Own Something Imperfect… On Purpose
Something about spring fuels this little productive monster within me. I’m not sure which I prefer – my inner productive monster in the spring, or my inner lazy slug in the winter – but whichever one happens to be alive and kickin’, well, I’m at its mercy.
This particular spring my inner monster decided it’s time to redecorate. My apartment is almost empty, so perhaps “re”-decorate isn’t the most accurate description, but I’m unconcerned about semantics. Who can think of semantics, or anything else, when picking out new furniture? It’s ridiculously fun. (No worries, I’d never give up minimalism, and my inner monster is a crazy minimalist, too.)
The bathroom was my first victim. Mostly because I couldn’t make up my mind about the furniture. Choosing fabric colors is like choosing shoes. There’s so many…and they’re so beautiful…but I can’t have them all. 
Shower curtains, then, seemed much easier.
“Oh my!” I sighed, standing in the midst of Shower Curtain Land, my mouth suddenly dry. Hands sweaty. “Am I really looking at twelve different shower curtain designs in sage green, my favorite color of all time?”
“Yuppers,” the saleslady said. “And they’re on sale!”
Head dizzy.
Another dozen shower curtains, these red, captured my adoration next. Then I found a collection of creamy white ones with gorgeous stitching, and they were tempting, too. When I thought I couldn’t possibly take any more shower curtain euphoria, a fabulous print with trees and flowers jumped out - hints of green, red, creamy white, and yellow!
“Hm,” I thought, trying to make an impossible decision. “If I had eight showers, this would be much easier.”
Eventually, I committed myself to a brown and cream modern graphic print. We’ll have a long-term relationship, I’m fairly sure, because brown shower curtains compliment red toothbrush holders. Despite not having a red toothbrush holder, I’ve always wanted one, and one exists somewhere in the world patiently waiting for me. I also liked its matching shower hooks. Each hook has either “hot” or “cold” scripted across a white background, resembling antique bathroom faucets. (They look a bit like this.)
I arrived home, excitement making me run up all three flights of stairs to my apartment. I poured a generous glass of Shiraz and flipped on John Lee Hooker. I was ready to hang me some curtain.
“I have the blues before sunrise,” I sang along with Hooker, taking a gulp of Shiraz before attaching the first hook to the shower rod. “Tears standing in my eyes.” Second hook. ”It was a miserable feeling, now babe.” Third hook. “A feeling I doo despise.” Fourth hook. “I have to leaave, leave you baby.” Fifth hook. ”Because you knooow you done me wrong.”
And so it continued, much to the dismay of my neighbors, I’m sure, until hook twelve.
Hook twelve slipped from my grasp and plopped unceremoniously into my wine glass. “No, no, no!” I dipped my fingers into the glass, pulling it out quickly, but the damage had been done. Hook twelve was permanently stained by red wine, the white background now a bright purple. I couldn’t really blame it for plummeting into Shiraz, it is hard to resist, but now my hooks no longer matched. My brand new purchase was already marred.
For a moment, I was angry at myself. Why had I placed my wine glass on the edge of the tub? Why hadn’t I paid closer attention to what I was doing?
Have I mentioned that I’m a recovering Type A? The “recovering” part sometimes is going well, sometimes not. I’d do anything to be a Type B. So, I slid hook twelve onto the rod, and said, “Type B, baby.” Every morning since, before stepping into the shower, I tap the hook. And I remember that life is infinitely sweeter when I don’t worry about what matches or doesn’t match. That life is best when I’m not afraid of breaking things. When I’m not afraid of getting dirty. Or saying things just right. Or thinking that perfection even should exist.
My favorite home accessory is now that stained shower hook. That daily reminder of how important it is to accept imperfection.
Find something of your own, something you see every day. Bend it. Stain it. Rip it. Scratch it. Make it imperfect intentionally. And keep it as a reminder that things don’t have to be perfect to be useful. Or beautiful. Or your favorite thing. Remember, too, that you don’t have to be perfect to be beautiful, either.
The Pleasure of One at a Time
As an enthusiastic reader, I once lived happily with books scattered everywhere. I do mean everywhere. An almost permanent pile rode in the backseat of my car, waiting for a return to the library. A tower of books teetered next to my favorite spot on the sofa. One was usually forgotten in the kitchen, discarded while refilling my wine glass. Another next to the bathtub, waterlogged and slightly stained with pink bubble bath. If there weren’t at least twenty books overflowing from my living spaces - well, something felt wrong.
With my decision to focus on writing this summer, I also decided to curb the number of books I check out from the library because those piles (and piles) were distracting. Wonderfully distracting, mind you, but distracting nonetheless.
Surprisingly, I’ve found a lovely side effect of reading only one book at a time. When I had twenty books, I found myself anxiously skimming through the pages of whichever one I held, hurrying to finish it. I was like the paper version of the Nascar 500. Because, after all, I had nineteen others that needed to be read, too. With one single book, though, I relish each page. I’m in no rush. Now I find myself reading meaningful paragraphs over again several times, letting the words sink in and unwind into my head. I find myself closing the book occasionally, taking time to ponder and daydream. Because I choose only one book from the library, I choose it carefully, and am rarely disappointed with my choice. I go through fewer books, but I’m actually reading more.
When I uncluttered and minimized, I believed the empty space needed to be filled, at least partially, with my favorite things. But my favorite things, too, are best when deliberately chosen and thoughtfully pursued. I’ve found this to be true about more than books. Picking out one bottle of wine is more satisfying than picking out three. With only one bottle, I must read each label, think of my impending dinner, consider my mood. I love this process! Capturing one excellent photograph is better than a dozen half-hearted snapshots. With taking only one photograph, I must see the landscape. A bouquet of roses may be stunning, but a single rose seduces my gaze to the curve of each petal.
One flavor of Jelly Belly stuffed into my mouth is better than ten flavors, no matter how much I love sugar :) .
One is a powerful number.
Become a Character and Set Your Stage
All the world’s a stage / And all the men and women merely players; / They have their exits and their entrances; / And one man in his time plays many parts… William Shakespeare
As an obsessive-compulsive neat freak who requires everything to be “just so”, I can experience a panic attack when my apartment is messy. By messy, I mean there’s one MIA coffee cup lounging outside of the dishwasher and one pair of on-the-run socks who’ve escaped the laundry basket. I realize this isn’t healthy, but my neurotic tendencies could be worse. I think.
When I decided to spend my summer writing I knew my neuroticism would need to be toned down. Otherwise I’d never get anything accomplished. Without school to keep me in check, I’d run wild with organizing and minimizing to the exclusion of every other thing. And I do mean EVERY other thing. And, truth be told, I’m actually most comfortable in a space that isn’t perfect. Not cluttered, but free-flowing. I’m happiest in places where life is evident. Where things are both practical and beautiful and sometimes out-of-place.
Last week I looked around my apartment, clearly set up by a neurotic Type A, and decided to change things. But I didn’t know how… until I started thinking about my life as a stage. Myself as a character.
My Neurotic Apartment was organized in a series of banker boxes that were stacked carefully in my walk-in closet, nicknamed “Super Closet”. Nothing is more inconvenient than having a Super Closet. Nothing makes less sense than hauling out - daily – my external DVD drive from the bottom of a banker’s box when I want to watch 30 Rock. Nothing makes less sense than storing anything in a banker’s box (and in the back of a closet, no less) when you use it every day. Do you know how much time I’ve wasted going back and forth from my walk-in Super Closet to “unpack” something that’s stored away when it shouldn’t be stored at all? Well, I’m not going to tell you. It’s darn right embarrassing.
