Читать книгу The Road to Shine - Laurie Gardner - Страница 13
ОглавлениеWhen I was twelve years old, I got Bat Mitzvahed with my sister. “Mazel Tov! Welcome to adulthood!” everyone said, shaking my hand and kissing my cheeks. But after opening my presents and sending out thank-you notes, I was no more ready to be a grown-up than before I had memorized all of those Torah passages.
Now of legal age, I still didn’t know how to be an adult. I had been back in the United States from my world trip for only three weeks. Unfortunately, my re-entry hadn’t been as joyful as my travels. I arrived home just in time for a recession, penniless and without a job.
Many tribal cultures provide meaningful, practical rites of passage to assist adolescents in their transition to adulthood—things like sending them off into the woods with no food to learn how to hunt. In contrast, the focus of most Western coming-of-age ceremonies is a big party. We generally don’t offer pragmatic instruction to prepare young people to become happy, well-functioning adults. My life question, “What do I want to do and be in the world?” now had practical constraints: “Can I do what I love and still afford to eat?”
One evening during my senior year in college, my roommates and I sat around our living room talking about what each of us would likely become in the future. “Becky, Heidi, Elise, and Ignacio are going to be lawyers . . . David and Paulie are doctors . . . Jason’s an artist . . . Megan and Kevin are going to do something in business . . . and Laurie? Hmm. We have no idea.”
Neither did I.
After four intensive years at an Ivy League school, I needed a break from academics, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever go back to school. I certainly didn’t want to go directly to graduate school, as had many of my friends. I wasn’t going to become a doctor, go to law school, get an entry-level job in a Fortune 500 company, or do anything else that people were saying a Harvard graduate “should” do. I wasn’t purposely rebelling; it’s just that the current options felt so limiting, and none of them felt like “me.” My interests and talents were much more diverse, something I first realized while hanging off a cliff in Switzerland.
Why Say “Or” When You Can Say “And”?
Appreciate and Allow Multiple Passions
My parents had promised I could travel every summer during college, and I held them to their word. Not only was I eager to visit my Swiss family and farm, but I also wanted to climb a serious alpine peak and learn German. Thinking it would be a great way to kill two birds with one stone, I had signed up for a Bergsteigerschule (mountaineering school) in the heart of the Swiss German Alps.
That was not one of my better brainstorms.
“Diese?” (“This one?”) I called down to my guides, fifty feet below me.
“Nein, nein!” (“No, no!”) they shouted back up.
I was trying to figure out which rope on my waist I should clip into the carabiner to secure me to the side of the cliff, versus the one that if released, would send me plummeting down the mountain.
My guides, Hans and Fritz (yes, those were actually their names) were about as good in English as I was in German, and they kept mixing up key words like “up” and “down”—very inconvenient when you’re hanging off the sheer face of a rock.
As I dangled in my harness, I reflected on my visit that past week with my Swiss family. While I quickly fell back under the spell of my charming, homey village, I missed my Harvard roommates and friends, with their quick, witty senses of humor and passion for knowledge and the arts. I realized I was both a country mouse and a city mouse, a person who loved the relaxed, simple lifestyle on a farm and the exciting vibrancy of an intellectually and culturally rich town like Boston.
I’ve never understood cultures that push people to compartmentalize and specialize, criticizing anyone with multiple interests and skills as a “Jack of all trades, master of none.” During the Renaissance, people admired masters like da Vinci and Michelangelo for their versatile passions and talents, recognizing that the ability to do many things competently is an advanced proficiency in and of itself.
In that moment, it dawned on me that it wasn’t a choice of Switzerland or America, cows versus college; I could fit in many places and pursue multiple passions.
Now that I was entering the world as a young adult, I just had to figure out how to translate my multifaceted passions into finding a job.
Lean on Me
Count on Your Friends to See You through Life’s Uncertainties
When I backpacked around the world, I loved having nothing tying me down. Now that same open-endedness made me feel unsettled.
“Why don’t you come to San Francisco, and we’ll move in somewhere?” said my college buddy David, who had a well-paying job at a bank.
“Can my college roommate Kevin join us too?” I asked. “He’s always wanted to live in San Francisco.”
“The more the merrier.”
