Permission to be a Girl

For most of my life, I've fought my own femininity. I'd get embarrassed if I dared to wear perfume or lotion and someone told me I "stank like a girl." It never occurred to me that I was supposed to stand my ground. Instead, I recoiled and tried to be as tomboyish as possible. I convinced myself that, as a trombone player, I was trying to be accepted for my talent alone, and that I didn't want my scent or appearance to distract the audience or the other musicians. Well, I was successful there, wasn't I?

I spent the '90s shrouded in flannel. Yeah, lots of people were buried in grunge in the '90s, but I was relieved not to have to try. Whenever I ventured to experiment with hair or makeup, I felt like it didn't make any difference. I didn't realize that such things take time and practice for everyone; I thought I was just bad at it.

Just this morning, I realized that I was unconsciously anticipating being embarrassed at the weight of my suitcase for my upcoming European trip. I wanted to look cute on the streets of London and Paris, but I didn't want the men who helped me with my luggage to make cracks about bringing everything but the kitchen sink. Then it occurred to me: This is what you do if you want to be cute! You have to prepare, like a boy scout. Beauty does take effort, and it's OK to bring several outfits and a few hair products and more than one color of lipstick. I'm allowed to bring more than one jacket, too, in case it rains. I love the idea of wearing a bright raincoat with a short skirt and boots, and carrying a bright umbrella, in Paris in the Spring rain. Well, one has to pack a raincoat then! Screw the old, ascetic efficiency.

I may not have mentioned my upcoming trip on this blog. Well, I'm going on a trip, and it's upcoming! My English roommate is going home to visit her family and is making a detour to Paris, and I'm tagging along. Wooo! I haven't been on that side of the pond in six years. I don't get excited about a lot, but I'm excited about this. I've been praying about my capacity to have fun, because I want to really enjoy myself. I'm already prepared to spend money. And after this morning's revelation, I'm prepared to actually pack like a girl who's going vacation.

Look out, Europe! Holly's gettin' dolled up, and she's going to have bright lips even if it takes all day to get the line right (and it might).

I Don't Have His Permission to Post This

But I think it's really funny that, after ordering a gift for his mom, my roommate Adam regularly receives a catalog from The Woman Within.

Cheesy Birthday

We took my roommate John to Chuck E. Cheese last weekend to celebrate his 28th birthday. That place was insane. And can you believe they had no Whack-a-Mole?

Incomplete selection of games aside, there was plenty to enjoy. Seeing the 6'4" birthday boy parading around the room holding Chuck's hand was pretty fun.

And I managed to get to the end of the evening without hating All Children.

All Parents, on the other hand...

My Job is Bread and Water. I am a Ham.

One of the troubles with having a lull in one's workflow is trying to figure out how much to bug people for stuff to do. At what point does it become a burden on someone else to try to find work for you?

I've been going through a really slow period at the office. Which is OK in a way, because I don't love my work. But I care about doing a good job, in principle, so being idle can get a little difficult for that reason.

I've always been painfully aware that I have no interest in what my company does, or my little role in it. Paying attention in meetings, where I hardly understand what people with other jobs are talking about, is very, very hard. Staying awake is very, very hard. I do try, honest.

I had a couple meetings today. The highlight of the first meeting for me? The point where I cracked a little joke and made one of my superiors laugh. She repeated what I'd said more loudly, and others laughed when they heard. (This is exactly the sort of thing that happened at least once a day in fifth grade, when I'd say things to Heather Mills, and she'd repeat them to the class and everyone would crack up). I was a lost cause after that successful performance, basking in the glow.

I spent the rest of the hour daydreaming about getting up on one of the conference tables and singing.

Harumph

Don't think I haven't noticed that after doing two posts about what a big dork I am, no one has bothered to contradict me. Sheesh, people. You're gonna let the self-deprecation stand just because it's true?

Knowing is 1/7 of the Battle

I have a bad habit. My self-control in some areas of my life is so extreme that it comes closer to repression, but not in this one. There is a particular activity in which my will is weak. Very, very weak.

I read over people's shoulders on the subway.