Our homes don’t need to look perfect. Or be perfect. Or impress anyone. The best design for your home is one that sets the stage of your life in a practical and personally pleasing way.
I always appreciate a flair for the dramatic, so I really like the idea of setting a stage for my life. The idea of it motivates me. It gives me a new perspective by thinking of myself as a character. Not pretending to be someone else. I mean visualizing myself as a character starring in Her Fabulous Existence. I mean thinking outside of my mental box and wondering how someone (much smarter and more stylish than me) would design my life if I were a character in a movie.
One of my favorite aspects of watching movies is taking note of the sets. Nancy Meyers is a particular favorite. Her designs are more cluttered than I’d want for myself, but I adore her style all the same. (Take a look what she did for the movie It’s Complicated. I also drool over Dr. Brennan’s loft and Seeley’s apartment in the show Bones. Oh, and I can’t forget to mention Millie’s loft in Because I Said So.) I find myself falling head-over-heels over sets that truly reflect the character who lives there.
How can you design your stage? How would you, as a brilliant character, live? And if what you imagine is feasible, go for it. And if it’s not at all realistic, get as close as possible. Life’s simpler when you design your perfect backdrop.
For myself, I wanted to set my apartment up as a writing cave (minus the darkness and bugs). A little hideaway designed for writing, reading, watching movies, and munching Spanish olives. All the while, of course, remaining a die-hard minimalist.
“I got lots of work to do!” I said while rolling up my sleeves. I was ready to tackle My Neurotic Apartment.
Since my apartment is practically naked as-is, I focused not on the furniture arrangement, but on letting go of The Perfectly Organized Minimal Apartment. I wanted to give up my need to control the items in my home, a losing battle anyway.
I took my Netbook from its shelf in the Super Closet and set it up on my dining room table, where it shall stay. Now it’s ready for action at the simple push of a button. I’ve given up the perfect stack of books on my mantle and now keep them nonchalantly next to my Netbook. I’ve converted my fruit bowl into an electronic gizmo holder (for my headphones and external DVD drive) so they’re within easy reach. I’ve evicted my bananas from the fruit bowl and thrown them onto my kitchen counter.
When I read, I like to bury myself under my thick quilt and pretend that the rest of the world doesn’t exist. As you could guess, I stored my quilt in the Super Closet, next to my electronics. Now it’s neatly folded when not in use, but it stays slung over the back cushions. How lovely – and simple – it is to come home, grab a book, and snuggle into my couch.
I have two pairs of shoes that I wear 99% of the time. Their home is now at the front door because, really, does it make sense to drag them back to the closet when I know I’ll need them the next morning?
Like setting the stage of a play, we must set the stage of our lives.
I converted my table into a writing spot. I made my couch a fluffy reading nook. I put my shoes at the door. I made these changes because I want my life to be about writing, reading, and being able to run out the door at a moment’s notice.
In the process of narrowing in on these activities, I further minimized my drawers and closets of stuff that no longer provides happiness or purpose. Setting the stage gives way to purging useless props. Some items I got rid of:
- My Bluetooth headset because I rarely talk on the phone.
- Memory sticks for my laptop because I save docs to “the cloud”.
- Library books. I often check too many library books out at one time (a seemingly impossible thing to do, I once thought) and reduced my stack to four. I returned those books that were just “time wasters”, though a good time waster, if you ask me. As I set my stage for writing this summer, though, they’re superfluous.
If you’re looking to simplify your own home, ask yourself first, what do you want to do there? How can your home support who you are and what you love? If you paint, are your brushes placed somewhere they can anxiously await your hand? If you cook, are your spices arranged so that grabbing one is convenient? Also be honest about what you don’t want to do in your home. If you aren’t into cooking, be honest about it, and donate your bread maker. If you don’t like reading, donate your Louis L’Amour collection. You may have a nicely set stage (gorgeous kitchen, full bookshelf), but if it’s for the wrong play (wrong life), it doesn’t make sense. Setting up what IS important energizes you, just by seeing your home as a reflection of who you REALLY are.
A Simple Life Requires Friendship
The older I get (not that I’m old, mind you), the more interesting life becomes. I notice unexpected connections in almost everything. Sometimes I see patterns, see how things in my life – and in the lives of others – become linked. Other times I experience absolute chaos that eventually (and amazingly) makes sense. I’m continually seeing, too, how wrong I was about this, or how wrong I surely remain about that.
Yeah, getting “older and wiser” is quite a humbling experience.
Knowing that life is unpredictable, I wasn’t surprised when Ms. Pearl moved to Rural SW, Colorado. Ms. Pearl was one of my co-workers back in Florida. She moved out here a year after I did. I, however, was very surprised that we kept in touch after her move. An email once in a while, a picture now and again. We’d never been close while working together and, actually, I thought she kinda disliked me. Surprising, I know, because – quite frankly – I’m darn right loveable.
When she wound up in Denver this past weekend, she invited me to dinner. Not one to turn down dinner invitations, I accepted and was taken aback by her enthusiasm. “I can’t wait to see you!” She exclaimed.
Really? Hm. I began to worry. My cynical side wondered if she was buttering me up for an Amway proposal.
When we settled into our patio table at Pasquini’s, I felt a smidge of nervousness. But we soon found ourselves laughing and talking, big bites of calzone the only break in our excited conversation. That night I had dinner with someone I’d not known very well, but someone I realize was willing to be my friend years ago. And is a friend now. I never saw it before, but it was always there.
I’ve met a lot of people in my life. I’ve had lunches and dinners with them, seen movies with them, met for happy hour with them. But until I moved to Colorado, I didn’t have friends. When I didn’t know who I was and pretended to be someone else, someone ”cooler”, I hid behind a mask. I’ve learned that if you can’t be open and honest about yourself, it’s hard to find people who even can be your friend. Once I dropped the mask, I found friends. And my friends have taught me things I could never have learned from a book. How to get excited about life and appreciate life. If it weren’t for my friends, I wouldn’t be Sunny.
If I had to give a one-word answer to what has simplified my life the most, I’d not hesitate. Friends.
Tell me, what’s simpler than being with a friend? Talking about books and shoes over coffee, that’s the simplest – and most wonderful – afternoon I can imagine. A friend doesn’t care about the labels of your clothes, whether your lipstick has smudged, or what your social status is. When you’re with a friend, you don’t worry about what you look like or whether you’ve said something stupid. A friend makes you feel good about yourself, so that you don’t seek approval in other unhealthy ways. Bad romantic relationships, addictions to drugs/alcohol, buying things that create debt. How many of these circumstances could be avoided… because of a friend? A person who encourages you, listens to you, brings out the good in you, and makes you want to be a better person. A person who requires your commitment and authenticity because they need your support, too. It’s a give-’n-take kinda thing.
A friend is the most valuable accessory you can have, but it’s not easy finding a true one. It takes a lotta searching. If you act like a friend, though, you’ll find friends. So, treat everyone you know as if they’re already your friend. Give them your respect and compassion. Because you never know where your new friend will come from. Invite people out for coffee and lunch. Interact with as many people as possible until you build a circle of friends who love you. Friends who will simplify your life by filling you with the things you need – hope, excitement, conversations over coffee, shared burdens, shared joys – and steering you away from the things you don’t.
Oh, and of course, friends are an excellent source for borrowing such things as dining room tables, lawn mowers, earrings, books…. And if you’re REALLY lucky, they’ll even feed you occasionally.
Accomplish a Dream this Summer of 2011
I met a man six months ago and instantly fell in love. Well, I sort of met him.
