Home

I dusted off this url for the first time in ages and it feels a little like coming home. Everything is neatly where I left it, I suppose.

But why have I been away so long? I have always been one to write more in times of celebration than in pain and I guess life has been in the way a little too long this time around. Last year wasn't a banner year over here, although full of gratitudes and lovely high points to distract from the stress and the gloom that seem to shade so much of it. I have felt very far away from myself, very far away from what makes me want to be better.

But the great thing about home is you can always come back. You can always find something there to remind you what anchors and delights your soul. You ca always find a way back there to help you find a light to guide you and dream to cling to and follow. So, I'm home now. And hopefully it won't be two more years until I find something really meaningful to take to the keys about again.

Sweet Home Chicago

When I moved to the city and started this blog, one of my very first posts was about the rain. Putting on my galoshes and taking my umbrella and just walking around. I still remember that day really vividly; I hadn't started work yet and it was the first time I got kind of lost on my own. I had to text Vanessa to get directions back home from Canal and Harrison, half a mile away. But that rain. It was magical. I wanted to splash in every puddle and dance on light posts and twirl with my umbrella as every single cold drop of fall rain came splattering down onto the pavement.

It's been 5 years this month since the week I moved here, a pretty big anniversary for me I'd say and one I honestly haven't reflected on that much because I've been so busy doing everything else. I think in reflection, we often focus on how we've changed. How much money we've made. How many times our hearts have broken. How much weight we've gained or lost. And that was where my reflection started. How am I different than I was 5 years ago? I'm happier. I'm roughly the same size. I'm not trying to hide vegetables in the meals I'm preparing for my dining mates and I haven't looked at a box of Aldi macaroni in years. I've grown up and I do my own taxes and tie my own sandals and everything.

And then, last week, I took Casey, who I've known for almost 18 years, to introduce her to someone at the shul where I babysit and she was going to be sitting and then I headed downtown to search for a present for Mollie's birthday. And while I was walking to the bus, it started to rain. Slowly, then harder, so I reached for my umbrella. It was still raining when I got off the bus. Cold drops of fall rain gently reminding me that October is almost here and that it's time to fall desperately in love with this city all over again. And probably dye my hair red. I splashed in the puddles. I did a little twirl with my umbrella. And it hit me that maybe what it so important about this anniversary is that in spite of heartbreak and struggle and achievement, the rain splashing everyone scurrying down Michigan Avenue to get out of it was still magical. And the people I love are the people I've always loved with a few new faces and they have been inspiring me and encouraging me to be true to me and be better. And I am. These situations, these opportunities, these people; the last five years were impossible sometimes but here I am. I'm certainly different than I was, but I think the person I am today would make that wide-eyed girl lost half a mile away from home proud to know that she followed a dream and her heart and that even when the going is a little tough, her heart didn't cave or turn tail and run. And she'd be happy to know that splashing in the puddles is still high on the priority list.

I'm still in love with you Chicago; here's to the next 5.

Birthday Season

It's time for an annual tradition on the blog; something a little less heavy, but still near and dear to my heart. It's time for my birthday list. I know that I'm turning 27 and not 12, but this round-up always brings me joy. And sometimes it brings me presents. And there's nothing more I love than a good birthday celebration, mine or otherwise. So, without further ado, I bring you the 2013 installment of the birthday list.

1.) Half of this list could be things from Kate Spade. (Girlfriend just gets me, you know what I mean?) But a few things stick out and I'll add those in here. Like the Beau Bag. How cute is it?? And I want in on the #meandmybeau conversation on Instagram and Twitter.

2.) Running tights. I really love Under Armour's running gear. And my running tights are a little baggy in the knees and booty, but I just keep wearing them! I think these would be a suitable replacement. Size L. I am also loving the Under Armour Power in Pink collection.

3.) Being in the process of losing weight and having lost 35 pounds since last cold weather season, I have almost no cold weather clothing. Giftcards to places that sell clothes are a pretty big priority this year. Target, Macy's, TJ MAXX, Nordstrom, anywhere. I don't want to be naked!!

4.) Han Solo in Carbonite iPhone 5 cover. I think this speaks for itself.

5.) Diamond Stud earrings. It feels silly to actually be verbalizing that I want these, but I really would love a pair of nice diamond studs for everyday earwear. Little sparkle, big impact.

6.) A Mini Cooper convertible. I miss getting to drive around places and this tricked out Orange ride seems like a great little car for that. Right?

7.) The Kate Spade Emma clutch. I've been lusting after this bag for the better part of the year. I need it.

8.) A grand piano. In lieu of a grand piano, I would also accept a small keyboard for my music corner so I don't have to keep playing my ipad like it's a real instrument.

