OMG The Survivor finale is on tonight. I cannot wait. I wouldn't call myself a fanatic, just a fan. Although I have wanted to be on the show since high school. I finally sent in an audition tape last year. They didn't pick me. I don't understand why they didn't. Although if I got picked, it would have been for Season 19, where Russell, the most villanous villain quickly voted out all the smart girls. So, just as well. It would have been a shame to have arranged my schedule for the trip to a remote island somewhere halfway across the world and been voted out by Russell right away, and therefore not have that much of an impression on the viewers and therefore not become a recognizable face, and therefore not secure the in with casting directors. (Sidenote, I already have a recognizable face. I don't resemble anyone specific, except for that mysterious ambigious person people always think I remind them of. Who is this twin of mine? Where is this cute girl and why is she meeting everyone before me? My friend Elliot is convinced that the famous person I look like is Violet Incredible - the daughter in the movie "The Incredibles." Yes, the cartoon. But I'm not a cartoon. I know this for sure.)
It's only 7:03. I have 57 minutes to go before my very own Superbowl. What's on TV now that I can watch while I wait? 60 minutes on prescription drugs. Boring. 20/20 on missing girls my age. Scary. Miss USA. ... REALLY? We're STILL doing that beauty pageant?!
I find myself morphing from eager excitement to sudden rage. Amidst all the known pressures of society on women and the consequent body-image issues - anorexia, bulemia, bullying, low self-esteem, "Mean Girls" - we are STILL promoting Miss USA? We women today are bombarded everywhere we go with advertisements and images of beautiful women with their bronzed, toned bodies in bikinis and heels impossible to walk more than 5 feet in. We complain to each other about our weight, our height, the wrinkles on our face, the fat on our triceps, the width of our child-bearing hips. We can't open a magazine without feeling like we don't look young enough. We can't watch a TV show without feeling like we're thin enough. We can't leave the house without makeup, a stylish outfit, and our hair done. And we can't talk to our girlfriends without feeling guilty for having a cookie the night before. Why is EVERY woman faced with these issues? Why can't we avoid it? ...And why am I so entranced by the glitter on the TV???
Turn it off! I snap at myself. Don't give this bogus show the satisfaction of your viewer rating! But I can't help but think "Wow, her abs look great." "Tennesse is definately the cutest!" "Yes, my homestate is one of the prettier ones!" "Glitter!"
Ah! Stop! Do not let the glamour suck you in! All the girls hair and smiles look exactly alike. (Except for Colorado, who's hair is up in a ponytail. She's making a bold move, there, deviating from the norm. She's out.) Wow...their bodies are perfect. Maybe I shouldn't have that mint chocolate chip icecream I was saving for my Survivor finale...
Stop! When did Barbie come to life? And when did we decide Barbie was perfect? And when did we learn that promoting beauty over anything else was self-destructing? Oh right - we haven't officially learned that yet.
But this is not a plea for America to change. I could make assumptions about the general group of "women in America," or I could recount the specific times in my own life when myself or someone I know has been affected by society's defintion of beauty. This week alone: A girl at the gym today kept complaining to me about how she hasn't lost the last TWO pounds from her pregnancy. My girlfriend and I got drinks the other night and the whole time she kept reminding me - or herself - that it was ok to order food and another beer because she only had a salad for lunch. The 10 year old girl I babysit wants to start exercising more because she doesn't like the fat on her belly. Hearing all these comments breaks my heart.
I want to shake all these women and tell them "Don't worry about how you look or how much you weigh! You are wonderful just the way you are!" But they won't - and don't - believe me, because society is showing them otherwise. How did I become confident and why don't I let models in magazines get to me? Maybe it's because while other girls were worried about the right outfit and the right diet in high school, I was off running track, doing homework, and being in plays. My confidence with my body was an indirect effect of the confidence I had in myself growing up. (Ask my sisters - I didn't have much fashion sense in high school. One day senior year I tried wearing one of my favorite red sweaters and they shoved my 7th grade school picture in my face and reminded me that it's unacceptable to wear the same sweater 5 years later and I was dilussional if I actually thought it still fit.)