I spend an unnatural amount of time in bookstores. Reading a book, while being surrounded by books – vanilla latte steaming to the right, biscotti stacked to the left - is the exact environment I hope heaven to be. Considering my sins, however, I’m willing to settle for an exceptionally toasty library and a pot of Folgers. Sinning requires flexibility in your after-death expectations.
During a Saturday afternoon at Barnes & Noble, I was sipping my vanilla frothiness while reading about Bill the Vampire à la Charlaine Harris. Then I glanced up and saw him.
His faded tee-shirt advertised Bolder Boulder 2009. His jeans, once dark, were worn at the knees. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, like he’d been driving with the windows down. There was a rough 5 o’clock shadow on his chin. His eyes were framed by crinkles, indicating a smiley nature. He wore sneakers, one shoelace broken. As he slid into an overstuffed chair, he sighed and grinned, clearly content to be in a bookstore on a lazy Saturday.
In other words, he was Sunny’s version of the male pin-up.
He looked like a camping-and-hiking kinda guy. Unafraid of hooking a worm or drinking Fat Tire. But he also had a polite demeanor as indicated by the elegant crossing of his legs, avoiding the more common feet-on-table lounging position, and I felt confident that he wasn’t the type to burp in public or order drinks on a first date with the word “sex” in it. Then his hands cracked open the book in his lap, and I finally noticed the title. It was a cookbook on Italian cuisine.
I looked away, checking to make sure drool wasn’t dripping down my chin. “Sunny,” I told myself. “Get a grip!” To calm the erratic beating of my heart, I convinced myself that he probably had two-inch toe nails and didn’t brush his teeth. Determined to ignore him, I went back to my book, stealing a glance only occasionally because is was beyond my self-control not to.
When I went to order another latte, I had to pass Mr. Cookbook’s chair. The little old lady sitting next to him glanced up at me. “Do you work here?” She asked, catching me off guard.
“Um, no,” I said. “Is everything okay?”
“Well, I was hoping someone could help me. I can’t walk around too good, but I’d love to read a book while I’m waiting for my granddaughter.”
I started to say that I’d find her a book, no problem, but Mr. Cookbook beat me to it. “I’ll find you a book,” he said in the happiest voice I’d ever heard. He looked up at me and winked. The wink said, “Don’t worry, I got this.”
“What kind of book do you want?” He asked.
The little old lady thought hard for a moment. “Penguins,” she said with a firm nod. “I’ve always loved penguins.”
Several minutes later, latte refilled, I made the trek back to my chair. And there was Mr. Cookbook, who’d returned with sixteen books on penguins. He patiently listened to her stories about Antarctica, which I also listened to via eavesdropping. He occasionally revealed the little dimple in his left cheek when he smiled at her.
And that’s when I fell in love. That happy spirit. That patience. That broken shoelace.
Now, months later, I sometimes wake up at 3 AM in a cold sweat, Mr. Italian Cookbook having haunted by dreams. “Stupid, stupid Sunny,” I mutter. “Why didn’t you ask him out?”
Or at least said hello?
Or… Anything!
He may have been married, even though he wasn’t wearing a ring. He may have flatly said no. But at least I would’ve tried. And I’d get better sleep.
As crazy, anti-feminist, and girly as it may sound, I dream of finding a Mr. Cookbook. There are undoubtedly many benefits of the single life – and I enjoy all of them. I’m definitely happier today - as an independent, strong, ridiculously content single woman – than I ever was while dating Mr. Wrong. Still, if I could wish it so, I’d find Mr. Cookbook (or a good carbon copy) and force him to spend many marinara drenched evenings with me. I’d love to, well, fall in love.
Unfortunately there are some dreams beyond our control. Mr. Cookbook’s reappearance. Winning the lottery. Having a good hair day. But there are even more dreams that are completely within our power.
This summer I don’t have any college classes. It’s my first “free” summer in three years. I can do whatever the heck I want after punching out my 40 hours. Having this much irresponsibility to embrace is delightfully overwhelming. I’ve gone a little crazy the past several weeks since the spring semester ended. I’ve read 32 books, watched 26 movies, drank ___ bottles of wine (nope, not admitting to the actual number), and lost dozens of hours of sleep. As wonderful as it’s been, I can’t keep up this schedule anymore. It’s more exhausting than school!
More importantly, I want to accomplish a dream this summer, and put movies – even books (!) – aside for the next three months. I don’t want to accomplish just “a dream”. Instead I want to accomplish this dream of mine that won’t go away, despite how good I’ve gotten at ignoring it. The kind of dream that creates a painful physical yearning. So I’m going for it. Mostly because I hate pain. 
This summer I’m going to write and finish a novel. A witty super-fantastic novel, of course.
Nothing haunts you more than your lifelong dream once you’ve really pushed it away. After choosing the nursing program, and finding myself committed to two years of biology (along with two years of simulated/real vomit, which is terrifying in and of itself for me) I thought about my dream of writing. I feel like becoming a nurse is a form of cheating on my One True Love. If I could allow myself to be completely impractical, I’d write books all day. There’s no question. I have no intention of quitting school, or giving up nursing, but on the same hand, I can no longer endure the internal struggle about my writing life (or lack thereof).
“Writing is such a terrible, slim-chanced, ridiculous pursuit!” I tell myself constantly. “I’ll start dreaming about publication, which will never happen, and after my dreams are dashed, I’ll be more miserable than before. Really, then, what’s the point?”
My conscience, who sounds (oddly enough) like Gerard Depardieu, interrupts my silent rants. “Ohv courze eet’s sleme-chahnce eef you dohn’t trry!”
“But I have tried!”
“Noht vary heard, you idioht!”
Gerard’s right, as usual.
For the next three months I don’t have to worry about the nursing program. I don’t have to cheat behind my pen’s back. I’ve decided to give it all I got and finish a manuscript. I want to look back at the Summer of 2011 as “The Summer I Accomplished My Dream”. And because I don’t want to listen to Gerard Depardieu anymore. He’s mean to me.
Sure, there’s little chance of getting published, but that’s not the accomplishment I’m concentrating on. I’m focused on simply finishing a novel. I’ll stress out over the next steps later.
I know that you, too, have missed opportunities. Regrets. Wished-I-Wouldas. I-Wish-I-Couldas. Uh oh – watch out! - here comes Gerard. “You idioht!” Yeah, that’s right, he’s talking to you this time. Focus on a dream this summer. A dream within your control and a dream that’s important to you. Create a summer that one day you’ll look back at and say, “The Summer of 2011 is when I did it!”
You’ll probably be shocked to learn that I’m a bit eccentric. I decided I wanted to really really really focus on a Summer of Writing. I want to embrace the “focus” concept to the fullest extent. I encourage you to do the same. So here are some things I did over Memorial Day weekend to prepare myself for being extremely lazy (on the practical side of life) so I can be extremely productive (on the writing/impractical side of life):
1. I stocked up for 3 months. This is an anti-minimalist thing to do, if you’re the die-hard radical type such as myself. I’m actually a bit shocked at my behavior because my kitchen cupboards actually have food in them. I filled my cupboards with three months’ worth of my personally loved staples: whole-grain pasta, marinara sauce, olives, dark chocolate, peanut butter (LOTS of peanut butter), pesto, granola, and – yup – wine (LOTS of wine). The only grocery shopping I’ll have to do will be for fruits, vegetables, and yogurt. Time saver and, considering my impulsive nature around the olive bar, a money saver, too.
