Stay Positive. Love Your Life.

I love pools. Like, LOVE pools. Like, I stayed with this one ex-boyfriend for a month after finding out he cheated on me just because it was still summer and he had a pool. Like, one time I was at a party at a co-worker's friend's house and I hadn't even been drinking or there for more than about 10 minutes before I borrowed a t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts from this girl I didn't even know just so I could go in her pool. Like, looking back, the single biggest regret of my childhood is not my deeply problematic relationship with my father, but the fact that we never owned a pool. I can't even swim and still have to wear earplugs and hold my nose when I go underwater, but I love pools all the same.

So this weekend I went to a public pool. Which, after reading that first paragraph, probably seems like kind of an anticlimactic way to start a story. But trust me, it was an achievement, because this is the first time in almost a decade I have been out in public in a bathing suit. Literally — almost a decade. I honestly couldn't remember how long it had been, so I sat down and did the math and it blew my mind: The last time anyone besides an immediate family member had seen me in a bathing suit was at a pool party at my roller derby team captain's house in 2007 (I remember because it was the summer we skated at Warped Tour). And again, after reading that first paragraph, that probably seems inconceivable, so let me explain.

For the vast majority of my life, I've been skinny. Not "slim" or "fit," but skinny. And not just skinny, but known for being skinny. Like, if someone in high school or college was describing me to a friend who'd just met me the weekend before, they'd invariably say, "You remember Becky — the tall, skinny one?" And I never even had to work for it. I was just naturally skinny. And I never fully appreciated it.

I'm the gangly, toothpick-legged one with the longer hair.

Now I'm on meds and officially a full year into my forties and yes, I could probably (definitely) eat better and exercise more, and I'm not so skinny. It's not even that I've gained weight, it's that all the weight I've gained seems to be centered right in the middle. I'm not so much fat as weird-shaped. Disproportionate. I have like, a converse hourglass figure — not-so-big boobs, a big belly, no hips to speak of. Which makes finding clothes that fit properly difficult: plus-size clothing assumes all parts of your body are equally plus-size, so a dress or clingy top that fits my midsection will usually be too roomy in the bust. "Skinny" jeans that fit my waist turn wide-leg at my thighs. And swimsuits are their very own epic misadventure. After a lifetime of effortless skinniness, of the biggest challenge I ever faced while shopping for clothes being "Cash or credit?", I now found this morbidly embarrassing. I mean, I used to wear bikinis, for crying out loud — how could I let people see me like this?? I decided I could not let people see me like this. I didn’t even own a bathing suit for years.

Then it occurred to me recently, probably while I was sweating my ass off on a tropically humid subway platform and frantically fanning myself with a fold-up map of Brooklyn I had dug out of my purse in desperation, that the only person this self-imposed exile was affecting in any way was me. Seriously? Outspoken feminist and contrarian who loves being in a pool almost more than life itself is going to spend another sweltering summer in the city avoiding FREE PUBLIC POOLS because she no longer looks hot in a bikini? Who even am I??

So I did it. I bought a bathing suit. I went to a public pool. I spent 2 hours floating in the shadow of the High Bridge Water Tower, surrounded by strangers. And it was glorious.

***

"What does body positivity mean to you?"

"So, look. The relationship we each have with our bodies is one of the most important and challenging relationships we'll ever have to cultivate, seeing as we're stuck with the one body our whole lives — and if dealing with the basic messiness inherent in owning a human body isn't enough to be getting on with, we also live in a culture that seems determined to poison that relationship from the get-go. We're slammed with body-shaming messages from the moment we're old enough to interact with society at all."