I don't have the answer yet, but it is becoming more and more of my mission in life to redefine beauty. There are others out there doing the same - Dove's campaign for real beauty, the recent addition of plus-sized models in Glamour magazine, the Girl Scouts, and Glee's recent episode with the cover of Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful." Some of my girlfriends and I formed a group in college that did just that - redefined beauty on our campus and got women talking about their bodies and their insecurities. Through devised-theatre, we broke free of stereotypes and formed a support group where we could share our insecurities, mount them on the stage, and somehow come out at the other end much more confident. Someday, I hope to have a theatre company that does just that - transforms people's confidence and makes people - young women AND men - not just believe, but KNOW, that they are enough just the way they are.
Someday we might get rid of Miss USA, too. Or maybe we could adapt it, by crowning the winner for her skills and talents, not her good looks. I know that the winner goes on to do good in the world - providing assistance in Haiti, visiting the children in Africa, and saving the whales and all that - but can somebody please tell me why we need a SWIMSUIT COMPETITION to decipher which of these do-gooders will volunteer her efforts around the world? I know it's hot in Africa, but they don't wear swimsuits all day long. (You can ask my sister about that, too, because she's going back there this summer to do some real good.)
I don't mean to be indignant towards the pageant or to stir up controversy. I'm just hoping those 10 year old girls out there, especially the one I babysit, aren't watching it right now and wishing they were somebody else, or worse, try to change who they are. I hope that this pageant isn't devastating future generations of women who could actually change the world and maybe cure cancer if they weren't so obsessed with their dress size. I'm simply sharing with you something I'm passionate about. Speaking of passion...it's 7:59 and I do believe I have some Survivor to watch. And some mint chocolate chip icecream that goes with it.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
A Pirate's Life for Me
Arrrrgh! No, that’s not the sound of 5 year old children pretending to be pirates in a zealous game of “Magic Rocks” in my acting class. That’s the sound of me, once again frustrated with – well, I guess being 24 years old in New York City in this career track I’ve chosen called life.
I woke up on Wednesday January 20th and said “Oh no! It’s 10am! I need to get out of bed!” And Bed said, “No! Stay with me! Why are you rushing – you have nowhere to be.” “Yes I do!,” I defensively retorted, “I have things to do, places to be!” But Bed said, “You teach at 3:30. Stay in bed.” I was a little bit tempted. He was so warm and cuddly lying underneath me. I could stay here – I really don’t have anything to do, and isn’t my peace and happiness the only thing that really matters anyway? But then the drive in me forced me to say, “No! I am an important person and I have important things to do.” To which Bed very snarkily remarked, “You don’t work.” Exhausted with being determined, I caved in this round, “You’re right. I don’t work – that much. And I’m sick of not working. I’m sick of looking for work. I know what I want, and it’s time to get it.” And with one swoop motion, I jumped out of Bed, kissed him good-bye, and danced out of the room, ready to conquer the world.
I’d been afraid to go for it for awhile, afraid it meant giving up on acting, afraid it meant “settling,” afraid it meant “being ordinary.” These fears of mine suddenly washed away, when I realized what I’d actually been afraid of was admitting that I’ve always known this is part of who I am and what I was called to do. When I was 4 years old, I didn’t want to be a dancer – I wanted to be a dance teacher. Every summer I was a theatre camp counselor and wanted to grow up to take over the summer camp. Here in New York, I’ve lately been so focused on teaching artist jobs and so inspired when I talk to other teachers. So my decision is made: it’s time to get my degree in teaching. Now that I’ve admitted this to myself, allowed myself to say it, it’s like the floodgates have opened and clarity and confidence about my future are pouring out.