I also stocked up on 3 months’ worth of non-food items like shampoo, cleaning supplies, sunblock, etc. to prevent any trips to Target. It’s amazing how easily that store steals an entire day from me. A thief dressed in a red bulls eye. I blame it on the beautiful clearance shelves.
2. I’m encouraging my writing habit by combining three loves - writing, photography, eating, blogging. I’m in the process of setting up a new blog, which I’m really excited about. When it’s ready for visitors, I’ll send you an invite and hope that you’ll stop by. I’ve decided to write reviews for restaurants, bistros, cafes, etc. throughout Colorado. I’ll be forced to lounge on a patio, sip something spicy, munch something sweet, while transporting myself into the mystery and mayhem that I create for my characters. It’ll be an excellent way to enjoy the summer WHILE accomplishing my dream.
3. I canceled my Internet connection. No falling prey to hours of Hulu this summer. But, oh, I’ll miss you. Terribly.
4. I updated my Netflix account down to 1-DVD-At-A-Time. I was at 2 DVDs until this past weekend. This way I can still enjoy a movie, but it’ll be more thoughtful and as a reward to a Writing Day Well Done.
5. I’ve rearranged my apartment to support writing. My dining table is now a writing desk. I did an extremely thorough minimizing session to clear all distractions. All that remains is what’s required for writing. And eating. And taking the occasional nap.
Whether it’s skydiving or learning Italian, painting or starting a business, pick a dream. Redesign as much of your life as possible to put your focus on it. Then give it your best shot. And, for heaven’s sake, have a good time while you’re at it! No frowning. If I see any frowning, I’ll force you to drink a piña colada with me.
It’s so easy to let a summer drift by. Every September I look back and wonder where the “dog days” disappeared to. They only disappeared because I wasn’t paying attention. Even if your dream is simply to enjoy – to a ridiculously high level – every day of this summer, do that. Splash in warm rain showers. Go fishing, even when you think there’s no time. Play hooky from work and go ride rollercoasters and eat cotton candy. Drag a bag of books to the river – put your feet in – and melt into the afternoon with each flip of the page.
…. Or just say hello to a beautiful stranger at Barnes & Noble.
Home Sweet Domain
Exciting news! Simplicity by Sunny now has its own home. I mean, domain. ‘Bout time, I say. Links should automatically redirect, but I wanted to let everyone know.
How to Find Your Career Path
This past weekend I attended my college’s nursing orientation. Even to the outside observer, it was obvious how excited I was. I curled my hair, pulled on my Good Butt jeans, and wore my lucky earrings. My orientation paperwork was tucked neatly into my bag, the questions I intended to ask written in the margins. I arrived 45 minutes early. I introduced myself enthusiastically to any fellow student who’d pay me the slightest bit of attention.
Eventually all fifty-three of us took our seats and stared anxiously ahead at Madam Nursing Director. She smiled over the spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. She exuded the essence of practicality, with a smidge of sensitivity, that a retired nurse and college director ought to have.
It took her less than fifteen minutes to scare the crap out of me.
“Nursing relies heavily on math,” she said. “And you must take Mathematics for Clinical Calculations.”
That’s okay, I thought. Despite not being particularly good at math, I like it. Liking something is half the battle, right?
“On the final exam you are required to get a one hundred percent grade.” Madam paused to let this sink in. “There’s no room for error when you’re administering medicine and there will be no room for error on your exam.”
I gulped. Now that might be a problem.
“But,” a student objected. “What if I’ve already had statistics and advanced calculus?”
“Ah hah,” she said, clearly expecting someone to ask this question. “But have you ever had math with a syringe?”
Math with a syringe? Somehow I should’ve known that those two things would go together, but I hadn’t really given it much thought. Now that I was giving it thought, I realized the frightening magnitude of these two things. As a nurse, armed with a syringe, I could kill people, for the love of God!
We were given a tour of the nursing lab, which contains hospital beds with simulated people lounging in them. As luck would have it, five students were in the middle of a lab session and we were invited to observe. All five students were diligently bent over this exceptionally realistic simulated person (with a full set of teeth and hair and everything, it was equally creepy and fascinating).
“Oooh, it hurts!” Mr. Simulated Person moaned.
We all gasped. Apparently Mr. Simulated makes lots of interesting noises to provide as much realism as possible. Then – without warning - something scarier than syringes, math, or fake moaning happened…
Simulated vomit spewed from Mr. Simulated. All five students were instantly covered in yellow goo.
I almost fainted.
“You look kinda pale,” the girl next to me whispered. “You wanna sit down?”
Yes! Better yet I wanted to flee into the hallway. Open space without any vomit, fake or otherwise. But I stood. And I stayed. All the while questioning the wisdom of becoming Nurse Sunny. I also began to question my lucky earrings. How could they have failed me?
As I drove home from orientation, shell-shocked and disheartened, my hands were shaky on the wheel. I’d had such hope for being a nurse. I really wanted it. But did it want me? Was this the right path? Or had I made a mistake? What if I go through nursing school, only to realize that it’s the worst mistake of my life? What if I never get past feeling faint at the sight of vomit (fake or otherwise)?
Tough questions. I’ll let you know what answers I found, but not just yet.
After writing Learn to Look at Yourself Differently, where I mentioned my plan to become a nurse, Chandra wrote a comment asking for insight:
I just graduated…from a community college with a degree in accounting. I’ve always loved numbers and budgets! I graduated with a 4.0 even!
I also got a job as an accounting assistant this February during my last semester and guess what… I HATE every second of being there. Every week of being there makes me want to hurl myself off a cliff. So, now I’m stumped. I had no idea this wouldn’t be the path for me, and now I have no idea what path to take.
So I’d like to ask for a little advice. How the hell did you pull nursing out of your… well, you know :) … I’m dumbfounded as to where to even begin looking. So if you have a spare minute, I’d love some insight.
My first bit of insight is – Congratulations! You started something and you finished it. Not to mention the 4.0 part – that’s undeniably impressive. Following through with things – the things we promise ourselves, the things that are important to us, the things that aren’t important but are necessary nonetheless - is fundamental for building self-confidence and self-respect. For this reason alone, Chandra, feel comforted knowing that you’re the kind of kick-butt woman who knows how to set herself up for accomplishment.
Another bit of insight… Work shouldn’t instill the desire to “hurl [yourself] off a cliff”. (Though I do heartily empathize.) But expecting perfection from a job, or anything else, is unrealistic at best. Regardless of who we are or where we work, no matter how much we appreciate our jobs, or adore our personal lives, we’ll struggle sometimes. We’ll have days where we go home and crawl directly into bed. Days when the world is cruel, our boss is even more cruel, and the wine can’t be poured fast enough. Days when you’ll want to – well, Chandra said it best – hurl yourself off a cliff.
I’m reminded of my dad, who often said, ”Kid, life isn’t about getting rid of all your problems, because that’s impossible anyway. It’s about building a life with higher quality problems.”
While I can’t say these words were ever comforting, I can grudgingly admit to the wisdom.
Trying to find my own path recently, I stressed myself out in only the way that a Recovering Type A person can. I considered it a huge problem that I wasn’t able to immediately figure out The Answer & Solution to the Rest of My Life. But during a 3 AM pacing-down-hallway-while-biting-nails session, I realized how great my problem actually was. Two and a half years ago, before returning to college, I wouldn’t have had any of the options I was currently obsessing over. By taking the initial step of continuing school, I opened a new world of possibility, which also means a new world of choices. Otherwise known as a ”new world of conundrums”.