9.) A fancy dinner at Bavette's or RM Champagne Salon or Sepia or Girl & the Goat or Alinea, etc. You know, exciting places.

10.) Apples and apple cider donuts from Edwards Apple orchard. Bailey and I have been pilgrimaging there every year and this stuff just screams Fall to me. And reminds me of that time that we took off to Rockford and actually jumped in a leaf pile.

 

11.) The Urban Decay Vice 2 palette at Ulta. Look at all of those colors! Definitely pretty princess material here:

 

12.) Oribe Beach Waves Spray. Ness bought me this for my birthday last year and it the most amazing hair product I have ever used. Additionally, it smells amazing. I just ran out and I need more.

13.) A black scarf. Not a scarf for warmth, but just an accessory scarf. I'm not sure why I don't have one. It would be a really useful present.

14.) The Black Diamond Sparkle Skirt. Running and being sparkly are my two favorite pasttimes and Sparkle Skirts is really on the nose with both of those things. I just ordered a green Sparkle Skirt for my birthday race, but this black skirt was also a contender and would be so versatile for so many different races!!

15.) A puppy. Ok, full disclosure: This gift also needs to include money to break my lease and an assist to move to a place where I'm allowed to live happily with aforementioned puppy. And frolic. Because clearly if I had a puppy, I would name him J. Gatsby and we would frolic all the time.

16.) A new trenchcoat. My trenchcoat is beige and has survived 5 springs and falls in this beautiful city. There is now dirt on it that even the best of dry cleaners can't get out. It's time for a new coat.

17.) Starbucks Veranda Blend K Cups. Also, Gingerbread K Cups. I like coffee and I like my Keurig, ok?

18.) A lovely party with people I love and gin and glitter and sparkling water rather than still that I have to do nothing to arrange.

19.) A dance class. Because that's something that's fun and I'm sure I could pencil in somewhere.

20.) A photography class. A cake decorating class. I like learning.

21.) A spontaneous trip to Paris and London. Who doesn't want that??

22.) The funding to get my passport in case the opportunity presents itself to spontaneously take off for Paris. One must always be prepared for such an occasion.

23.) A trip to California. Or Disney World. Or a beach somewhere quiet.

24.) Music that I'll enjoy running to.

25.) Books that I'll enjoy unwinding with.

26.) Short brown boots that look a little dressy but are still manageable for walking.

27.) Prescription Sunglasses. My astigmatism makes it hard to focus and I'm sensitive to light, so I should really invest in a pair of these. Cut out the middle man and do it for me! My prescription lives in the black and white hanging organizer on the wall.

28.) A new desk that makes my dining area/office a little more functional. Also, a dining table that doesn't seem super tiny when one decides to eat there.

29.) There are Parks and Rec prints I want for my kitchen. One is about Waffles, Friends, and Work. The other is Give Me All the Bacon and Eggs You Have.

30.) I think they've made this list every year, but the Joan of Arctic snow boot. Someday, this will happen.

31.) A spot in the Disney Princess Half Marathon in February.

32.) Ski Lessons. I've always wanted to go skiing and it's never happened. It will. Hopefully, I come out of that with all of my limbs mostly intact.

33.) Nars Lipstick. It's so good. I'll take any colors you think will suit me.

34.) A sedative for the giant cat upstairs that's always darting around like an elephant running wild while I'm trying to work.

35.) A string of pearls. Classy, simple. Everyone should have some.

36.) A trip to Scofflaw. I think it will be love at first sip there. And Three Dots and a Dash.

37.) Continued motivation to keep moving forward health-wise, work-wise, life-wise. I'm proud of how far I've come, but I've been feeling really overwhelmed at how far I have to go still. But I can do it.

38.) World peace.

39.) Headshots. I'd like to audition for some stuff and I need headshots to do this and I just keep putting it off and putting it off and putting it off.

40.) A caramel cake. Ask my mom. She knows what's up with this kind of deliciousness.

41.) A staycation at the Hotel Lincoln. With drinks at the J. Parker and dinner at Perennial Virant.

 

 



It's a Shame

Last week, I had my tenth endocrinologist visit in the past year. When I left the office, I realized when my mom asked how it went that it was the first time no one had said anything deeply offensive/insulting/etc. to me during a visit. I’ll note deeply offensive; the nurse still didn’t stifle her shock when I broke down my gym habits for her, which I did take a little personally. (That really gets old. Yes, I work out. No, I don’t eat a lot of McDonald’s. Thanks.) The next day, I read an article about the perpetuation of skinny culture by Lululemon and how plus sizes don’t fit into their business model on the Huffington Post. Fine; after what happened to me at the Lululemon in Bucktown, I don’t even care a little bit about their business model or if the entire company and every pair of their yoga pants falls into an ocean. I’m happy to buy $100 pants to run in elsewhere, but more on that later. What really hit me was when I accidentally clicked on the comment section of this article.