Although today, I’m arrrrghing like a pirate once again. Because in all this pumping myself up, I had a job interview at a certain late night talk show I used to be a page for, and didn’t get the job, which made me feel, once again, worthless and undetermined and like getting a job is impossible. And my old boss asked me, “Where do you see yourself in 5 years?” And I threw a fit and yelled “This question is irrelevant in this economy and for 20-somethings – can’t I just see myself as happy doing whatever it is I’m doing? Does it matter WHAT I do, as long as I’m happy? If I answer, I want to be a TV producer, will you see me as driven and give me this job? If I say I want to be an actress, will you see me as following the wrong path and not give me the job? Can’t I just say the truth, which is, in 5 years I just want to be employed doing something enjoyable. But please, I’m begging you, give me a job because I’m bored without one.” To which she would have responded, “Get out of my office” if I had in fact ranted like that. But instead I said, “I want to someday open up my own children’s theatre.” And then I walked out of there thinking, once again, why do I always say that in every interview? And, argh, what am I doing?!
Does anybody know what they are doing? No. In panic mode, I called Mom.
“I just feel like I used to be so driven and hard-working, and lately I’m lacking purpose and stability. Why am I having such a hard time getting a job? I thought I knew what I wanted – but now I just want to be happy.”
“You do have purpose. Every afternoon those kids and parents are counting on you to show up and teach them. Yea, maybe they’re just running around like sharks and monsters, but you are important to them. And it’s not hard to get a job – you’re just limiting your options to something specific in a specific city.”
Mom saves the day once again. From panic attack, to feeling empowered.
Maybe there is no such thing as knowing exactly what you want. Maybe it’s enough to just know that you want to be happy. What is happy anyway?
Happy is seeing the sun sparkle on fresh fallen snow and thinking “that’s pretty.”
Happy is going to improv class and laughing with your friends.
Happy is going home to see your family and eating birthday cake.
Happy is trying a new recipe and not burning it.
Happy is when the most annoying kid in class gives you a hug afterward and says, “I love you Josie,” and you laugh because even though your name’s not Josie, the other part of what he said was true.
Arrggh. Really? That simple?
So…off I go. Setting sail to the high seas of the post-graduation existential crisis ocean. We might find us some treasure, or discover new land, or encounter another pirate ship, or maybe we’ll just get seasick. But when the waves get rocky, looking out at that sunrise on the horizon should be enough to keep us going. A brand new day is straight ahead. And whatever we choose to do with it, will be enough.
I woke up on Wednesday January 20th and said “Oh no! It’s 10am! I need to get out of bed!” And Bed said, “No! Stay with me! Why are you rushing – you have nowhere to be.” “Yes I do!,” I defensively retorted, “I have things to do, places to be!” But Bed said, “You teach at 3:30. Stay in bed.” I was a little bit tempted. He was so warm and cuddly lying underneath me. I could stay here – I really don’t have anything to do, and isn’t my peace and happiness the only thing that really matters anyway? But then the drive in me forced me to say, “No! I am an important person and I have important things to do.” To which Bed very snarkily remarked, “You don’t work.” Exhausted with being determined, I caved in this round, “You’re right. I don’t work – that much. And I’m sick of not working. I’m sick of looking for work. I know what I want, and it’s time to get it.” And with one swoop motion, I jumped out of Bed, kissed him good-bye, and danced out of the room, ready to conquer the world.
I’d been afraid to go for it for awhile, afraid it meant giving up on acting, afraid it meant “settling,” afraid it meant “being ordinary.” These fears of mine suddenly washed away, when I realized what I’d actually been afraid of was admitting that I’ve always known this is part of who I am and what I was called to do. When I was 4 years old, I didn’t want to be a dancer – I wanted to be a dance teacher. Every summer I was a theatre camp counselor and wanted to grow up to take over the summer camp. Here in New York, I’ve lately been so focused on teaching artist jobs and so inspired when I talk to other teachers. So my decision is made: it’s time to get my degree in teaching. Now that I’ve admitted this to myself, allowed myself to say it, it’s like the floodgates have opened and clarity and confidence about my future are pouring out.