So, when we move forward, we face conundrums. A conundrum, then, is something to be thankful for. I’d rather suffer terribly over choosing one path of many than not having any paths to choose from at all.
How did I pull nursing out of my arse? Well, when you chase your tail long enough, you’re bound to find something back there. 
Even though nursing seems an “out of the blue” and “out of character” decision, it makes sense to me when I look back at my path thus far.
When I was in fifth grade, I volunteered at the Humane Society every Saturday. Unfortunately my mom always had bad timing. She’d arrive to pick me up at the very same time that I was playing catch with a dangerous Rottweiler-type mutt six times my size.
“Sunny,” she begin her lecture as we drove home. “That beast could’ve eaten you!”
“But Mom,” I’d protest passionately, as only a fifth grader can. “Everyone else says he’s ugly and mean, but he’s not. He’s the sweetest dog ever. And, anyway, if I don’t play with him, no one will! And, Mom, not playing with a lonely dog is totally unacceptable to me!”
“Young lady,” she’d shake her finger in front of my face. “If you continue that tone, I’m going to beat you. And if you continue to offer yourself as barbecue to hairy beasts, I won’t take you there anymore.”
She never did beat me. And she always took me back. I volunteered there until high school and loved every moment of being slobbered on, bitten, and licked. It was heaven. I only stopped going because I decided to become a candy striper at St. Mary’s Hospital. I loved the hospital as much as I loved the animal shelter. My favorite part of St. Mary’s was helping people. People who were lost and needed directions. People who just needed you to keep up senseless conversation because they were nervous. And, boy, am I ever good at keeping a conversation going – even when there’s no one around!
I’ve always loved the underdog, literally and figuratively. I love people. I especially love people who aren’t easy to love.
Life hasn’t been particularly easy for me. I grew up in a tough family. Criticism outweighed encouragement. As the daughter of a Naval officer, I bounced from one school to another as we relocated every couple of years. And because I stuttered until the age of thirteen, I was ruthlessly bullied. I never had friends or felt like I belonged anywhere. My mom died when I was fourteen, and I was quickly sent to France as an exchange student when my dad couldn’t figure out what to do with me. As many kids do when they’re lost and lonely, I found trouble. Lots of it, because I rarely do anything half-heartedly! I struggled with a wild streak until my mid-twenties. I struggled with relationships, finances, lack of self-respect, and all sorts of other things, too.
I’ve come to realize that life isn’t particularly easy for anyone. We all struggle. I still find myself struggling.
It’s because of my own struggles that I love people who aren’t easy to love. When I see them struggle, I hurt because I’ve struggled, too. But, unfortunately, I never know the right thing to say to help someone. Despite my ability to wax poetic on hundreds of subjects, I become a verbal dunderhead when it comes to comforting someone in need.
And that’s one of the reasons that I want to be a nurse. I want to give of myself for others, lend my compassion to others. Nursing gives me the ability to do something concrete to help people. To move my hands, be on my feet, offer a smile, and exhaust myself - feeling myself moving each moment of the day – and doing it all for the purpose of relieving pain. That, for me, is the epitome of career satisfaction. Looking back on who I really am – not the misguided wild-child or any of the other personas I’ve adopted over the years – but on the characteristics that I’ve always carried within myself, I realize that I’m a helper. Or, at least, I try to be a helper. I express myself, not with spoken words or brilliant gestures, but by washing the dishes.
Yeah, washing the dishes. When I want to contribute to someone, I roll up my sleeves and I wash their dishes. When I want to show my love, I don’t tell the person (how embarrassing!). Instead I make them coffee. It’s just my way. I’m a helper and a doer. To help and do, as a nurse, made sense as a great fit. Before I learned about the math and syringe part, anyway.
Back to that drive home after my orientation. I did find answers to my nervous questions. YES! I still have hope for being a nurse. How will I know this isn’t the right path until I hold that syringe for myself? And, YES! I’m still afraid. Afraid of microbiology, clinical calculations, and simulated people. But I’m more afraid of not trying. As for vomit, there’s messier things in my current corporate environment, and somehow I’ve gotten used to corporate messy stuff rather well.
So, what’s my first piece of advice? Know who you really are. Know what you like to do. Don’t be afraid to challenge yourself, or scare yourself by reaching just past what you think is possible. Fighting one’s nature is exhausting, frustrating, and it’s a battle that can never be won. Fighting one’s fear is equally exhausting, but it can be defeated.
Finding a career path, however, isn’t a purely romantic pursuit. If it were, I’d be writing novels while lounging in a minimally decorated Tuscan bungalow.
So, my second piece of advice? You need to know who you are, what you like to do, and what your strengths are. You need to be unafraid of challenging yourself. Then you have to blend all of this into what’s marketable.
Another reason I chose nursing is because it’s a growing field. Based on actual numbers from the previous graduating classes at my college, I can expect to find a job as a R.N. within three to six months of passing the N-CLEX, at an hourly wage almost double what I currently earn. Considering my personality, my likes – and the job market - becoming a nurse makes sense. Before deciding on the nursing program, I researched dozens of other possibilities. Teaching, social work, library science… It was a long list. After comparing the numbers, and thinking about what I really wanted in a career, nursing was the best choice. And, really, what’s better than a pair of scrubs for a minimalist’s working wardrobe?
How do you figure out who you are? Ask yourself what you enjoyed as a kid, before peer pressure and parent pressure and Real Life overwhelmed you. Think about what moves you emotionally. That’s always a good sign of what’s really important to you. What makes you laugh? Cry? What gives you energy, people or silence? What kind of environment do you want to work in? A busy place or a quiet place?
We can never learn who we are by asking hypothetical questions, though, or trying to research ourselves while firmly secured in an armchair. What fun is armchair research, anyway? Make a list of all the things you think you might like to do. Get out into the world and give them a try. Volunteer, talk to people in different fields, attend a scary nursing program orientation. Take a class and see how it feels.
You can’t expect to have Your Perfect Career drop out from the sky. You have to go searching for it. Some people have been blessed with a calling that they can’t ignore, but for most of us it takes more effort.
Like Chandra, even though you think you’ve found the answer, and you go after it, you may discover that it wasn’t what you expected. But that’s nothing to be afraid of. If you can finish one thing, you can finish another. You can take advantage of everything that you’ve learned, and everything you continue to learn, if you want to. You can try a different company or work your degree from a different angle. My friend A.W. chose her degree in finance because, as she told me once, ”I figured I could get into any company through the accounting department.” I always thought that was a brilliant plan.
Who says we should stick with only one field or one job for your entire working life anyway? Your career, just like your personal life, is a journey.
How do you know what’s marketable? Read, read, read. This is where armchair research is exceptionally helpful. I’ve found the Bureau of Labor Statistics immeasurably valuable. Here’s the Occupational Outlook Handbook for info on salaries, work environments, education required, growth projections, etc., of every kind of job out there. Browse magazines, journals, and other publications on your subject field. Myself, I’ve already started perusing the 8th edition of Sparks and Taylor’s Nursing Diagnosis Reference Manual.
My ultimate advice about finding your path? Never stop moving forward. Just go. Move. Grow. Learn something new every day. Try something new every day. Start each morning with positive expectation. Know that your life isn’t about your job, it’s about the life you bring into your job. Life isn’t about work always being easy, it’s about making every struggle work to your advantage. It’s not about the money you make, it’s about making money to fund your dreams.
So, get to work already! (Pun intended.)
