MondayNotes

Monday Notes: Boredom

~ kegarland ~ 88 Comments

The days are long with repetition as I heal my rotator cuff. It doesn’t matter what time the alarm screams, each morning is the same—an amalgamation of waking, walking, and stretching, so I’ve turned it off. The time I awake to face the world is irrelevant.

I’ve been here before. I was raised as an only child, who couldn’t leave the house to play with others. It was up to me to entertain myself in a room full of adults, or in a room by myself, so I learned to fill the day with made-up activities. And when I exhausted the list of events: “playing school” with dolls and teddy bears or reading books two years above my age level, I’d sigh heavily and proclaim to my mother, “I’m bored.”

“If you’re bored, then you must be a boring person,” she’d reply, turning the situation on its head. For decades, I’d perceived her response as a comment on my flawed personality. But now, I get it. It was a call to be creative.

However, I’m no longer nine; I’m 49. Throughout the years, I’ve learned how not to be a boring person. Yet, today, I. am. bored. My mother’s words reverberate. It’s funny how an interpretation of a parental lesson can echo in one’s brain, well after the parent ceases to exist. But this is different. I have plenty of ideas and few ways to execute them. No one ever outlined the appropriate protocol for a person who has an overactive mind but no access to manifest her ideas. What should a writer, who doesn’t have full functioning of her dominant hand do with an abundance of time?

Boredom is the uncomfortable state of wanting to engage in satisfying activity, but being able to do it.

Brené Brown, Atlas of the Heart

It is 8:30 in the morning, and the day will be long with routine. I venture downstairs where my husband has prepared a berry smoothie. I’m grateful, but I miss the anticipation of making it myself. I slowly sip its purpleness, savoring separate flavors: the tanginess of the berries lingers on the back of my tongue; the sweetness of the protein powder hits the tip. These are the things I notice now that I have time. It sounds poetic, but it is not. It is boredom expressed as imagery.

Dwight laces my green and gold sneakers. It’s time for my walk. There is the dog with the hazel brown eyes; they peer at me like a sad girl. There is the guy who jogs every day. I wonder if he’s met his goal. Here is a neighbor with a mustard yellow pick-up truck; he backs into his driveway and gives me the proverbial head nod that Black people know well. There is the green bag of poo that has sat next to the bushes for the last two weeks. Someone’s footprint has dented its side.

When I return home, I’m glad I didn’t choose to receive short-term disability. Working gives me something to do. Part of my day is filled with grading student assignments. I hope dictation accurately interprets my feedback. The other day, a comment with the word titties almost sneaked away into the ethers. Simply. Simply. Simply, I said, trying to correct it, before using my left hand to delete the inappropriateness and to peck out the correct letters.

My amygdala begs me to fly, to find an adventure. We don’t have to be here, it whispers. But I cannot drive, so I rely on dreams. I fade away to last summer’s European trip. I tuck away the corn-maze of a city that was Piazzale Roma; in my mind’s eye, there is no confusion; I ignore Venice’s overpriced taxi rides. I romanticize memories and wish myself there again, aimlessly searching for our gondola ride. I find it and float, as an Italian man in a striped black-and-white shirt sings, while rocking me back-and-forth over the dark black water that lulls me to sleep.

An ache in my shoulder awakens me.

Convalescing is boring, but it is necessary. I convince myself this will be over before I know it, just like childhood memories of teaching teddy bears and adult experiences with European excursions. One day, I’ll be back to manifesting my wildest desires. But until then, I scroll social media and watch a stranger dance to Beyoncé’s “Cuff It.” I roll my eyes at their pedestrian attempts, slightly envious that today, I cannot replicate their movements.

One day, I will. One day, I’ll be back doing what I want. In the meantime, I stare out the window at the same squirrel chasing the same nuts under the same tree.

Post-script: I wrote this two weeks after my surgery on February 6, 2023. I’ve started physical therapy and have entered a new type of boredom, one that comes with doing 30 minutes of PT three times a day 🙃

Monday Notes: My Big Black Sling

~ kegarland ~ 57 Comments

“I hate to see you like this,” my friend said seemingly uncomfortable with the idea of seeing me in pain.