Although today, I’m arrrrghing like a pirate once again. Because in all this pumping myself up, I had a job interview at a certain late night talk show I used to be a page for, and didn’t get the job, which made me feel, once again, worthless and undetermined and like getting a job is impossible. And my old boss asked me, “Where do you see yourself in 5 years?” And I threw a fit and yelled “This question is irrelevant in this economy and for 20-somethings – can’t I just see myself as happy doing whatever it is I’m doing? Does it matter WHAT I do, as long as I’m happy? If I answer, I want to be a TV producer, will you see me as driven and give me this job? If I say I want to be an actress, will you see me as following the wrong path and not give me the job? Can’t I just say the truth, which is, in 5 years I just want to be employed doing something enjoyable. But please, I’m begging you, give me a job because I’m bored without one.” To which she would have responded, “Get out of my office” if I had in fact ranted like that. But instead I said, “I want to someday open up my own children’s theatre.” And then I walked out of there thinking, once again, why do I always say that in every interview? And, argh, what am I doing?!
Does anybody know what they are doing? No. In panic mode, I called Mom.
“I just feel like I used to be so driven and hard-working, and lately I’m lacking purpose and stability. Why am I having such a hard time getting a job? I thought I knew what I wanted – but now I just want to be happy.”
“You do have purpose. Every afternoon those kids and parents are counting on you to show up and teach them. Yea, maybe they’re just running around like sharks and monsters, but you are important to them. And it’s not hard to get a job – you’re just limiting your options to something specific in a specific city.”
Mom saves the day once again. From panic attack, to feeling empowered.
Maybe there is no such thing as knowing exactly what you want. Maybe it’s enough to just know that you want to be happy. What is happy anyway?
Happy is seeing the sun sparkle on fresh fallen snow and thinking “that’s pretty.”
Happy is going to improv class and laughing with your friends.
Happy is going home to see your family and eating birthday cake.
Happy is trying a new recipe and not burning it.
Happy is when the most annoying kid in class gives you a hug afterward and says, “I love you Josie,” and you laugh because even though your name’s not Josie, the other part of what he said was true.
Arrggh. Really? That simple?
So…off I go. Setting sail to the high seas of the post-graduation existential crisis ocean. We might find us some treasure, or discover new land, or encounter another pirate ship, or maybe we’ll just get seasick. But when the waves get rocky, looking out at that sunrise on the horizon should be enough to keep us going. A brand new day is straight ahead. And whatever we choose to do with it, will be enough.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Yet Another Encounter with Dumb People
That is the last time I go to Dunkin' Donuts. Ever. I know, I said that the last time. But this time is officially the last time.
What is so hard about regular coffee with cream a sugar? Isn't that the standard way to take the beverage? Every time I go there, it ends horribly. Here's how my first Disastrous Dunkin' Donuts trip went that then initiated a wave of disastrous trips:
Me: Hi, I'd like a medium iced coffee with cream and sugar please. Just a little bit of ice, though. (I really want French Vanilla, but can they handle that? They'll probably screw up the ice if I ask for French Vanilla.)
DD Employee: Plain?
Me: (Ooo, maybe this one's competent.) French Vanilla, please.
DD Employee: Ok, you want it iced or hot?
Me: (Didn't I say this already?) Iced, please.
DD Employee: Ok....(goes to get iced beverage cup).....(a minute goes by)....
Me: (Do I remind her just a little ice? I'm nervous.)
DD Employee: You want what size?
Me: Medium! (The one you're holding, dummy. I can't say "please" anymore.)
DD Dummy: Ok. (puts ice and coffee in...finally) You want skim milk, right?
Me: No!!!! (You idiot!) Cream! I want cream. And sugar. (Just because I'm thin she assumes I want skim milk?!)
Stupid: Ok. Sugar and skim milk.
Me: Cream! Not skim milk! (Why is this so difficult?! This is not a fancy Starbucks where people order their Grande Non-fat Iced Cinnamon Mocha Latte with Soy, No-Whip. I ordered a Medium Iced Coffee with Cream and Sugar. That's three words short of a fancy Starbucks order! And they still can't get it right?!)
Dumbo: How many sugars you want?
Me: (Oh my gosh - how did you get hired? - the regular?!) 2?