Learn to Look at Yourself Differently
This past winter I sampled my first calamari. The kind where the octopus had been pregnant and her babies were included with the marinara. Yes, this is considered gourmet. No, I can’t explain why. I remember looking down into that bowl of ringlets and dead squid babies, involuntarily curling my upper lip, and proclaiming very firmly, “Ain’t no way I’m eatin’ that.”
As is usual after a few too many glasses of Cabernet, I soon found myself doing what I said I wouldn’t. ”Wow,” I said, licking spicy marinara from my lips and picking up another forkful of ringlets. “I never thought I’d be a calamari lover!”
And, much to my surprise, I am.
I’m a mix of many eccentric things. I’m addicted to Tabasco, fascinated by prison documentaries, and adverse to furniture. The younger version of myself never would’ve guessed that I’d cover all food groups with Tabasco - disgusting! I never would’ve guessed that I’d stay up until 2 AM (for more than a week straight) watching National Geographic’s Lockdown series - boring! To imagine an apartment without furniture, well, that would’ve never crossed my mind.
There are many more things of the non-eccentric variety that make up my life, too. Things that I could never have predicted as becoming important. Photography, Swedish modern design, baked brie, Netflix, Smartwool socks (they’re truly amazing). Some things have come to me naturally, like taking pictures while hiking, and they follow a sensical pattern. Capturing photos of the Rockies is surely an understandable hobby to fall for since I adore the mountains and hike often.
Sometimes, though, the things that make up who you are don’t make sense. They’re separated from what you normally do, how you normally behave, or in some way break the patterns/habits/routines that you’ve established for yourself.
I’m a firm believer in boring routines. I love the predictable! Well, at least to some degree. I love having my barista call me by name because I see her almost every morning. I appreciate knowing the quietest corners of the library, my favorite spot in Denver for brunch (it’s Snooze, by the way). These things don’t arrive – favorites and people who know you by name – if you don’t have some sort of consistency.
But as with all things, there’s a caveat to an overabundance of predictability. Being too consistent and following a routine that’s too strict prevents you from unearthing something new. Not just a new restaurant or a new hiking trail. A new part of yourself. A part of yourself that you’ve never seen before.
I recently went through a tough time these past several months. Not because my psych class this semester gave me a doozie of a headache (and has now made me wonder if I, too, have a personality disorder since I talk to myself excessively). My tough time was of the, “Where do I go from here?” variety. What do I do with the education I’ve been working so hard on these past two years? I had to either turn left or right, so to speak, no longer able to choose safe prerequisites.
I always believed that I’d chase an English degree. I always assumed I’d work at 5280 (a Denver magazine) or something of the like, make enough money for an extensive wine collection, take an awesome vacation every year, and live happily ever after. Oh, and hopefully fall in love with a man who drives a dusty Chevy, owns a plethora of camping equipment, cooks eggs Benedict on Sunday, and can change a flat tire. Piece-a-cake. Simple, right?
Despite my lack of furniture and owning less than 100 Things, life is never as simple as I try to make it .
Very, very, very surprisingly, I don’t want to be an English major. I loved every moment of my literature classes and will never be the same since Hemingway. After taking two English Composition classes, I’m a more critical thinker and reader and can write about complicated subjects. But I don’t love the field like I expected to. I’m not drawn to the work that an English degree would provide. Instead, I was craving something that I couldn’t name, and when I finally figured it out, I was shocked. What I wanted was something I’d never before considered. Never ever identified with.
After much reflection, and a lot of self-doubt, I decided to enter the College of Nursing.
“You? A nurse?“ I know, whoda thunk. ”You know there’s, like, biology and blood and guts involved, right?”
Yup. I sure do. I’ll need to learn a lot of stuff that I have no previous experience with. I’ll need to learn organic chemistry, anatomy, physiology, human nutrition (which is all about wine and cheese, I’m sure), the complicated world of pharmacology, and how to properly administer an enema. (I’ll be honest, not looking forward to the enema part, but at least I’m moving from my current “peon” status of the business world to “poop-on” status of the health care world I consider this an improvement.) I did my homework. I met with my academic advisor. I signed on the dotted line and have radically shifted directions. And, yup, I’m scared. I’m also extremely excited. It will require dedication and many cappuccinos. I’m committed to giving this everything I’ve got.
I could go on (and on) about why I want to be a nurse, and how I came to this decision, but what I’m really trying to convey right now is that no one – least of all myself – would ever have put the words “Sunny” and “nurse” into the same sentence, unless it went something like this: “Sunny is in need of a nurse.”
Despite many great experiences over the past four years, I’ll confess that – until two years ago – I’d never seen myself as particularly worthwhile. I come from a family where criticism was much more prevalent than encouragement. I never saw myself as capable. I never looked at myself as smart. Good at starting things, perhaps, but never finishing them. I never considered myself brave, responsible, organized, or even much of a good person. How could I? I’d done very little that would’ve revealed these qualities. Until the age of twenty-six, I shifted between doing what was expected - unspeakably miserable - and rebelling. Though I did rebel with a lot of gusto, and for that I suppose I revealed some sort of capability .
After moving to Denver, I saw myself as someone who had moved cross-country, found her home against the mountains, and was proud of that accomplishment. But she’d never go farther than that one defiant act of breaking away and finding independence. I saw myself as a person who watched life from the sidelines, celebrating everyone else’s happiness, but never believing that I could join the game.
When I returned to college two years ago, I remember buying my first textbook on campus. I think I sprained something hauling that 30 pound book to my car. I remember reading that first chapter, stuffed with complicated words. I remember having to read every page two or three times before anything sunk in. I never told anyone how difficult that first class really was for me. It was frustrating and I’d get sick to my stomach thinking that I’d fail. Then I’d have proof that I really wasn’t smart, after all. Or worthwhile. Or capable. Or responsible. Or any of the other things I very much wanted to be. But I didn’t fail. I got an A. The second class I took was a little bit easier, the third easier still. Textbook speech began to make sense. MPA writing formats became second nature. Not because I have super powers, it’s because I gave it everything I had.
Then a funny thing happened somewhere between my third and fourth classes. I saw myself as a student. I excelled in subjects I’d never done well in before. I saw myself as capable. Smarter than I realized, though certainly no genius (who needs that kinda pressure anyway!). And absolutely worthwhile. I learned how to look at myself differently. Not because of the good grades I received, but because of what I began to see in myself through the process. I proved myself capable by giving all of my effort. I proved myself responsible because I got everything done when it needed to get done. I made a promise to myself that every class I started, I would finish- no excuses. I kept that promise. I built trust and confidence inside of myself, one class at a time.
That’s how I know I can be a nurse, despite any previous aversion to science. It’s because I know I can conquer a challenge. It’s because I want it badly enough to work hard for it. I want the blood, the guts, and the chance to help people. I can be a nurse because I learned that I can… well, learn. I can learn the biology and anatomy and chemistry. Not without difficulty or without struggle, but life isn’t about coasting through things. It’s not about watching from the sidelines. It’s not about exerting the least amount of effort. It’s about committing to something that’s important to you, even while knowing you’ll have to work hard to accomplish it. It’s about uncovering what you don’t know about yourself (yet) and having the courage to be that person. Even if it doesn’t fit into your routine. Even it if doesn’t make sense.
I don’t believe that college, or any other *one* thing is the ticket to seeing yourself differently and/or revolutionizing your life. College was just how I began to look at myself differently. Consider, though, all of the possibilities that will give you a new perspective of yourself. Volunteering. Tutoring. Finishing a class - a cooking class, a martial arts class. Running a marathon. Reading about a subject you think you can’t understand. Try something new, something foreign, and enjoy the experience. Just choose something – anything! Start it, put all of your effort into it, complete it. You’ll soon meet an unexpected stranger inside of you.