"The thing that happens when you teach people to be ashamed of their bodies is that you instill in them a deep belief that they're never enough, and the feeling of not being enough is a desperate feeling. Some people respond to it exactly the way capitalism wants them to — they pour money into products, clothes, food, and gym memberships that they think will help them measure up. Some people respond to it by hiding from life in an effort to avoid what feels like inevitable scrutiny from a world that tries to tell them they aren't good enough to exist. I have played both of those games, and let me tell you something: there's no way to win either one of them. You're setting yourself up to fail in both cases, because in both cases you are allowing someone else's rules to determine your worth. And NO ONE else has the power to do that — you're a human being, and as a human being, you're inherently worthy. That's just how that works."

"One of the things that kills me about body shame is that it can paralyze. Body shame is how we end up unable to enjoy our food. It’s how we end up afraid to show up at the gym lest some imaginary meathead gives us the stank-face for not looking perfect in our workout clothes. Body shame is how we stop ourselves from buying certain kinds of clothes because we 'can't get away with it.' It's how we end up having sex with the lights off and hiding our perceived 'body flaws' with strategically draped sheets. It's how we miss out on fun social opportunities because we don't feel attractive enough to be seen in public. It, in essence, kills our ability to enjoy some of the best things in life." — Megan Ribar

I'm extra glad now that I got that ice cream cone on the way home.

***

Inspired by Smart Glamour.
And my niece: May you always be this happy in your skin. ♥

Why I Don't Drink, or, "If You See Something, Say Something"

So I decided to go out last night. Yep, you heard me — to a bar. In Williamsburg. To see this guy I only know from Twitter play a show. With his girlfriend. On a night when I had work AND school the next day.

I have no idea why I thought any of this was a good idea.

(Yes I do: I wanted an excuse to wear my awesome new boots again.)

Anyway, as you may already know, I'm on a few medications. One of these specifically states that one should not drink alcohol while taking it. Another is alternately prescribed for smoking cessation. I smoke "socially," as in, I smoke because I'm socially inept and it gives me something to do when I feel awkward in public. I think you see where this is headed.

A friend from home once said I'm like a cicada — I only come out once every 17 years. This may or may not have to do with the occasional experience of an evening ended slumped over a garbage can on a deserted subway platform moaning, "Oh God, why do I do this to myself?"

At least my boots stayed dry.

Take The Train To The Train...To The Train...

This was my commute this morning:

Board F train.
Go 2 stops.
Conductor: "This train will now be running on the G line."
Get off train.
Wait for next F train.
Next F train is PACKED.
Wait for next F train.
Board F train.
Go 1 stop.
Conductor: "This train will now be running on the G line."
Get off train.
No F train transfer available at this station.
Cross platform.
Board waiting A train.
Conductor: "This train will not be going into Manhattan."
Get off train.
Wait for next A train.
Walk 6 blocks to my office ON THE HOTTEST DAY OF THE YEAR as opposed to my normal 1.5.
Arrive at work 45 minutes late.

Happy Thursday, y'all!

Baby Fat

I'm a pretty self-conscious person. (*cough*Asperger's*cough*)

In addition, any weight I gain goes straight to my belly, which sometimes makes me worry that I look pregnant. I try to camouflage it, but I still occasionally get offered a seat on the subway, particularly when I wear a certain top of mine that "has an empire-waist and floats away from the body" (Stacey from What Not To Wear LIES!!). It doesn't bother me too much — I'll do almost anything to get a seat on the subway, and I haven't reached the stage where anybody's asked me when I'm due yet — so I just kind of tolerate it.

However, as I was standing on the subway platform the other day, I noticed a man near me who looked way more pregnant than I do. Like, gut-hanging-over-the-waist-of-his-cargo-shorts "pregnant." Shoulders back, hands on his hips, almost like he was proud of it. It was not cute. And it did not inspire in me one of those "Right on, man! This is who I am whether you like it or not!" moments. I just kind of curled my lip in disgust.