It had been a week since I’d had surgery on a torn rotator cuff and bicep tendon. I understood his concern. The sling is a lot. It’s big. It’s black. Its thick straps wrap around my waist and around my left shoulder to hold my healing appendage and bicep in place.

Arthritis cripples him. He, too, hurts. But he has to announce it. Invisibility obscures his pain behind pearly whites and a sunny disposition. Unlike his sore, veiled and out of sight, friends and family cannot avoid seeing my big black sling. Its sole job to hold one part of my body in place, close to my chest.

“Man, I hate to see my friend like this,” he said after dinner and after he noticed the side effects of narcotics snaking through my veins—my eyelids growing heavy, my head hanging lower.

I admired his fortitude to face his emotions out loud. That’s something a lot of people don’t know how to do. In the midst of well-wishes, I’ve received strange responses. Jokes shroud people’s intent. Comments about push-ups intermingle with words like worry and sleep at night.

Many of us don’t know what to do with visible pain or the thought of our loved one being hurt. The discomfort of another’s distress is…uncomfortable. And so, we ignore it—we sloppily shuffle around it. We hold our emotions close like my big black sling, hoping not to re-injure.

But even if I stand strategically against a wall, people wiggle and bump into me, while uttering unapologetic sorrys. They stare intrigued with the background story. This representation of pain is unavoidable. This sling is big.

“I just hate to see you like this,” he said once more. This time, we stood in the parking lot of a liquor store. He’d insisted on “buying me a bottle for my big birthday.”

I accepted. And I wondered if he spoke to me or himself. His pain is visible only through X-ray. He can smile and no one would be the wiser. If I smile, people can focus on the symbolism of the sling.

“Next time, maybe you can visit when I’m not hemmed up,” I said.

“For sho’,” he agreed, describing a return trip in a couple of months.

I reassured him my recovery would be speedy. “April will be here in no time. We can celebrate life for real then,” I say.

For real means sipping handcrafted drinks in short gold-rimmed glasses and copper tin mugs, shutting down restaurants, and complaining about the privilege we’ve designed for our young adult daughters. We did little of that on this night. That night, was reserved for facing pain: his and mine. His invisible, mine observable.

Post-script: I wrote this one week after my surgery on January 27, 2023. I’ve started physical therapy and feel fine 😉

Monday Notes: *23

~ kegarland ~ 57 Comments

Initially, the number 23 used to frequently appear on digital clocks, not just at home, but also abroad or at other people’s houses. Sometimes when I happened to glance at the time, it would read 5:23. The number urged me to pay attention. To what, I was never sure. The purpose wasn’t readily clear. It’s not like a bag of money would fall from the sky or a genie would appear asking for my three wishes. There was just an overwhelming sense that I should be mindful.

So, when I moved from Middle Georgia back to Florida, with little confidence in that decision, I looked for a sign. One day, while driving on the major street adjacent to our townhome, I noticed the bus was number 23. And that did it for me. The same way people find solace in praying to an all-knowing presence that they believe exists, is the way I learned to find comfort when seeing the number 23. Recognizing the number 23 bus right outside of my home helped me to feel as if I had made the proper decision. I was in the “right” place.

Similarly, when I began my job at a community college, I was unsure the institution was right for me, that this was the “right” place for my skillset. Once again on my way to work, I noticed the bus that dropped students off right in front of the college was bus 23. When I noticed the number this time, it wasn’t comforting. It was confirming. At that moment, I had to trust, have faith, and believe I was where I was supposed to be. The reason would be revealed later.

And so, I came to rely on these two numbers as guidance.

On January 20th, I had surgery on my rotator cuff and bicep tendon. The weeks before were filled with nausea and heart palpitations; otherwise known as panic attacks. I’d never had surgery before. The days before were filled with rumination of the unknown; otherwise known as anxiety. I’d never had surgery before. Was I making the right decision? How would I know? The night before, I asked for a sign that everything would be okay, that this was the right decision. I’ve learned to trust that if I ask for a sign, then I will be given a sign, and that my job is to believe that it really is a sign.