You probably hate people like me, right? I don't blame you. But I can barely help myself. It's a disastrous condition noticed when I first became literate as a child: the drive to read every word within eye-shot. The backs of cereal boxes. Billboards. The stories Mom would read to me and my brother (I couldn't let her turn the page till my eyes had finished reading what she'd just spoken aloud). And other people's Metro papers.

I once had a guy move a seat away from me because I found his book riveting. But not before I learned some interesting tidbits from the Steve Martin biography he was reading.

You can seethe with anger at me if you like. I probably have it coming.

But I'm more likely to get the message if you write it down and sit beside me.

4th of July, Asbury Park (Holly)

Spent last weekend visiting folks who live in Asbury Park, NJ. Bruce Springsteen's hometown, right? I really like the Jersey shore. My Dad's from Jersey, and my grandmother lived down the street from the beach. Pretty awesome for a kid. For two weeks in the summer, it would be the beach every day, mini-golf, and chasing down the ice cream truck after dinner.

Growing up can drain a lot of fun out of the summer. You care more if you get sweaty, you become self-conscious in a bathing suit, and a pail and bucket in the sand can't entertain you for hours anymore. But as our hostess drove us past Tent City, I found myself wanting Summer. I wanted one of those cute little beach houses with the big tent awning. I began imagining how good it must be for the soul to be soaked in the ocean for even a few minutes every day. I imagined myself getting a real tan for the first time in almost twenty-five years. Wearing light cotton clothes and flip-flops, smelling like Coppertone, letting my hair get all sun-damaged. Mmmmm, yeah.

I wonder how much call there is for horn players in the clubs down there. Walking in the sun all day, paying for it by gigging at night. I might be willing to pick the trombone back up for a summer like that.

Angry Idiot

Ever smack face-first into the reality that you can be a real ass? Don't you hate that?

I did it today. So convinced that I was right, furious and indignant, ready to rip somebody a new one. Then I realized I was wrong. Crap. Much prefer it when the facts back up my self-righteousness. Stupid facts.

But I can be thankful for this: No new one was ripped. I learned of my idiocy before I had a chance to inflict it on the world at large. I'm crediting God with snatching me back from the brink of hurting a friendship.

"Just like a rainbow, you know you set me free."

I'd be willing to bet good money that Depeche Mode is embarrassed by this lyric.

And how, precisely, would a rainbow set one free? Does it possess handcuff keys?

Huger Dork

This weekend, I went to New Jersey with two of my roommates to make new friends and play a game called Descent. I'd never encountered it before, but Helen and her friends have been into it for a while. It's one of those long, elaborate, story-based games that involves magicians and trolls and dragons and stuff. I can be afraid to try new things, but I'm working on being open and spontaneous and brave. So I decided to join in. And if one is going to be early-stage brave, it may as well be with fake dragons that one can slay from the comfort of a dining room table.

I quite enjoyed it. Of course, this makes me an even bigger dork when you add it to the karaoke and the trombone and the National Sarcasm Society sweatshirt ("Like we need your support!"). So I think it's time to not care. I is what I is. And I is into the idea of vanquishing a Chaos Beast with the hellhound I killed and then reanimated with my power of necromancy.

Cross-the-Street-to-Avoid-Me Crazy

I'm now in a 3-week break from improv classes before the next level starts. I'm halfway through the levels that the training center offers! It's so good for me. Learning to be freer, to take risks. Finally having a chance to be as nutty as I've always wanted to be.

I don't know how much acting talent I have, but I definitely have a strong inclination to play pretend, to tell stories, to take on characters and give them a voice. Which has led to an interesting and unforeseen problem: I don't know how to keep it to myself. I'll be walking to the subway, imagining accents and voices and mannerisms and quirks, and then I realize that I'm making faces and talking to people who aren't there, like some asylum escapee. Or, even funnier, it'll take me a while to realize that people think I'm a nut job. I'll get looks as I walk down the street, and I'll think, Maybe I look hot! Then it hits me: No, not hot! I'm wearing a giant lavender parka and doing a Popeye impression! That's why people are staring! The upside, I suppose, is that at least I'm enjoying my own crazy company.

And it would seem I know how to draw an audience.