Maybe this speaks to some deep-seated self-hatred of mine, but I think it's really just an aesthetic issue. And a splash of good old feminist rage. I mean, I make an effort to dress to flatter my non-standard body. Why does this guy just get to stand there showing off his expansive midsection with impunity? And why do I have to look at it? Why is it that women, who have a built-in alibi — pregnancy — for carrying extra tummy weight, are terrified and ashamed and insulted that someone might possibly assume they are "expecting," while guys don't even have such an excuse and don't seem to give a shit? Why am I — unwavering in my confidence that I have pretty eyes and cool hair, great legs, a really great ass, and a not-that-bad rack — fixated on disguising this one "imperfect" body part when I go out in public, while this guy is balding and wearing Tevas and doesn't seem to care? And why is he in my field of view?? I MUST ONLY LOOK AT PRETTY THINGS!!

After all, I may be fat, but you're ugly and I could lose weight.

I'm A Bitch And I'm Proud!

Guy with a bike knocking into me as he gets off the train: "You could have just stepped out, lady!"
Me: "And you could have not brought a bike on the train during rush hour, dick."

Me: "Excuse me, could I sit there?"
Woman holding a coffee and a cell phone with 3 tote bags taking up the seat next to her: "Sorry, I've got too much stuff."
Me: "Of course you do. And of course your stuff paid for that seat. Thanks a lot."

My commutes have become so much more enoyable now that I've actually started saying these things out loud...

How You Know You Live In Park Slope 6: The "F" is for "FREEDOM!"

TODAY'S F TRAIN FRANZEN TALLY*

Total number of passengers reading books: approx. 10
Number of passengers reading Jonathan Franzen's Freedom: 3
Number of passengers reading Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections: 2

GRAND TOTAL: 5/10 = approx. 50%

*Morning commute only

Three Best Things I've Overheard This Week

At work:
"All you do is walk around all day. You're like Master Of The Hallway."

On the 6 train:
"But you're not a tuna fish."

Girl on the street, smoking a cigarette:
"Crap, there's no cardio tonight?"

Subway Etiquette Is Neither Etiquette Nor Even Exists. Discuss.

My commute today was like a crash course in Subway Douchery

Example #1:
Guy in the F station playing the marimba. Not a guitar or a bucket, but a full-out xylophone about half the width of the platform.

Example #2:
Woman with a baby in a sling carrier gets on at Delancey St. No one offers her a seat.
(I finally did — she declined. But still...)

Example #3:
Woman with a little boy and what looks like a large suitcase gets on at Jay St. No one offers her a seat.
(Again, I did, and again, she declined, but like I said....)

Example #4:
Guy gets on at Astor Place with a bicycle and sits down smack in the middle of the row of seats with the bicycle perfectly centered in front of him. So not only can no one stand in the aisle in front of him because it's blocked by the bicycle, no one can sit next to him either without climbing over the bicycle to get to the empty seats. Oh, and did I mention? It is RUSH HOUR.

Which brings me to my next point: IF YOU HAVE A BICYCLE WITH YOU, WHY AREN'T YOU RIDING THE DAMN BICYCLE??

Thank you, that will be all for today.

Things That Make Me Uncomfortable: Appendix

Co-workers who brush their teeth in the ladies room.

People near me on the subway watching movies with sex scenes on their iPads.

Shirtless guys in public.

Waiting for someone to finish using the copy machine.

Someone waiting for me to finish using the copy machine.

Hardcore Brooklyn hipsters.

Further Adventures In Strange Guys Hitting On Me

Tomorrow is my birthday. Last year on my birthday, this happened:

So it's my birthday and I got all dolled up and took myself to see a show. Coming home on the Q train, there's this drunk and/or insane guy who looks like a cross between an albino and someone with that disease where they can't grow any hair, like eyebrows or anything. He starts shouting, "Miss! Hey, miss!"

Please don't let him be talking to me, please don't let him be talking to me...

"Hey, miss! White girl!"

Damn it, he's talking to me.

I'm wearing open-toe heels, and when I make the mistake of shifting a fraction of an inch in his direction when the train hits a bump, he says, loud enough for the rest of the car to enjoy, "Those are some sexy shoes. Can I kiss your toes, baby?"