The morning of my surgery, Dwight and I sat side-by-side on a hard hospital loveseat. We waited for my eight-digit patient number to appear on the monitor, signaling it was my turn. One-by-one, we watched as nurses called each patient to their fate. Name, the nurse would say, confirming that what the person said matched what was listed on the wristband. What are you here for? the nurse asked, validating that the patient could adequately describe their procedure. Then, the two would walk away toward an unknown place, beyond two double doors, making my stomach twist into knots. I’d never had surgery before. I sat in the crook of Dwight’s arm, trying to hide the tears that crept down my cheek, betraying any sense of internal strength.

Then, it was my turn.

I told her my name and described why I was there. I followed her toward the double doors.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” she asked.

I hadn’t eaten anything since nine o’clock the night before, so there was no need.

“We’re going right over there to that room,” she said. “Number 23.”

I wanted to wrap my arms around her taut, stocky body. But I knew I couldn’t. I knew this nurse who had just met me two minutes prior wouldn’t understand how much seeing those two digits meant to me. But still I tried.

“That’s my birth day,” I said, with as much nonchalance as I could muster.

The nurse looked at my file, as if to verify, that my birthdate did, indeed, include the numbers two and three, and then she said, “Hmmmph.”

That’s when I knew I was in the right place, and that no matter what happened, everything was going to be okay.

~ February 3, 2023

*Post-script: I started to title this “Why I don’t feel the need to name the unknown,” but I didn’t want to get into a religious debate 😉

Monday Notes: AI

~ kegarland ~ 76 Comments

Recently, I used Lensa to generate some artificial intelligence (AI) photos. I’d seen a couple of celebrities do it and thought why not?

So, I uploaded 15 photos, and two hours later these appeared.

They’re beautiful, right? I was amazed. It was mystifying to see how the app captured my spirit. How these photos look is how I feel on the inside. I perceive myself as a powerful being who can do anything to which I set my mind, and these computer-generated images illustrated it.

That’s scary.

I was so amazed with these photos that I almost cancelled my photoshoot. Why do I need to pay someone hundreds of dollars if AI can create a perfect looking me? I wondered. Don’t worry. I didn’t cancel. But I did consider it.

“These are stunning,” a blogger friend commented after seeing this set in my IG stories. “Did you have someone commission them for you?”

This person, who I admire as an intelligent being thought an artist had drawn these, that I’d paid thousands of dollars to have someone draw these! That’s how perfect they appear.

That’s scary, and I think we need to be more aware of what AI can do and how it will change our lives.

For example, I read an article on The Atlantic about ChatGPT, a type of AI that not only writes essays, but also synthesizes information. That first part isn’t a big deal. That last part…is the beginning of the end for a lot of things, namely, English teachers and the types of assignments they create. The author interviewed Derek Thompson, another staff writer, about ChatGPT.  

Thompson explained how life changing this app is, and as a former English teacher, I agree with his points. In the past, it was obvious when a student plagiarized essays. There were tells, like using a larger vocabulary or writing phrases that didn’t sound like them; the tone was off. Well, ChatGPT mirrors the person’s writing style, which thus far has been challenging for other programs.

As an editor, this part is a bit scary, too. Will my business be threatened because scholars can upload their work to ChatGPT, which will write a flawless thesis that sounds just like them? Maybe not today, but eventually in the near future, I’m confident in the possibilities.

So, here’s my concern. We’ve gotten ourselves into a bit of pickle over the past century or so because we innovate, without considering the unintended consequences of technology. For example, computers make things a lot easier, but many Americans are more sedentary due to sitting for long periods of time. Social media is a tool used for connection, but depending on how you use it, you may feel less connected to friends and family.

As a member of Gen X, I’ve watched technology evolve, and I understand how an initial fascination with these types of things can leave us awe-struck. In the past, all we had were sci-fi novels to warn us about some futuristic made-up consequence. Now, though, we have wisdom and experience. We don’t have to wait for the next George Orwell or Octavia Butler to warn us about the ills of fake, dystopian societies. We can see what’s happening in real time. Because we can see what’s happening, we can change what’s happening. We can do something now, even if it’s as small as weighing the possibilities and considering ethics. AI creators don’t have to be in control; we can be in control.

Here’s one last story. One of my former colleagues used ChatGPT to create a course syllabus as a test, just to see what would happen. Guess what? It was perfect. She shared on social media how the app developed an ideal syllabus for a young adult literature class, with a course objective, appropriate readings, and assignments with a grading scale.