You can even start with something easy, like eating squid babies. Who knows? You, too, could be a calamari lover.
Start EVERY Day Like It’s Already Perfect
Every morning you can catch me – mid-yawn – picking up a caramel latte at the cafe inside of my neighborhood grocery store. It’s a great way to start the day for several reasons: it meets my requirement for caffeine, my barista gets a kick out of my extremely bad jokes-of-the-day, and it allows me to pick up peanut butter if I run out the night before.
Yesterday I delivered my joke-of-the-day, relished that first creamy sip of caffeine… and tried to talk myself out of a Boston cream donut. To no avail.
“Ooh,” I sighed, inching closer to the beautiful display of unhealthy breakfast items. “They have chocolate-coconut donuts today.” Since coconut donuts make a rare appearance in the bakery, it only made sense to grab two. Plus the Boston cream. It was, after all, a Monday.
While walking out of the bakery, bag of delicious sugary breakfast treats clutched gleefully, I heard one baker greet the other, “Hey, how’s it goin’?”
“Oh, you know,” he replied, stacking baguettes. “Another day in paradise.”
The way he said it, and the roll of his eyes, made it clear that he didn’t consider himself anywhere near paradise. Hearing his sad sarcasm made ME sad. Thank goodness for the coconut donuts, they always lift my mood, and yesterday was no exception. I felt badly about not finishing all three of them, but some things aren’t meant to be accomplished. The baker wouldn’t leave my thoughts, though, and I wondered how awful life could be when you’re surrounded by baguettes and donuts for eight hours. To me that IS the definition of paradise.
I can understand that not everyone appreciates carbohydrates as I do, but what I can’t understand is how – at 6:45 am – it’s already expected that the day will be horrible enough to deserve an eye roll. Cinnamon roll, yes. Eye roll, not so much.
Anything can happen on ANY day. That’s the beauty of life. The unexpectedness. The surprise. What if we started each day like it was already perfect? Like it already held something wonderful. Like it would be perfect simply because you already thought of it as perfect.
I will never forget my favorite hike in Golden, Colorado. It was October and the aspens were so yellow that it was painful looking at them. There I was, three miles into a five-mile hike…. and then it began to rain. Water pounded against the back of my neck, rolling beneath my jacket and down my spine, and I shivered against the way it tickled. And it was cold – so cold.
“Stupid Sunny,” I chastised myself. “It’s called The Weather Channel and you shouldn’t be afraid of checking it!”
If I had checked, I would’ve missed the intimate tickling of rain. I would’ve missed my introduction to the most satisfying love affair of all time -Me and Mud. Lots of mud. Everywhere on me. I’ve never laughed so hard. Or been that drenched. That dirty. That overwhelmed with beautiful unexpectedness. I was freezing, but also embraced by the smell and the sound of a Colorado storm. I was mud-covered, but felt cleansed.
I remember, too, being on one of the worst dates of my life (and I hope for many more terrible dates, they’re actually quite fun). We were at this fabulous dessert bar called, simply, dBar. This particular night my date had indulged in way too much Jim Barry Shiraz. I appreciated his enthusiasm for red wine, but the entertaining monologue that it produced was more suited for situations not in public. Or around children. Or women.
“Yes, that is, indeed, an interesting story about Vegas,” I assured him when he paused for breath. “But since drugs and prostitution aren’t really legal here in Denver, it may be best to lower your voice a bit.”
All I could think about while perched on my bar stool, listening to Mr. Vegas’s inappropriate stories, was, “I curled my hair for this?”
Embarrassed and miserable, I dreamt of happier things. Like bubble baths and nunneries. And when I thought I couldn’t take it any longer, a dapper gent strolled from the kitchen, and without hesitation, walked to my dejected spot at the bar. “The moment you walked in, I said to myself,” he paused to give me a look that said he understood my current pain. “She looks like a port kinda girl.”
I sat a little straighter. “I do?”
“Well, aren’t you?” He asked.
“That depends,” I said hesitantly.
“On?”
“Whether or not I like port.”
He gasped with mock despair. “You’ve never tried port?”
I shook my head.
“Then one 20-year on its way.” He sized me up. “For you, a tawny.”
“I don’t know what that means, but if it’s a come-on,” I warned him with a good-natured grin, giving a little nod to my drunken date. “I’m not easily amused right now.”
And while I sipped on a 20-year tawny port, smooth like silk and sweet like maple syrup, this dapper man from the kitchen – my hero that night – told me all about apple tarte tatins while he peeled Granny Smiths across from me. We discussed chocolate frosting and cheesecakes (it is, after all, a dessert bar). And – suddenly – it hit me. This man, who’d saved me from an embarrassing evening (my date had since disappeared into the bathroom to hug the porcelain god), was Keegan Gerhard. The Food Network guy. Yeah, that’s right, one of the top 10 pastry chefs in the nation. He happens to own Denver’s dBar.
I decided that, yes, I was happy to have curled my hair that night. You never know when you’re going to meet a famous pastry chef.
Best worst date of my life.
There are mornings when I don’t want to unroll from my toasty quilt. Mornings when I’m unenthusiastic about facing the world. It’s on these days that I only have to do one thing – slip on my Dorothy shoes. They’re bright red ballet flats. I click my heels three times before leaving my closet. “Not in Kansas anymore,” I say. Something about those shoes make my steps lighter. Every day that I wear my Dorothy shoes is a great day. Do the shoes have magical powers? Or do I greet the day with happy expectation, and simply make it so?
Start every day like it’s already perfect. Like there’s going to be a wonderful surprise somewhere within it. Curl your hair. Don’t check the weather. Click your heels. ’Cause, Toto, there could be a twister brewing any moment.
And, in case of a feeling-miserable emergency, eat donuts .
Return of The Stiletto (Or How Your Ego Will Get You Every Time)
I’ve always been a romantic. It was with great excitement, then, that I leaned closer to my date, after he leaned closer to me, our dinner table the only thing between us. He was about to say something and I wanted to hear every word.
“Yes?” I encouraged, eyes wide, breath catching. Surely he’d say something wonderful. I was ready to be swept off my feet.
“Sunny,” he began. “In the short time we’ve been dating, you’ve broken all of my deal breakers.”
I jerked back. Since I’m pretty straight-laced, with a few exceptions naturally, I was surprised. “Oh?”
Before he could elaborate, our server came to take our drink order.
“A Chianti,” I told her without hesitation. “Stat.”
“And,” the server said courteously, head turning toward my date. “For you, sir?”
“Well, doll,” he said, sending her a suggestive wink, drawing out each word that came next. “I’ll have a long slow comfortable screw up against a wall.”
I gasped. If my momma, a woman from South Carolina, could’ve heard these words, she would’ve boxed his ears.
“A what, sir?” The server asked, confusion and embarrassment twisting her face.
And, unfortunately, he repeated his request.
This is a legitimate drink, I found out, but not one I’d ever consider ordering on a fourth date. I should’ve left then and there, but hindsight is, as they say, 20/20. When this wasn’t available, he settled for a brandy sour.
After a few swigs of Chianti had settled into my blood stream, I dared to question him. “What are these deal breakers, exactly?”
“First of all,” he began. “You drink too much.”
“If you’d like me better without a glass of wine in hand, perhaps you should invite me somewhere other than a bar?”
He brushed this aside. “You’re just not my type, generally speaking.”
I raised both eyebrows. “Oh?”
