the two most important traits were to be pretty and to be obedient. It was all well and good (and in my family, expected) if one did well in school. My career choices (which were never nurse, secretary, sales clerk or teacher – the only choices for a decent woman in those days) were smiled at, but never taken seriously. If I wanted to sing, I could sing in church. If I wanted to write, I could keep a diary. But when I said I wanted to be an actor – and I was forcefully told the word was actress – I was vehemently discouraged and told that only women of questionable character would do something so unwholesome. In view of the “Me Too” movement, my parents were justified in being concerned with my career choice. But let’s not blame the women. They weren’t the ones with the power.

TV and movies were full of examples of a woman’s “place”: in the home, married and raising lots of babies. Wanting a career – until you married, when you put such childish things aside, at least until the children were raised – was fine as long as it was an appropriate career. But do not lose focus. The message was, what’s important is finding a man.

Throughout my early childhood, any time we went out somewhere special – Mass on Sunday, visiting the relatives, or going shopping in the city – I was made to dress in my Sunday best – what my mother jokingly referred to either as “Sunday-go-to-meetin’” clothes or “glad rags.” (And yes, play clothes were “sad rags”.) This was the norm for girls in those days: Frilly dress, scratchy petticoat, dress shoes, possibly a bow in one’s hair, a hat, dress coat and gloves. A child’s handbag, often matching mother’s on a small scale, held said gloves once inside, rosaries, possibly chap-stick and a fancy handkerchief.

My mother added to my adornment with ankle socks with lace edges or flowers embroidered on the cuffs, and underwear with rows of lace across the bottom – what I call child-molester pants because, for what earthly reason should anyone be encouraged to look at a little girl’s bottom?

How I envied my brothers in their trousers and suitcoats. I would have even worn a tie if only I could have worn trousers instead of an itchy dress.

As my mother combed and arranged my curls, she would tell me I wanted to look pretty when I went out. I was young and impressionable. Pretty girls on TV got everything. Ugly girls were just contemptable, if not evil.

So, out I obediently trudged, waiting to be pretty. At church I was rarely acknowledged, the seen-but-not-heard. At my grandparents’, my grandmother would say in a tone that often sounded like she was scolding me, “Well, don’t you look nice?”

I thought nothing more of it, since she said it once to include the three of us, and my brothers weren’t expected to be pretty.

Then on one occasion after we were already there, in scampered one of my cousins. My slender cousin who had honey blonde hair, the bluest eyes, and long dark eyelashes. “Well, don’t you look pretty?” said the same grandmother.

I was dark haired, with grey eyes, skinny arms and legs and a chunk body. I was the obedient child, so no one knew I existed. My cousin was pretty.

I knew, even then, I probably had no chance of ever being married. That was fine with me. That wasn’t really on my bucket list, especially if it meant I couldn’t be an actor.

People often assumed that, simply because one is female, one wants children. Well, no. I think my first and most continuous lie was, “Yes, someday. I guess.”

I had dolls – lots of dolls – but that’s because I had no friends. There were no girls my age in my neighborhood, and I was not allowed to play with boys (but then, I wasn’t quite as obedient as they thought). Girls were a year or two older or a year or two younger. That’s huge when you’re little. I gravitated toward the younger ones until they excluded me. They were easier to deal with.

I didn’t think like the other girls. I wasn’t interested in what interested them. My classmates wanted to marry Paul McCartney. I wanted to be Paul McCartney. And I didn’t have the social skills to navigate long-term friendships.

So, dolls played a significant role in my life as the friends who didn’t fight with me. I didn’t treat them in a maternal way as I carried them by the neck or the leg.

Barbie and Ken had all the freedom to do the things I could only imagine.

My doll house was my experiment in landscape architecture and interior design.

I was actually envious of cousins who didn’t have a doll house but only the people and the furniture. They had a piece of furniture that was a series of compartments to put their shoes in. They’d empty it and use it as an apartment complex. Imagine what I could’ve done with that!

And then I reached an age where I was taught how babies came into existence. I recoiled in horror. How could anyone embrace that or anything to do with it? My reaction was, “Eww! Why would anyone want to do that to their body? (I was taught about reproduction with no mention of sex.) I was having none of that!

I slammed into puberty a few years ahead of my peers, and decades ahead of my emotional readiness. While most of my peers were blissfully flat with bodies of a shape that gave no hint to gender identity, I was bulging out in ways that horrified me. While the hippies were burning their bras, I was being fitted for one. My peers didn’t yet have to worry about a visit from a “friend” that was now my nemesis.

If I complemented a friend about how lucky she was to be shapeless (“If I looked like you, I’d cut my hair short and wear trousers and pretend I was a boy,”) she would act like I’d insulted her. I on the other hand, had to endure insults in the form of comments about my breasts. Giving someone directions or in some other way being helpful frequently resulted in being sucker-punched with a comment like, “Nice boobs, by the way,” or “You’re so lucky to have big boobs.”

Seriously? I hate body part comments, not to mention the word "boobs". To me, those comments are simply pointing out my shortcomings and reinforcing someone else’s reason to “put me in my place.” It’s a statement that says no matter what you do, how accomplished you may be, you’re still female, and as such, so much less than. I’ve always wanted to make a comeback when a guy makes such a comment with, “I guess you’re not circumcised or there’d be nothing left.” But I’m so angered and embarrassed by their comments that I go into brain freeze.

Which brings me to dresses, or as I call them, slave clothes. If you like them, great. Wear them. But don’t expect me to. I spent years being forced to wear them, and a few years wearing them in a vain attempt to fit in. Clothes may make the man, but a dress does not make the woman.

I find dresses uncomfortable. At my age and shape, they simply enhance my frumpiness. I find ones that are so tight that the woman’s breasts are popping out the top to be disgusting because they reinforce the idea that a woman’s only role is sexual and decorative. If she isn’t selling sex, she isn’t worthy. If the “Me Too” movement really wanted to make a statement, those supporting it at the Academy Awards would have come dressed in trousers and suit coats, not slit-to-the-thigh or tops-open-to-the-navel gowns.

People tell me it’s a clothing choice, giving women more selection. I have enough selection, thanks. Many women wear skirts or dresses to appeal to men.

High heels enhance the shapeliness of the leg, making it more appealing -- to men.  They also distort the feet, setting the wearer up for future health issues. And don't even get me started on women's underwear commecials. There's no reason women should have to be sexy. Doing that, they’re setting themselves up as the “also ran.” Again, you have to appeal to a man to matter. I say, like me for who I am, not my clothes!

Don't get me wrong; I have nothing against men. I just don't see any sense in playing a subservient role by the clothes I'm expected to wear when men have to do exactly nothing clothing-wise to show their sexuality.

I met the man I eventually married in the same thing he was wearing: fencing whites, a mask and carrying a sabre (and I won the bout). He was a worthy opponent.

Recently, I was supposed to attend a party. A group of us at my kickboxing club had completed a diet and exercise program. To celebrate, they were having a “little black dress” party. I don’t own a little black dress. I wasn’t about to buy one to wear once. I mentioned I’d be wearing black trousers instead, saying I don’t do dresses. Another woman (a woman, for heaven’s sake!) told me that I needed to start  “doing dresses.”

No, actually, I don’t. I didn’t end up going to the party because 1) I’m an introvert and didn’t know most of the people attending, 2) while I like the idea of parties, I don’t actually like parties, and 3) I didn’t really want to socialize with people who believe that because of an accident of my birth, I am required to dress in a certain way in order to look good.

To me, a dress is yet another device by which women are kept enslaved. You don’t see superheroes in heels and dresses.