That’s nutz, and I think we should all be a bit worried about how our futures could look if we allow AI to take the wheel.

Monday Notes: I Don’t Want your Child (or Dog)!

~ kegarland ~ 61 Comments

I vibe with dogs and kids. That’s the way I’ve always been. If you have a dog and 24 hours, then we’ll probably be besties. The same applies if you have a child under 12. He, she, or they will be my best friend by the time I leave your home. I’ve accepted this about myself; however, those outside of my immediate circle don’t know this information, and thus, problems arise. Sometimes, people think I want their kid and dog, or at least that’s how they act.

When I visited my in-laws, my youngest niece attached herself to me as soon as I arrived. We’d never met, yet she stuck by my side and offered me a snaggle-tooth grin every time I looked her way. She followed me around the house and said she wanted to come home with me. She sat beside me at church and whispered jokes.

“Does anyone want to give their life to Christ?” the pastor asked.

“She does,” she shouted, pointing at me and trying to raise my hand.

“Oh yeaaaah?” the pastor’s eyes brightened.

“No. No,” I assured him, and then to my niece, “you trying to get me in trouble…at church???” I teased, giving her a side-eye.

She returned a gapped-tooth smile.

She insisted on sitting next to me at dinner, her mother on the opposite side of the table. “You like your Aunt Kathy?” she asked, through a tight grin.

When we returned home, she began calling me “Mama,” instead of Aunt Kathy.

“You don’t even know her name,” her father said, clearly bothered by her instant affinity.

I remained quiet as insecurity filled the air. Children don’t have to know your name. All they have to feel is safe and seen. It’s a vibe. I don’t want your child I wanted to holler. She’s clearly starving for attention. Instead, I lay on the couch and pretended to be sleepy, in hopes that she’d leave me alone and perhaps spare her parents the sound of her eight-year-old voice calling me mama.

The next day, she cried and hid under the table because she didn’t want me to leave.

Fast forward years later, and I met a three-year-old cousin, who hadn’t seen me since she was born. At first, she was shy, as many tots are, but eventually, after I began asking her questions, in Spanish and English, and wiping her runny nose, she warmed up, so did her parents’ ten-year-old dog.

Her parents and I went to a store, where I asked, “Do you like toys?”

Her head bobbed up and down.

“Good. Let’s go look at some,” I suggested. “You wanna go look at toys?” I asked with my hand outstretched.

More head bobbing.

“We’re gonna go look at toys,” I announced to her mother, and then she put her tiny hand in mine and we traipsed away toward Barbie and them.

We picked over Pepa the Pig trinkets and a box of Marvel bowling pins. “You like those?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“A skate…”

“Issa skateboard,” her mother said. “You know how to use a skateboard?” she had found us and decided she’d show her child around the toy aisle. As her mother showed her how to kick and push, I slowly slipped away because it started to feel a lot like my niece and her mother years ago. It felt like insecurity, as if she didn’t really want her daughter to be with or like me, even though she was and did.

I thought I was tripping, projecting even, until we returned to the house where the mother’s dog greeted me at the door as if we were old friends. He barked for me to pick him up, and feed him the attention he, too, craved and lacked since his doggy parents had had a baby and become mommy and daddy to a human.

He sat on my lap and we played a game where my fingers came close enough to his mouth for him to snap at them, but not really catch them. He barked and snarled and wagged his tail with happiness. Like the toy aisle, where she skated her way back into her child’s view, the mother made cute clicking noises to distract her pet from my lap and from the fun, but it didn’t work. Instead, he settled down right next to my thigh, licked my hand, and then fell into a deep sleep with a slight snore.

My cousin, the mother’s husband, laughed at the sight, and said, “You gotta new Mama now, huh,” while his wife looked on fuming.

Again, I wanted to yell, I don’t want your child (or your dog). I just don’t mind offering a little attention.

But of course, I didn’t say this. Again, I shied away from the dog and the child and made as little eye contact with both.

