1. Choose a man who will treat you like a lady. I believe in equal work for equal pay and in treating women with respect. But I don’t believe you are equal to a man in every way. A good man will feel responsible for you. He will work hard to provide for you and to keep you happy and safe. Understand the burden he bears to be that man for you.
What do a black lace teddy and conflict have in common? If you’re in either of them too long, they can creep into places they were never designed to go. And, when they do, uh. . . you’ve got more trouble than a little discomfort.
Let me explain. I’ve had the unpleasant experience of wearing a teddy for eight hours. I was a 22 year-old newlywed. I laughed in the face of gravity, and airport security was nothing like it is today. After an extended business trip, I wanted to surprise my husband so I flew home from Indianapolis, Indiana, to Lawton, Oklahoma –829 miles–wearing nothing but a black teddy and an overcoat.
As the bus taking my daughter to her first high school retreat pulled out of the parking lot, I saw her silhouette through the tinted window. Everyone else in the girls’ section of the bus was paired up. She sat alone.
I wanted to cry. I would’ve chased the bus down the street and snatched her off, if I hadn’t been surrounded by other parents. I said my good-byes, went to my car, and cried.
“You didn’t sound Black over the phone.” He was bold in his assumption, but I wasn’t surprised. I’d experienced similar reactions before. I was slightly amused by his bewilderment. He looked let down, like a man set up on a blind date with an ugly girl.
As familiar as his reaction was, I was unsure of how to respond. True, our communication to that point had been via phone. He’d obviously made presumptions, which were proving to be untrue.
“Cute haircut . . .” It started out as a seemingly innocent compliment.
I’d planned to run into the mall one Saturday morning when we lived in the Chicago area to grab a tube of mascara.
The mall was packed. I finally spotted a group of customer service reps walking towards me led by a man, who appeared to be in charge. I was just about to ask him to grab me a tube of the smokey long-lasting when he said to me, “Cute haircut.. . . ”
As the plane took off, I turned my back and stared out the window, book in hand. That was airplane language for “Don’t bother me.”
I’d planned to use the time on the plane to write.
Evidently, the woman next to me didn’t speak airplane. She started talking to me.
I didn’t want to encourage her by showing any interest. I kept staring out the window, hoping she’d get the message. She didn’t.
I remember the day my son announced he could hear a lady peeing in a public restroom (while the lady was still in the stall peeing). Not only did he announce he could hear her peeing, but he also made unflattering comments about her physical attributes.
I wanted to climb into a hole.
Haven’t we all been there? Kids will be kids. They have their own minds, thoughts and mouths. And no amount of training is going to prevent them from being the individual creatures they are.
I felt like I’d swallowed rocks. One landed in my stomach; one stuck in my throat. I fell over into a pit, and I couldn’t climb out. I didn’t even try. I just lay there stoning myself with my own judgement.
That’s how I felt after a series of rejections last week.
That’s what my kid said in a public restroom when he heard a woman relieving herself. I not only exited the restroom at the speed of light, but I also wanted to leave the country.
Let me start at the beginning.
We stood in a public restroom when a fluffy woman bolted through the door already fumbling with her zipper. She stumbled into an open stall.
I wasn’t suicidal, but death didn’t sound so bad. What was wrong with me? Tired. Depressed. A 40 lb.-weight gain in a year.
Something was going on. I requested a copy of my blood work, did some research, then asked my doctor for a referral.
He wasn’t happy.
“Doctors are human, too,” he sighed, avoiding eye contact. He scratched out a script for the sixth antidepressant in about four years. He had no problem giving me antidepressants. But a referral? Out of the question. I insisted.