As soon as we arrived, Kevin and I started scouring the city while David was working, but the only places we could afford were in sketchy neighborhoods or had cockroaches scampering beneath our feet. Finally, we found a nice, split-level apartment in Pacific Heights, one of the safest, most upscale parts of town. The apartment was lovely, with hardwood floors, a sliding glass door leading out to a deck, and a carpeted upstairs area with bedrooms and a bathroom. The downside was that there were only two bedrooms, so we would have to take turns sleeping on a futon couch in the living room. Still, it was better than living in a roach motel. David secured the lease, and Kevin and I began our job hunt, as the days of diehard penny-pinching began. Kevin became the master of finding every $1 taco happy hour in the city, and I learned to make a package of noodle ramen last for three meals.
While my work and home situation were still less than ideal, my friendships with Kevin and David grew stronger. Living with two gay men was quite an education.
“Time to go to Safeway,” Kevin would announce on Wednesday evenings. The Safeway grocery store in the Marina District was known for its unofficial singles scene, alternating between straight and gay nights, when dozens of the city’s unattached folks would go to “shop.”
“Why can’t we ever go when it’s straight singles night?” I asked.
“Sorry, Laur, you’re outnumbered.” David winked at Kevin.
One evening, as a compromise, we went grocery shopping on a non-singles night. I rolled my eyes as David put a second bag of frosted circus cookies into our cart.
“Those things are nasty; there’s not a natural ingredient in them.”
“Look who’s talking, PMS girl.” He was referring to the last time we’d gone shopping, when I’d insisted on buying Keebler’s “magic middle” cookies, a disgustingly artificial chocolate chip cookie with frosting inside. I didn’t just want those cookies that night; I needed them.
“Touché.”
“Stop bickering you two, and pay attention; I’m about to teach you something,” Kevin interrupted us. “Now, you see that cute guy over there?”
“Yes.”
“Look in his cart.”
“Why?”
Kevin pointed out, “Fresh pasta, fresh herbs, good bottle of wine.” He smiled at David. “That guy’s on our team.”
“How about him?” I asked, pointing to an athletic guy with a baseball cap.
“Two six-packs of cheap beer and a frozen pizza. He’s straight and single, but you don’t want him.”
“There’s another guy buying fresh pasta.” David tipped his head toward a well-dressed man halfway up the aisle.
“Take a closer look,” Kevin said, “Cat food and tampons. He’s either got a girlfriend, or he’s married.”
To this day, I can’t help peeking into other people’s grocery carts when I go shopping.
Of the four major life areas—work, home, health, and relationships—my first two were up in the air. And while I was generally healthy, I still wasn’t happy with my body. But at least one part of my life was positive and solid: I had wonderful friends.
Be a Sexy Mama
Learn to Love Your Body
I struggled to make ends meet, working at various temp jobs whenever I could get them. I went on a few interviews: for a position at a social work organization providing assistance to the elderly, for an entry-level job in a bank’s retirement division, and for a law firm as a legal clerk. But I was always told that I was either underexperienced or overqualified. Tired of eating ramen, I finally accepted a secretarial job at a major corporation.
Every day felt like Halloween as I donned my costume of a Brooks Brothers suit and abdomen-crushing pantyhose. I tried hard to fit in, answering the phone with my best saccharine greeting and cheerfully accepting every task I was asked to do.
My supervisor watched me like a hawk, eavesdropping on my phone calls and interrogating me every time I left my chair.
“Where are you going, Laurie?” she asked me accusingly.
“To the restroom, Shannon,” I said, clenching my fists.
Thank goodness for Darlene and Rosy, the other two secretaries. I wouldn’t have lasted one day in that place without them. Every morning, we met in the staff room for fifteen minutes before our shifts. Darlene and Rosy were both very large, middle-aged, African American women who were fond of coffee cake and other high-calorie snacks. One day, Rosy came in with two boxes of donuts, one to share and one for herself.
“My husband is worrying that I’m getting too heavy,” she said.
“Oh no, that’s ridiculous,” Darlene and I lied, the way women friends do.
“You know what I said? I said ‘Honey! The bigger I am . . . the more of me to love!’” She drawled the word “love” so it sounded like “luuuhv.”
Darlene and I laughed. Rosy took another bite of her donut, grinning.
I walked to my workstation to begin my shift. “The bigger I am, the more of me to luuuhv!” I smiled, repeating Rosy’s words to myself. Here was someone who was happy with herself, including with her body.