I hope you hear the empathy in between these narratives: I’m a mother, and I wouldn’t want one of my daughters calling someone else mother. I’ve owned a dog, and I wouldn’t want my dog sidling up to someone else as if he didn’t have an owner. However, I also understand children and dogs. They both need constant attention, something that is oftentimes impossible in today’s busy world. And if I happen to be around for a couple days, I’m happy to offer it.

At the same time, I understand the careful balance of human beingness that has to be in place. I’ll only indulge if everyone is comfortable in the situation, but sometimes, ego makes that impossible.

Monday Notes: I Let Go

~ kegarland ~ 211 Comments

I let go of relationships of convenience, where people put you on hold, until you fit into their lives.

I let go of relationships which lack symbiosis, where I visit, and they make excuses for passing my home en route to see someone else.

I let go of relationships where I am not a priority, where careers and other people constantly come first.

I let go of relationships bound to outdated traditions, ones where innovative ways to interact are dismissed.  

And when I let go, I allow for experiences aligned with who I am today.

I open space for new relationships to develop. Relationships where I have authentic discussions with friends about overall wellness—mental and physical.

I recognize friends who have been consistently present, those who communicate in multiple ways during varied times and those who’ve settled in for a lifetime of connection.

I embrace my sister, someone I’ve known for four years, but someone with whom interacting is as natural as breathing. An international trip solidified what I’ve always suspected; relationships are not hard.

I notice old friends reentering, reengaging, and recalibrating at just the right moment. Either I need them, or they need me right now.

I accept my cousin’s invitation to commune with her and her family post-Christmas in a different city and state. Her suggestion is timely.

When I let go, I allow myself to expand in newness.

And when I expand in newness, I’m no longer stagnant, resentful, or bitter. Instead, I am growing and evolving in self-awareness and self-love. In this state, I can begin accepting current circumstances, accepting that all relationships don’t last forever, not even if you wish upon a star and meditate on them during the new moon. Some connections are seasonal, and that’s okay.

Peace to everyone letting go of something this fall.

Monday Notes: Therapy Every Day

~ kegarland ~ 85 Comments

“You want your friends to do therapy,” my goddaughter said. “And that’s too hard.”

            I had just shared the details of a failed friendship, and my goddaughter’s words made sense. You see, I’ve spent the last eight years in self-therapy. I allow my intuition to lead me to a new concept, then I research who the “leading authority” is on that idea, and then I read his or her work. For example, attempting to understand my oldest daughter and her choice of boyfriend(s), led me to the concept of codependence, which led me to Melody Beattie’s work, which led me to read The New Codependency. Consequently, I began to understand myself and how I’d embodied similar traits.

            This is normal for me. I not only read about concepts that reveal a deeper understanding of myself, but I also apply them. When I realized I’d lived much of my young adult and adult life sans boundaries, I read about and learned how to create and enforce them, so I could show up as a healthier version of myself. This is a part of how I live, so I can function in new ways.

            The problem is, as my goddaughter pointed out, everyone is not like this, and sometimes, it impacts how I relate. A lot of times, I’m having a conversation that is normal for me, but difficult for others. In essence, I’m asking others to dig deeper than they care to, than they usually do. I’ve asked friends to think about how they interact with me in relationship, and especially for those my age, it’s quite a challenge. I’ve had friends who’d rather end the relationship than to stop and figure out how to engage in a better way or to consider how I may have felt in situations. This is too hard, a friend recently told me. The this to which she referred was understanding that she never initiates a phone call with me.

            For a while, friends’ responses felt personal. Each situation seemed as if the person didn’t want to see my point of view, or as if they believed that what I was saying was ridiculous—as if I’d asked them to do drugs in the alley. They’d cross their eyes and fumble their words, until we were no longer communicating effectively. Now, I realize their reaction wasn’t personal. People are made up of their childhood and adolescent backgrounds and how they’ve learned to handle situations from those foundational times. Many people project, instead of reflect.

            And, as my goddaughter told me, “Most people don’t want to do what the therapist says, much less read something on their own and follow through with that.”

            “Hmmmph,” I said. “That’s interesting. I do therapy every day.” Therapy is not just for the therapist’s office. Just like yoga isn’t just for the mat, and practicing religions isn’t just for the church, synagogue, or mosque. It’s a daily practice and part of my life. Meaning, I will look at myself several times over in a situation, before I accuse someone else of being the problem. I’m always willing to take ownership, and subsequently, do better, if my doing better is a requirement for maintaining a bond.