I'm trying to just ignore him, but he keeps repeating himself, and women all around me are trying not to laugh and murmuring, "Oh, you poor thing," so finally I shout, "Sorry, I've got someone." Even though I don't, and I'm actually kind of bummed about that. And why do I always feel the need to be polite to these lunatics?

"Ok, ok, I respect that," he says. "But I'm real good. I'm real good! I bet I could do it better for you than him!"

"Probably not," I tell him. "He has a foot fetish." [Based on actual events.]

Everyone around me bursts out laughing. My admirer is only momentarily thrown for a loop, but eventually bounces right back and keeps yelling shit and trying to get my attention until he finally gets off the train 2 stops later.

Once the doors close and he's gone, the other passengers all start looking around and shaking their heads and laughing under their breath. The girl in the seat next to me leans over and says, "That was good. How does that not creep you out?"

Lady, I want to tell her, I'm used to it.

"MTA" Doesn't Stand For "Macho Testosterone Asshole"

No lie, there was a guy in my subway car last night doing chin-ups on the ceiling bar.

Not even in front of an empty seat, but with people sitting right in front of him. I'm sure he really impressed them with his manly and daring display of strength, as well as with his stylish ensemble consisting of a wifebeater and shorts hanging off his ass.

And I'm really pissed he got off at the stop right before mine because I was all ready to walk up to him and be like, "Hey, that's a great trick! Want to see another one?" and do a Firefly spin on the "stripper" pole next to him. Because I know without a doubt that would have aroused his caveman interest, and when he then predictably tried to hit on me, I could have actually used the line, "Sorry, you're a douche."

Man, that would have been priceless.

Urban Dictionary

Today I learned from the MTA that "scratchitti" is a word. The more you know...

The City Of Brotherly Shove

Downtown Q train, woman struggling with 2 bags and a 4- or 5-year-old daughter gets on at Atlantic and Pacific. A couple near her offer her their seats. As they get up, a woman on the other side of them PUSHES ME OUT OF THE WAY to get there first and sits her fat ass down, as all other parties involved look on in disbelief.

I would have sat the kid in her lap anyway.

You stay classy, Brooklyn!

The Downtown 6

"Astor, Bleecker, Spring, Canal" is the new "Amityville, Copiague, Lindenhurst, and Babylon."

You're The Man Now, Dog!

Guy on the 6 train this morning is taking up two seats, slouching spread-eagle, as if he's preparing for a Pap smear.

I fucking hate that.

The 6 train gets crowded pretty quickly, so in order to conserve some space, I inquire, "Excuse me, can I sit there?"

Guy gives me a look like I just asked him to shine my shoes and shifts approximately 3 inches to the left.

Oh, that is it. And you think you're gonna stare me down, too? Not a chance, douchebag — you know I am sitting there now.

I make sure to "accidentally" hit him with my bag as I squeeze in, and to "accidentally" elbow him when the train hits a bump. And I "accidentally" step on his foot when I get up for my stop, too. "Oh, sorry!" I exaggeratedly apologize. "I didn't mean to invade your space."

Smirking, I make my escape, luckily lost in the crush of people pushing for the doors — I don't doubt this guy would hit a girl.

Don't mess with me in the morning, people.

My Subway Subculture Initiation

So about 2 summers ago, I made the grand pilgrimage all the way from Long Island to Brooklyn to look at an apartment. On my way back home, I get on the Q at Church Ave. I'm only going a few stops, so I just grab onto a pole as the doors close. Distracted by the adorable giggling baby in the stroller to the right of me, I don't even notice this guy on my left until he gets up as if he's about to get off the train, but instead grabs onto the pole I'm leaning against and gets right in my face. He's balding with long hair, missing a tooth, wearing socks with sandals, and seems drunk, even though it's only 11 am.

"I like your tattoos," he says, smiling so wide he's almost leering, and leaning uncomfortably close to me.