I had struggled with weight and body issues ever since grade school. I was a really chubby kid, and where I grew up, anything more than five pounds overweight was considered obese. The beauty icons back then were Twiggy and Cheryl Tiegs.
The playground bullies had a field day with me. “Hey fattie, wanna play four squares?” “What are you going to be for Halloween, a pumpkin?”
My mother was always concerned about the battle of the bulge, both in herself and her family. She kept up with all the latest fashion trends, but that stuff just didn’t matter to me, at least not the way it did to my slender and stylish mother and sister. As a result, I got pegged as the ugly duckling of the family.
My mom decided to make me her personal makeover project. Shortly after I put on my first real bra at age thirteen, she announced, “You are going to need breast reduction surgery. I strongly suggest a nose job to go with it.” I didn’t do either, but when I was twelve pounds overweight in high school, she enrolled me in Weight Watchers. Soon, the whole family was in on it. Whenever my relatives came over for the holidays, they would comment on whether I looked thinner or heavier than the last time they’d seen me. By the time I was seventeen, what really needed making over was my self-esteem.
Once I left home, I became my own harshest critic. I felt fat and ugly most of the time. Trying to hide my big nose, I never let anyone take a picture of me in profile. Even though my bra size is average, I was convinced I had oversized boobs. It’s a miracle I didn’t develop an eating disorder. I certainly have great sympathy for young girls who do.
I wanted to like my body, just like Rosy. I joined a gym where a personal trainer told me to throw away my scale and focus instead on how I fit into my clothes and how much energy I had.
Of all the lifestyle factors I began changing—diet, exercise, sleep patterns—the most important was my attitude. Instead of looking at myself in the mirror and thinking, “God, I look horrible!” I tried to accept my body in whatever form it was presenting on any given day and made modifications that helped me feel better. When I was feeling bloated, I wore looser clothes. When I had bags under my eyes, I wore brighter colors. On a bad hair day, I put on a cute hat. I started eating healthier and avoided deprivation diets that I knew I wouldn’t be able to sustain. When I didn’t feel like doing my normal exercise routine, I gave myself permission to only do ten minutes on the treadmill. (Once I got to the gym, I usually ended up working out longer anyway.)
I also decided to adopt a more light-hearted attitude toward my body. On the days I felt worst, I’d wear playful jewelry and outfits that lifted my mood. I didn’t beat myself up over having a little ice cream for dessert every night. I created a playlist of my favorite songs and rocked out on the Stairmaster like I was at a club.
As I continued having a kinder, more fun attitude toward my body, I discovered more parts of myself that I liked. I noticed how my baggy capris showed off my muscled calves, and how my “bad hair day” hat accentuated my light brown eyes. The prettier I felt, the more motivated I became to reach my health goals. My body responded in kind. I didn’t feel good when I ate too much junk food or drank too much booze. I’d start to feel sluggish if I didn’t move my body at least a little. In place of the negative childhood voices, I was now hearing my own voice, which was excited about the healthy, attractive me that was emerging. Within a few months, I dropped four sizes.
Twenty years later, I’m even more fit and down another size. I still struggle with my body image off and on, including my new nemesis of aging. I’m finding that loving my body is a process, as my appearance and health continue to change over time. But by maintaining that same attitude of self-acceptance and fun, the positive voice drowns out the critical one. I continue to make choices that keep me healthy; but even when I make bad choices, I don’t beat myself up. I just get back on track as soon as I can.
I Quit!
Life’s Too Short to Stay in a Crappy Job
Five months into my corporate job in downtown San Francisco, I couldn’t take it anymore. After everyone else in my office had left, I took the elevator down to the lobby and crept into the middle of a cluster of eight-foot tall planters, the closest thing to nature I could find. I slumped onto the floor and leaned back against a potted palm. I’d been doing my best to be a “good” college grad, getting a job and always paying my rent. Looking down at my briefcase and perfect pumps, it all felt so vapid and meaningless. Suddenly, all of my frustration and unhappiness came tumbling out—I hate these stupid clothes. I hate this stupid job. I hate sleeping on that stupid futon in the stupid living room.
Apparently, everything in my life was “stupid.” I’d reverted to the vocabulary of a six-year-old. I started to laugh, just a little at first, then uncontrollably. Then my laughter switched to sobbing. What am I doing here? Is this really how I want to spend my life? I buried my head in my hands and cried.