            But again, everyone isn’t like this. Everyone isn’t interested in examining their life or taking steps to improve. My goddaughter reinforced something else the day we talked. “It’s okay if they don’t,” she said. “Everyone’s different.”

            You can only change you is an idea I consistently reiterate on this blog, and I stand by it. I will continue to do “therapy every day,” with a primary goal to improve myself. However, I also know from experience that changing me for the better also changes those around me, whether they consciously know it or not.  

Monday Notes: It Was the Worst of Times

~ kegarland ~ 89 Comments

The world feels hella weird right now. Do you feel it? Is it just me? I partly blame the pandemic. It seems to be where things explicitly went awry on a global scale.

Politics, aside, living through a pandemic was weird and traumatic, but mostly traumatic. I’ve commented on a few blogs and other social media that I feel as if we all have collective anxiety (and maybe depression). During the height of death and disease, many of us suppressed our fears with booze and sourdough bread recipes. Do you realize that some of us didn’t even stop working? We Zoomed our way through, while people suffered and died with a new virus. Now, many of us are here, pretending we didn’t experience collective trauma: returning to school, working in person, and yes, like my husband and me—traveling.

It’s just weird.

As I write this, Hurricane Ian is headed toward Florida, the state where I live. In general, hurricanes don’t worry me. We’re in a city where we rarely see anything beyond a tropical storm, with high winds and rain. However, this hurricane feels different when juxtaposed against a pandemic backdrop. I mean, first comes the pestilence, then the natural disaster, right? I’m no bible scholar, so I’m not sure. But I can’t help but wonder if we’re headed toward religious prophecy. It’s the implication of the disaster that’s disconcerting, not the disaster itself. No matter the outcome, I’m sitting here writing an essay about how it feels, while Dwight works.

That’s weird, right?

Speaking of Florida, I’ve been meaning to tell ya’ll about how busy our governor has been. Since the summer, he’s disenfranchised teachers, women, and professors. His latest feat was accepting immigrants from Texas and flying them to Martha’s Vineyard. Normally, I would be outraged, but I don’t have the bandwidth. Politicians are stereotyped as those who don’t really care (democrat, republican, or otherwise); however, this seems a bit far. It seems common sense to me that physically using people as political pawns is unethical and shouldn’t be debatable. It’s weird that this isn’t a baseline of agreement, that there are people out here defending or deflecting the governor’s actions.

It’s also weird that I’ll be turning 50 next year. I’m a big birthday celebrator and party person. To that end, Dwight has something brewing…on an island. Pretty cool, right? Well, it would be if death and destruction weren’t constantly looming. The island on which we’d intended to celebrate is underwater: the media keeps showing a bridge floating in the ocean, separating the people and their access to the mainland. It feels selfish to plan a milestone birthday during these times, but you know, if the earth is still intact, I’d love to be sunbathing off the Caribbean. So, we’ve chosen a different place, one that isn’t in hurricane alley. This is weird. I know.

Do you know there’s still a war going on between Russia and Ukraine? Did you know there’s something going on with the United States and Taiwan that could result in a war…with China? Did you also know Nostradamus predicted the “Great War,” which philosophers associate with World War III? It’s supposed to occur in 2023…for seven months.

Weird.

I started to write “3 Ways to Live in Uncertain Times.” This is an inspirational blog, after all. But I couldn’t, mainly because I’ve only found one way. Every day, I wake up, look around, check the socials to make sure QAnon followers didn’t start an American civil war in the middle of the night or that the world didn’t fall apart, in general, then I start my day with goals, as if we’re not living in a pandemic, while facing natural disasters in every corner of the world, as we dodge multiple global wars. It’s probably a form of suppression or willful ignorance. Either way, I make plans, as if there’s a normal future ahead. Then, I repeat.

Weird, I know.

RESOURCES:

Monday Notes: Resisting Social Norms

~ kegarland ~ 118 Comments

The other day, I went for my biannual haircut. The difference is I’ve been growing my gray hair out since 2021. It’s blossomed a lot faster than I’d anticipated, adding about four inches of snowy white strands on either side of my head, and a salt-and-pepper effect from my crown to the nape of my neck. 