"Thanks," I say before really thinking about it, "I have more" — my standard response to such compliments.

Bad move.

"I'd like to see them sometime," he says, stumbling and nearly falling on me with every lurch of the train. I just smile nervously and shift positions, but this doesn't stop my admirer. "Look," he says, conspiratorially, "I'm getting off at DeKalb, but I'd like to get to know you better. Maybe you can give me your phone number?"

Before he even gets the full sentence out, I tell him, "Sorry, I have a boyfriend," which I don't, but for some reason I can never bring myself to flat-out hurt these psychos' feelings. But my white lie doesn't deter Mr. Flatbush Casanova.

"He doesn't have to know," he replies and winks at me.

Oh, gross.

"Sorry," I repeat, grateful that these bug-eye sunglasses are practically eating my face so no one can see the half-amused/half-repulsed look I'm giving this guy right now.

"Do you live together?" he asks.

God damn, he's persistent! "Yeah," I tell him, "yeah, we do," and I'm even starting to picture it now — my imaginary boyfriend and I, curled up on a couch in the apartment I just looked at, eating take-out, doing something cozy and domestic, like a jigsaw puzzle. There's even a cat purring by my feet.

"That's great," he says, still not backing off. "I wish you luck. Tell him he's a lucky guy."

And then — relief of reliefs — it's my stop. "I will," I call over my shoulder as I hastily exit to the platform. I don't even watch the gap.

Man, I think, cracking up by myself in the middle of the empty train station, why can't "normal" guys that I'm attracted to ever be that direct? It would make things so much easier. Because even though I'm more than a little creeped-out, I'm still, strangely, and embarassingly, a little bit flattered.

And I did take that apartment.

[NOTE: Had you been at DimeStories tonight, you could have heard this enchanting story live.]

iGot The Music In Me

I finally got my new iPod yesterday — I've been without for almost a year (A YEAR!) — so, of course, after about 2 and a half hours of bewildered fiddling with iTunes and LimeWire (I am the most technologically-impaired person you will ever meet — you should see my antiquated cell phone), I loaded it to the max.

And this morning's commute was glorious.

I forgot how empowering it is to stomp down the city streets to "Army Of Me," and how soothing it is to be able to block out the noise of other people's obnoxious iPods with "#1 Crush" and "Bombs Over Baghdad."

I'm also a great lover of paradoxes, which is why I'm such a fan of roller derby (tough sport/sexy outfits), Diablo Cody (former stripper/Oscar winner), and pretty gay boys (um...pretty/boys), so it gives me no greater joy than to be sitting next to some stuffy middle-aged businessman on the subway, in my pinstriped dress pants and pointy-toed flats, with my "status" handbag and a blank expression, hands and newspaper folded primly in my lap, and blasting Nine Inch Nails.

I'm so badass.

Thank you, Cleveland!

I'm Special

Know what I love? When the subway is so crowded that instead of grabbing onto a pole, I have to brace myself against the ceiling. Seriously — not many girls can do that. Kinda makes me feel like a superhero.

Mourning

Part I

Today, the underwire of my favorite leopard-print bra snapped while I was wearing it.

Ladies and gentlemen, a moment of silence.

And a Band-Aid for where it kept stabbing me in the ribs, too, please. Thanks.

Part II

Dear Boy In The Wool Trench Coat Who Got Off The Q Train At Canal St.:

Men as pretty as you should not be allowed to exist. You pain us mere mortals/straight women with your unattainable beauty.

Sorry about the staring.

Trick Or Treat!