“You dance way too suggestively,” he elaborated. “You smile too much. You’re obviously a wild child. You say the weirdest things. I don’t get you. You’re just…strange.”
My eyes lowered. I clenched my hands together. I’m five feet and six inches tall, but at that moment I felt only one inch. I wanted nothing more than to escape our private booth, running to the safety of the parking lot.
“But,” he said. “You’re interesting. I’m willing to take a chance on you.”
I’m embarrassed to admit that I sat there for an hour, conversing as well as possible, while he elaborated on all of the things he didn’t like about me, but why he’d give me a “shot” anyway. When our drinks were dry and our dinner was eaten, I even kissed him after he walked me to my car. He expected that kiss, despite how he’d made me feel, and I didn’t know what else to do. That night, I was a traitor to myself.
Driving home, I cried until my lungs hurt, until I couldn’t breathe. Until my eyes felt like sand paper. I entered my apartment, unclasping the necklace and earrings I’d painfully chosen. Scrubbed my face of the carefully applied mascara. Slipped out of the pretty ballet flats. Unfolded myself from the fancy clothes. I crawled into bed, broken. I cried until I fell asleep.
All I could think about that night, and the next day, were the words he’d said, and the words that he didn’t say, but were abundantly clear: “You’re not good enough, but I’ll slum it for a while, because you’re interesting.”
I’m not perfect. I’m the most imperfect person you’ll ever meet. I am a wild child, if that means I’m unconventional. I’m eccentric. I do smile too much, I blame it on my Midwestern background. I dance in downtown Denver like I dance in my kitchen – like no one’s watching.
This was Mr. Convertible. Two years ago. And the next day I sent him an eloquently worded email saying I thought it was best we not date anymore.
The same Mr. Convertible who convinced me to tour a corn maze with him last October. The same Mr. Convertible I’ve been dating since that corn maze, which I wrote of recently.
Yup, Sunny definitely IS interesting AND an idiot .
There’s nothing wrong with giving someone a chance. Forgiving the wrong words. Understanding a different point of view. I won’t ever argue with being compassionate. You have to ask yourself, however, where your compassion ends and your ego begins. Because while dating Mr. Convertible, I was only trying to prove myself good enough. For my ego.
Enter the stiletto. The very essence of my ego.
Christmas day arrived and I went to Mr. Convertible’s house for a holiday dinner. It had been several years since I’d spent Christmas with anyone, so I was pretty excited. It was here that I met – well, we’ll call her Ms. Glitter – and I sat next to her during that dinner.
“Wow,” I commented to Ms. Glitter. “That’s some amazing body glitter!”
“Yeah,” she said, running a fake nail along her cleavage. “I’m all about the bling.” She glanced at my sneakers with disdain.
“Yeah,” I said, giving a nonchalant laugh. “I’m all about broken shoelaces.”
Several weeks later, Mr. Convertible admitted that he’d dated her. She was an ex-girlfriend. And I’d sat next to her at Christmas dinner at his house.
No problem, I said to myself. I could handle that. I’m supposed to be progressive. A little – as I always like to think of myself – eccentric and liberal. I met her again at another of Mr. Convertible’s parties - me again in sneakers, her again in glitter. She made it clear that she was competing for Mr. Convertible’s attention. She rubbed her cleavage in his nose. She made fun of me. She made me feel one inch tall, just like Mr. Convertible himself had years before. Mr. Convertible, however, did nothing but soak up the attention. I drove home that night, picking up a habit I’d quit years ago – biting my nails until they bled.
When I knew she’d be at Mr. Convertible’s dinner party the next weekend, I arrived early so I could have two glasses of wine before the party started. I was nervous.
Earlier that morning, I looked at myself in the mirror. I saw the freckles on my nose, from the hikes I’ve taken in the Colorado sun. I stared at the fleece in my closet. The broken shoelaces gracing my shoes.
“How will I compete with Ms. Glitter?” I asked myself, knowing there was no competition. I was sunshine and sneakers. She was glitter and cleavage. Lots of cleavage. Lots and LOTS of cleavage.
I did only what I knew how to do. I went to Macy’s. I bought the tightest push-up bra I could find. The band around my rib cage pinched, I could barely breathe, but I was filled with a momentary surge of confidence. Then, I wandered around the shoe department… And there they were…
Six-inch stilettos. Bright red. Fake diamonds encrusted along the side.
I beckoned the salesman. “Size eight.”
I slipped them on, spine curving into that familiar arch. Toes slipping into the position they’d unhappily lived for many years. Suddenly, the Sunny I never wanted to be again appeared. I looked at myself in the mirror. I gave a nod of satisfaction.
The salesman winked at me, reminding me of the wink Mr. Convertible gave our server two years earlier. A good sign, I figured.
Ms. Glitter I’d never be, but Seductive Sunny I could reinvent. Superficial Sunny. Controlled Sunny. The Sunny who never smiled. The Sunny who never danced like no one’s watching, shaking her hips around her kitchen and in downtown Denver. Gone was the Sunny who loves her mountains, who loves herself when breathless from running up a trail with aspens, who laughs when tripping over her broken shoelaces. Who relishes reading books in her empty apartment. Who’s returned to college, takes refuge in the library, and wants only what’s simple and authentic.
I painted red upon my lips. I pulled a silk camisole atop tight jeans. I bought a bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz-Grenache. Of which I drank two glasses of at Mr. Convertible’s house before anyone else arrived, ready to compete, but needing liquid courage. All the while feeling sick inside. A traitor once again.
What was there to compete for? A man whose deal breakers I’d broken two years earlier? A man who’d told me, in convoluted terms, that I wasn’t good enough? A man who was never worth my tears?
With my red lips and perfectly chosen ensemble, I was brilliant. I was as bright and as fake as the diamonds on my stilettos. I laughed, tipping my head back, running my fingers slowly down my throat. I told funny jokes. I shook the curls I’d put into my hair, flirtatious and seductive, completely charming. Mr. Convertible was impressed. He liked Superficial Sunny. But what Ms. Glitter – or Mr. Convertible, for that matter – will never know is that, despite shining that night, I lost.
If my momma, from South Carolina, could’ve seen me that night, she would’ve boxed my ears. I would’ve deserved it.
I lost myself. I lost everything I’d worked so hard for- in the space of one evening.
Driving home that night, I again cried all the way home. Not because of Mr. Convertible. Not because of Ms. Glitter. Because of me. Because of my ego.
This story isn’t about gender. It isn’t specifically about dating. It’s about putting your ego aside and standing up for yourself. Which is something I didn’t do.
You can drive away from a bad date, crying until you’re completely spent, and, the next morning, be lifted by the knowledge that you’re still You. Beautifully you. An absolutely gorgeous person, unique to any other being that anyone will ever know.
You can roll your eyes at the person who wants to compete with you, or the person who makes you feel less because you don’t glitter as they do. You can walk away and know that you glitter more brilliantly because you’re You. Absolutely perfect with your imperfections and your genuineness.
It’s not easy. Here I am, a spunky crazy person who lives with two pieces of furniture. I’ve embraced minimalism and simplicity… and I fell. I scraped my knees on true complexity. The complexity of losing yourself. But I can tell you, from experience, that the only people worth complexity are those who love you for your broken shoelaces. That love you for the quirks and craziness that make you You. Go ahead, complicate your life – with the nervousness, the butterflies, the biting of your nails – but only for the people who like the amazing person you already are.
Your ego will want to play the games that others want you to play. Remember, always, that you have a choice. You can simply say, “No, thanks.”
For the record, the shoes are on eBay. And Mr. Convertible is now driving solo.