There were standard responses like, “If you look like a whale, you don’t deserve to wear yoga pants.” (Definitely true, guys. Definitely.) All this indicates to me is that I no longer really need to pay attention to anything coming out of your…in this case, fingers? You get the point.

There were a handful of people saying that Lululemon should embrace what it claims to be, a welcoming, peaceful place that loves all people who love yoga and running and want to help them do those things by carrying larger sizes and whatnot. Fine. Even if they did, I’m still not shopping there.

But the most distressing thing I saw, over and over and over, were women who kept saying, “Well, I’m really big and no one wants to see me in yoga pants.” or “I’m a size 22 and Lululemon doesn’t need to take my size into consideration because I’m never going to look good doing yoga.” Whoa. Since when is yoga about looking good? And when was the point of yoga pants about wearing them for someone else? And yet this attitude is everywhere. This deeply-ingrained loathing and judgment based on size. Women believing they aren’t good enough for a pair of yoga pants? I have been mulling over writing about fat shaming for a really long time and I haven’t for a few reasons and even now, I’m a little worried that this post will ramble or feel a little whiny or somehow be invalidated by the fact that I’m losing weight finally. I’ll hope that isn’t the case.

Fat shaming. It’s really not cool. In fact, it’s pretty much the only kind of public humiliation that is regularly tolerated in polite society and even good company. Worse even, it rears its ugly head in several different toxic forms that chip away at the body image and self-esteem of just about everyone who has ever struggled to lose a few pounds. It becomes worse when it is a lot of pounds. Because people treat being heavy like you did something to earn it; the state itself becomes an issue of value. I once drunkenly told my boyfriend I was terrified of having children because I didn’t want to gain all of that baby weight and have it hang around forever; that that would be the worst possible scenario. Because there is nothing worse for a person, especially a young lady, than being fat. Obviously. I now understand that I am not struggling with my weight because I did something extremely karmically wrong or because I am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad person, but because there was something physically going on in my body that was making it really difficult for me to lose weight for a long time that needed help to be balanced. But it was a schlep to figure that out, friends.

This schlep was unaided by being shamed by strangers for my weight. This schlep was unaided by being shamed by people I knew for my weight. This schlep was unaided by seeing women constantly shamed for their weight in print and on screen. This schlep, most of all, was unaided by being shamed for my weight by myself. And for that reason, I’d like to take a moment to PSA a little, wax poetic even, about these areas.

When I was running my first 5K in 3 years, I really needed a good sports bra. The best rated sports bra for a D, which I was then was Lululemon’s Ta-Ta Tamer. Ready to shell out $70 for the bra and even pick up a pair of running tights to run the actual race in, my friend Bailey and I went to the Lululemon store in Bucktown. I grabbed the 36 D, which was a little snug and knew they made a 38D, so I asked the fitting room attendant to grab me one, when she stopped chatting with the only other girl in the fitting room (a size 2 on a bad day). SHE LAUGHED AT ME. The most hateful laugh. It clearly said, why would you bother with that? Why are you running at all?

I have never gotten clothes on and out of a store so fast on very sore legs. Beet red  and without words, I boarded the 77, eyes welling with tears and Bailey had to call corporate to complain on my behalf. I sent this email later that day:

Hello,

My name is Ashley Spencer and I have been an avid Lululemon follower since I was introduced to your store 4 years ago. I find your manifesto incredibly inspiring; it is on the wall in my office and on my bedroom mirror. I have had nothing but positive experiences at store events, classes, etc. 

I am an avid runner, dancer and a little addicted to spin classes. I'm running my first 5K in 3 years on Sunday, so when I realized I needed a new bra, I hopped a bus across town to try out a Ta Ta Tamer at the Bucktown store. I was initially the only customer in the store, but no one seemed very interested in assisting me. 

I selected several items to try on, fully ready to buy an ensemble for race day. I grabbed the wrong size bra so I asked the fitting room attendant if she could grab it for me in a 38D. She scoffed at the size and rolled her eyes, as though it were unfathomable that someone like me could possibly spend time doing something productive like running. In that moment, I felt so incredibly judged. 

As a size 14, I get to look in the mirror every day and try to make peace with the fact that I'm not tiny and lithe like the other girls I dance with, that I don't run a 6-minute mile like my best friend, the marathoner. And I do. Every day. And I work out and nourish my body and take care of myself and respect it. To have someone in a store that espouses the values and supports goal setting and challenges and being a better person like yours absolutely broke my heart. 