Like all women who fall somewhere between "Victoria’s Secret model" and "not in an advanced state of decomposition" on the Physical Attractiveness Continuum, I've had my (small, but still…) share of unwanted attention from strangers. And again, like all women, I find the majority of these encounters creepy. But there's also a part of me that kind of loves them, for their sheer absurdity. Like that time the guy on the street sang me the Filet O' Fish jingle, or the time I pretended to be a deaf-mute with that guy in the pizza place, or when that crazy guy on the train was convinced I was a foot fetishist. Fun times. Especially when there's an audience: I was waiting for the subway one night when this guy stumbles over and makes his clumsy, drunken advances; I tell him, sorry, I have a boyfriend (which I don't, but for some reason I can never bring myself to outright hurt these psychos' feelings). He then slurs, "Well, you can't blame me for trying, right?" and proceeds, as he walks away pointing at me, to individually poll every other person on the platform, "You can't blame me for trying, right? I mean, I had to try, right?" Every time one of the people he's shouting at and consequently spitting on looks quizzically in my direction, I wave like I'm on a parade float and give them a thumbs-up. What can I say — I'm an entertainer.

But if there were ever a night for the freaks to come out and play, it's Halloween. I am a lunatic for Halloween. It's like my high holy day. I usually start planning the next year's costume as soon as I change out of the one I was just wearing. Over the past several years I have been: a Ninja, a Manson Girl (vintage '70s outfit covered in fake blood), a Hindu Goddess, a Geisha, Medusa, Pregnant Britney Spears, Dead Princess Di (I know, I'm going to hell for that one), a Vegas Showgirl, Tia Dalma from Pirates of the Caribbean, and — perhaps my all-time fave — Lara Croft: Womb Raider (Lara Croft, only pregnant and wearing a baby carrier with some "ethnic" baby dolls in it). All homemade. I'm telling you, I go ALL. OUT. The year that I was Medusa, I won a costume contest at work. The prize was $50. The costume cost me $80 to make. I still considered it a victory.

So this year I dressed up as Adam Lambert, because I secretly want to be him, and as a companion piece to my sister's Lady GaGa. We were fuckin' fabulous. See for yourselves:





And trust me, when you're walking through the Village next to a drunken, stick-thin, 6-foot blonde in fishnets and a leotard covered in sparkles, you're bound to get some attention. Especially when you're also walking in these boots:



At one point, we pass by a bunch of construction-worker-looking guys avoiding the rain under some sidewalk scaffolding. They start hootin' and hollerin', and little sister, in her semi-inebriated state, decides it would be funny to wave at them, go "HAAA-AAAYYY!" and sashay away like a drag queen on the catwalk. The guys get louder and rowdier, and I yell after her, "If they start chasing us, I'm gonna kill you! You know I can't run in these damn shoes!"

Later on we are safely ensconced in a new bar, hanging out by the floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto the street. Because I'm wearing a headset, sitting on a stool, and facing outside in order to watch the parade of crazies, people start mistaking me for the doorperson and showing me their IDs. I try to finagle a "cover charge" out of a few of them, but since I'm wasted and can't keep a straight face, this scheme sadly doesn't work.

Then this guy comes at me. After initially hitting on my sister and getting nowhere because she's too busy lurch-dancing like a spastic cripple, he's moved over to my side of the table and feeds me the old "You two are so hot, you must be sisters!" line. Now, I've been drinking steadily and running from bar to bar in the rain for hours at this point, the wig I'm wearing feels like a wet cat sitting on my head, and I can actually feel the eyeliner smeared down my face. There is no way I believe this guy actually thinks I look "hot." So, of course, I laugh in his face.

"No, really!" he insists. "You look so much alike!"

This is when I decide, since I am dressed like a man, to reveal to Romeo that yes, you're right, we are related, but I'm not her sister — I'm her brother.

Loverboy freezes, then begins vehemently refuting my claim. "No way, you're lying. I'm not stupid." But I saw that moment of panic in his eyes. Had I been in my right mind, I should have offered to unzip my pants and prove it, just to see his reaction. I really regret not trying this out.

So, boys and girls, the moral of this story, I suppose: I may not be a hot, leggy blonde, but it's reassuring to know that I at least make a pretty gay boy. ;)