“I saw your pictures on Instagram,” my stylist said. “And I was like, ‘oh, she must done decided to let it all go.’” 

I laughed and assured her that was exactly what I’d decided. 

“It’s been harder than I thought,” I told her. “One time my husband looked over and asked, ‘are you just gonna have a big gray afro?’ But you know…I haven’t decided what I’m gonna do with it just yet.” Then, I confided, “I almost re-dyed it.” 

“Hmmmph,” she replied.

Usually, my stylist finishes my cut and dramatically swirls me around to face the full-length mirror. This time, though, she turned the chair slowly. “Yeah. It’s all just out there,” she said borderline dismayed. “You gotta do something: cut it, color it, braids.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah! You gotta give your husband something to look at, glrl. He don’t wanna see that!” she said, referring to my reflection.

People say a lot of things to me. I imagine it’s because I’m open to authentic conversations that lend themselves to a safe space for others’ internal thoughts. When these bursts of opinions occur, oftentimes I’m quiet. I don’t know what to say because so much is going through my head. That’s what happened the day my stylist told me I needed to give my husband something to look at.

I wanted to tell her that her perspective was based on society’s predisposition to bend toward the male gaze. Women are born into a system where we we’re taught to worry about wearing clothes to attract a man, but not wearing clothes where we appear like so-called sluts; female athletes adhere to dress codes that represent the 19th century, instead of the 21st, and still cater to wearing athletic clothing intended to appeal to men; as children, we’re taught to follow K-12 dress codes that teach girls their bodies are something to be policed because boys don’t know how to control their hormones; and we’re implicitly taught to dye our hair as we age, so that we can be more appealing…to men. 

But I was in a hair salon, not a lecture hall, so I said this, instead: “Luckily, I have high self-esteem.” Then, I paid my bill, shared a final laugh, and left. 

However, the thought that another woman, who is a licensed beautician, would suggest to me that the only way to be beautiful is to create an illusion with a cut, color, or braids weighed on me for a couple days. 

Here’s why.

Her comment implied that I’m less desirable, because I have gray hair. And that’s ridiculous. I have a whole-ass body attached to my hair. Since wearing my hair the way it naturally grows out of my head, I’ve also done the following with my body: straightened my teeth, embraced wearing high-waisted bikinis, and worn clothes that fit my personality. Also worth mentioning, my blood pressure, HDL, LDL, A1c, and weight are low. Lastly, I think I look pretty good.

Do I sometimes want my hair to be the reddish-brown color with which I was born? Sure. Gray hair does shift your appearance, but regardless, I’m me. Shouldn’t I love me—the way I look? Shouldn’t I appreciate how I look today, not long for the beauty of yesteryear? 

I don’t want to be too hard on my current stylist. I have nothing against her personally. She—like many of us—is a product of our society. Resisting social norms is hard work. Social constructs abound. Someone makes “the rules,” and we follow them. That’s why I started dying my hair in my thirties. Whether it was family, friends, or the media, I’d learned that gray hair was for a specific decade of life, even though the average age to begin going gray is in your 30s. So, when I found my first strand, I followed suit. I professionally dyed my hair so much one year, it fell out in clumps. You know who advised me to stop over-processing my hair? No one, not even the stylist I had at the time. Women, especially professional beauticians, condone covering up signs of aging, while simultaneously promoting the loss of ourselves and our own sense of beauty. It’s the norm. 

But I wish it would stop. 

I wish we could be happy just being our natural selves. I wish we would stop worrying about impressing men or other women. I wish we could look in the mirror and love what we see, no matter what. 

Monday Notes: Don’t Pop up on Me (Please)

~ kegarland ~ 78 Comments

March 2022, my stepmother, MJ reached out to me saying she’d be in Jacksonville sometime in August. 

“Okay,” I told her. “Just be sure to let me know ahead of time…when you know the date for sure.”

She agreed. 

The next time I heard from MJ was August 15, 2022 at 4:30 PM, when she texted me the following:

Hi Kathy

I am in Jacksonville at my friend’s house. I got here at 10:30

am this morning and I will be here until Friday. I would love to see 

you and the family.