(...another what feels like 5 minutes go by...)
Einstein: Here you go. (handing over a plain, full-of-ice iced coffee with what looks like a dash of skim milk.)
The people who work at Dunkin' Donuts are dumb. They can barely speak English. I'm always charged something different for the same drink. And I'm always there 10 minutes more than I need to be. And the worst part of it all is --- I don't even drink coffee anymore!
Due to complications of the digestive track (Tmi? Oh, it's coffee. You've got problems, too.), I can no longer drink coffee on a regular basis. And regular for me was three cups a day: two in the morning, one when I'm feeling sluggish around 3:00 in the afternoon. Now, I just drink a cup of tea in the morning and am learning how to curb my afternoon caffeine craving with a glass of ice water, some quick energizing exercises moves, or just reminding myself of the pain inflicted when I take a sip of coffee. You'd think it would be easy to steer clear of Dunkin' Donuts these days.
But no. There is something so special about walking down the street holding your cup of coffee. On a cool day, that cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup in your hand makes you feel warm. Happy. Important. It's idyllic to pop into a coffee shop and grab a quick coffee and walk down the street with it. Something I couldn't do in the Land of Cars that is suburbia. And so, every now and then, despite my condition, I like to indulge in a piping hot beverage in a Styrofoam cup.
Today I'm babysitting. And the weather and my stomach agree that today would be a nice day for such a treat. And lo and behold, the giant plastic D's are glistening in the sun, beckoning me to spend 3 bucks on a Chai Tea. Baby and I stroll into the store to find only 3 people in line before us. In the 15 minutes that I'mwaiting to get to the counter, the 5 employees mess up 2 people's orders, burn a bagel, and charge the same guy twice. I want to shout, "There are more of you than there are of us! Get your act together! You people are incompetent!" But then I remember the wise words of my sister: "It's not worth it to argue or reason with dumb people. They're dumb." Finally, it's my turn to order. I brace myself as I approach the counter. It's a simple order. "Medium Chai Tea please."
.......Three minutes later.......Doesn't he just have to push the "Chai Tea" button?... Seriously! It takes him three minutes to get my stinkin' Chai Tea?! I'm angry. I reluctantly hand over my precious 3 bucks. The stroller is stuck on a cracked floor tile and now the wheels flipped in the wrong direction. Get me out of here! I nearly spill my drink on the ground as I try to maneuver the stroller out of the narrow doorway. Unbelievable. I'm never going there again. Every single Dunkin' Donuts is the same. With the same dumb employees. Who forget that they're working at a fast food place. Apparently, they're also forgetting they're at work doing work and you need to do good at your work. From this moment on I refuse to set foot in another Dunkin' Donuts ever again. I refuse to spend money on an institution that hires dumb people. Quote me on this. I dare you to. I will never ever go to Dunkin' Donuts again.
Oh, it's been awhile. I bet my Chai Tea has cooled down by now along with my temper. This better have been worth it. They better not have screwed up my...Oooooo...Mmmmm...Yum. This is good. I had forgotten how good Chai Tea was. The vanilla, the spices, the frothy foam. And I look so cool holding my Styrofoam cup. Ok...maybe it's not so bad. Maybe I'll go back someday...maybe...just once more.
What is so hard about regular coffee with cream a sugar? Isn't that the standard way to take the beverage? Every time I go there, it ends horribly. Here's how my first Disastrous Dunkin' Donuts trip went that then initiated a wave of disastrous trips:
Me: Hi, I'd like a medium iced coffee with cream and sugar please. Just a little bit of ice, though. (I really want French Vanilla, but can they handle that? They'll probably screw up the ice if I ask for French Vanilla.)
DD Employee: Plain?
Me: (Ooo, maybe this one's competent.) French Vanilla, please.
DD Employee: Ok, you want it iced or hot?
Me: (Didn't I say this already?) Iced, please.
DD Employee: Ok....(goes to get iced beverage cup).....(a minute goes by)....
Me: (Do I remind her just a little ice? I'm nervous.)