Her daughter is going on vacation so I don’t have a ride. Give

me a call. 

August is the worst time to visit me, no matter what my relationship is with someone. I begin the semester in the third week, and to maintain a low stress level, I start revising syllabi and classes on August 1st. 

Also, I’ve learned to keep a very strict schedule, in general. Hosting or visiting with unexpected guests is not on the agenda. Hence, the reason you have to let me know if you’ll be in town, especially if you “would love to see me and my family.” 

In addition to planning for classes, the week I heard from MJ I also had an editing client scheduled, an unexpected trip to the car dealer, and a prior commitment to attend family game night at Dwight’s job. 

I couldn’t fathom how someone could plan a trip to a city, purchase a flight for a specific date, and not mention it to me. If nothing else, it seemed inconsiderate and rude. 

But I’ve been working on not freaking out when an unexpected non-emergency occurs, as a way to practice being calm when an actual emergency occurs. So, I meditated and gave her a call. 

“I thought you were going to let me know when you were coming?” I asked.

“Oh. I was, but something came up, so I didn’t.” 

Even though her flippancy set my belly on fire, I told her I’d pick her up on Thursday. I’d bring her by the house. We’d go to family game night. We’d take her to dinner with us.

“Okay,” she said.

Wednesday, MJ texted me, again:

Hi Kathy. What is your plan for tomorrow? What time are you coming

over here? 

I want to go to the beach while I’m here. My friend’s daughter knew this

but she is out of town working for the next two days. She is a traveling

nurse.

So she called a friend of hers to take us to the beach tomorrow. 

So please call me so I can change the time or day to go to the beach,

because I want to see you before I leave. My flight leaves at 5:45 PM on 

Friday.

My I’m not important trigger kicked in. 

“I deserve for people to visit me,” I said to Dwight. “I deserve for someone to plan ahead, with a date. I am not crazy for thinking this,” I continued. “And how does she plan a beach day on the day I agreed to come get her?” Then, I added, “Well, at least she came to Jacksonville, I guess.”

But I caught myself. I stopped myself from tying my worth to what other folks do or don’t do. 

And I didn’t get caught up in the “at least,” part of it, because that’s where we get ourselves into trouble. The phrase “at least” is not a positive way to frame something. It minimizes what you want or need in a situation. Sometimes, it represents the minimum action you think you deserve, which again, can cloud perception when tied to your self-worth. 

Even though I didn’t spiral, my stomach was so twisted in knots that I had to lie down. After resting, I realized I wasn’t responsible for how MJ decided to move in the world; her actions had nothing to do with me…at all. I called her back and told her to just go to the beach with her friend. We could take her to dinner afterwards.

At first, she agreed, but then she called back and said her “heart hurt,” with the idea of going to the beach, instead of seeing us; so she’d cancel her beach date.  

“Good,” I said. 

Thursday was pleasant. 

Friday, Dwight graciously drove MJ to the airport (because she also didn’t have a ride there), while I made my one hour and 45-minute trek to campus. I arrived at work by nine to attend a three-hour convocation, made finishing touches to courses, and returned home around six that evening. 

That night, I slept for nine hours. 

Saturday, my oldest daughter and I had lunch, and when I returned home, I slept for another three hours. Saturday night, I slept another nine hours. 

Stress exhausts me, more so because my parasympathetic nervous system is a little wonky. Whether obvious or not, beneath the surface, our bodies are always reacting to perceived stress. The kicker is that my body thinks a pop-up visit from my stepmother is the same as finding out my daughter was in a car accident, for example. Both feel exactly the same.  

So, as I re-learn, un-learn, and learn ways to function as a person with knowledge of my nervous system, one thing I know for sure is that I will not tolerate people popping up to visit, even if they are only 15 minutes away, like MJ was. 

It will not matter if the person understands or doesn’t understand. It will not matter if they think I should bend to their whims, expectations, and lack of social graces. 

Ultimately, I’m the one who has to deal with the fallout that occurs in my body, and being physically exhausted two days after is not worth it. 

And even though I know my self-worth is not tied to how people interact with me, I also know I am better than to be treated as an afterthought, and I will not be responding to that type of behavior, either, as I move forward.