DD Employee: You want what size?
Me: Medium! (The one you're holding, dummy. I can't say "please" anymore.)
DD Dummy: Ok. (puts ice and coffee in...finally) You want skim milk, right?
Me: No!!!! (You idiot!) Cream! I want cream. And sugar. (Just because I'm thin she assumes I want skim milk?!)
Stupid: Ok. Sugar and skim milk.
Me: Cream! Not skim milk! (Why is this so difficult?! This is not a fancy Starbucks where people order their Grande Non-fat Iced Cinnamon Mocha Latte with Soy, No-Whip. I ordered a Medium Iced Coffee with Cream and Sugar. That's three words short of a fancy Starbucks order! And they still can't get it right?!)
Dumbo: How many sugars you want?
Me: (Oh my gosh - how did you get hired? - the regular?!) 2?
(...another what feels like 5 minutes go by...)
Einstein: Here you go. (handing over a plain, full-of-ice iced coffee with what looks like a dash of skim milk.)
The people who work at Dunkin' Donuts are dumb. They can barely speak English. I'm always charged something different for the same drink. And I'm always there 10 minutes more than I need to be. And the worst part of it all is --- I don't even drink coffee anymore!
Due to complications of the digestive track (Tmi? Oh, it's coffee. You've got problems, too.), I can no longer drink coffee on a regular basis. And regular for me was three cups a day: two in the morning, one when I'm feeling sluggish around 3:00 in the afternoon. Now, I just drink a cup of tea in the morning and am learning how to curb my afternoon caffeine craving with a glass of ice water, some quick energizing exercises moves, or just reminding myself of the pain inflicted when I take a sip of coffee. You'd think it would be easy to steer clear of Dunkin' Donuts these days.
But no. There is something so special about walking down the street holding your cup of coffee. On a cool day, that cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup in your hand makes you feel warm. Happy. Important. It's idyllic to pop into a coffee shop and grab a quick coffee and walk down the street with it. Something I couldn't do in the Land of Cars that is suburbia. And so, every now and then, despite my condition, I like to indulge in a piping hot beverage in a Styrofoam cup.
Today I'm babysitting. And the weather and my stomach agree that today would be a nice day for such a treat. And lo and behold, the giant plastic D's are glistening in the sun, beckoning me to spend 3 bucks on a Chai Tea. Baby and I stroll into the store to find only 3 people in line before us. In the 15 minutes that I'mwaiting to get to the counter, the 5 employees mess up 2 people's orders, burn a bagel, and charge the same guy twice. I want to shout, "There are more of you than there are of us! Get your act together! You people are incompetent!" But then I remember the wise words of my sister: "It's not worth it to argue or reason with dumb people. They're dumb." Finally, it's my turn to order. I brace myself as I approach the counter. It's a simple order. "Medium Chai Tea please."
.......Three minutes later.......Doesn't he just have to push the "Chai Tea" button?... Seriously! It takes him three minutes to get my stinkin' Chai Tea?! I'm angry. I reluctantly hand over my precious 3 bucks. The stroller is stuck on a cracked floor tile and now the wheels flipped in the wrong direction. Get me out of here! I nearly spill my drink on the ground as I try to maneuver the stroller out of the narrow doorway. Unbelievable. I'm never going there again. Every single Dunkin' Donuts is the same. With the same dumb employees. Who forget that they're working at a fast food place. Apparently, they're also forgetting they're at work doing work and you need to do good at your work. From this moment on I refuse to set foot in another Dunkin' Donuts ever again. I refuse to spend money on an institution that hires dumb people. Quote me on this. I dare you to. I will never ever go to Dunkin' Donuts again.
Oh, it's been awhile. I bet my Chai Tea has cooled down by now along with my temper. This better have been worth it. They better not have screwed up my...Oooooo...Mmmmm...Yum. This is good. I had forgotten how good Chai Tea was. The vanilla, the spices, the frothy foam. And I look so cool holding my Styrofoam cup. Ok...maybe it's not so bad. Maybe I'll go back someday...maybe...just once more.
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