Worse, the fitting room attendant struck up a friendship with the girl who came in after me, frequently checking on her and pulling several pair of size 4 pants that they were discussing, but never checking on me again. Needless to say, I did not make a purchase. I felt so shameful about my body after the fitting room experience that I cried. A grown woman, crying after trying on Sports bras and running tights? That's absurd. I hope that you will take this incident to heart and help your employees understand that there is beauty in all shapes and bra sizes and nothing more discouraging than someone just being unkind. 

Thank you for your time!

What I got back did not contain a whole lot of care or compassion or even an actual apology, so I was completely unsurprised by the HuffPost accounts of Size 12’s pushed in the back and Lululemon being disinterested in the plus sized crowd. Prior to this experience, I was a big fan of their wares. I loved their manifesto and carried around a water bottle EVERYWHERE that had the manifesto printed on it. This experience cheapened all of that. Something that had inspired me to be better, to run farther, pedal harder made me feel like I was nothing at all.  I’ll add to this category the woman that called me “thick” on the bus, the gentleman who refers to me exclusively as “fat girl” when I walk to Target, and the slew of drunken bros who have beerily grabbed my ass or stared at my boobs instead of listening to my words, reducing me to nothing but my physical being.

Luckily, however, most of the people in my life are of the wildly supportive variety. The “it’s ok if you want that gelato or gin or if you’d rather stick to pineapple slices and seltzer today” kind of people. I never think about being the chubby friend, being anything but me. Full of dreams and plans and sunshine and rainbows and a strong desire, which I come by honestly, to make sure everyone is comfortable and well-fed and watered. These are the people who cheer me on, mile after mile. Who kept me going when my doctor wasn’t sure what was wrong with me. Who keep me going when I’m tired, when I feel like I’m hitting a brick wall. When I’m not sure the words I want to come will come or if I want people to read them. And I thank hundreds of lucky stars every day for those people. But, there are people who are supposed to love and support you no matter what who really make things difficult when they don’t. At Thanksgiving, I was sick with walking pneumonia and spent two days making five kinds of dessert for dinner. And my grandmother asked me if I really wanted to eat a roll when I finally sat down to eat. Yes, I did want the roll. She then told me Taylor would never marry me if I got too fat. I mean, I certainly hope that’s not the case, but a little harsh. Especially on Thanksgiving. When one has had walking pneumonia and still makes a pumpkin bread pudding with vanilla bean caramel and cranberry sauce, yo.

I’m going to discuss my doctors here because I feel like your doctor is someone you have a relationship with and shouldn’t be grouped with frat boys and vagrants. I will also preface this with a note that I do understand the medical effects of being overweight and that my quest to lose weight, in fact, is primarily because my endocrinologist said it was the best thing I could do to boost my fertility odds for when I want to have tinies in the not-too-distant-anymore future. That being said, all of my blood work is remarkably normal. Lipids, sugars, vitamin levels, etc. My resting heart rate is “athletically low,” an accomplishment I feel remarkably proud of since I run a lot but have to remind myself that I count as a runner and mostly because I kind of always wanted to be athletic! Now the most important part of me is athletic at least! So, when I go into the doctor’s office for something like a cold and they tell me disparagingly that my cold is because of my weight; it gets a little old. When doctors assume I’m lying about how much I run and work out or what I’m eating, that’s straight up insulting. I’m an adult and I’m here seeking assistance because I’m having trouble losing weight. Look at my chart, please. Once, a resident suggested that if my current medication/diet/fitness regimen didn’t work that my endocrinologist might consider “duct taping my mouth shut.” I literally had no words until I had walked half an hour home I was so mortified. When I injured my foot in April, the doctor I saw accused me of being drug-seeking because there was no way someone with my weight in January would be at my current weight running as much as I said I did so I had to be lying and could not have caused a stress fracture. I have great respect for medical professionals; it’s hard to become a doctor. But, good lord, that is just mean. So is asking me if I eat a lot of McDonald’s. (Ew. Of course I don’t.) I’m an intelligent human; so are you. Can’t we both act like it?

There was a magazine cover shortly after Kim Kardashian announced she was pregnant on which the following photo appeared with the headline, Who Wore It Better?

OK, rude. But, aside from that, Kimmy K got a lot of flack during pregnancy for gaining weight. She also got a lot of flack for working out while she was pregnant. (Media, you can’t have it both ways.) I’m not going to sit here and say that Kim Kardashian is some kind of model feminist or amazing role model. But she is a woman. And she just grew a tiny life inside of her. Normal people gain weight during pregnancy; it’s neither healthy nor normal to remain the exact same celebrity sample size you were before your pregnancy the whole time. When young girls see this harsh criticism of the female body at the time when it is working some crazy voodoo magic to nourish and produce a new human, what are we teaching them? What are we showing them? We are socializing them into the anxiety that a pregnant body is not beautiful (It is. Seriously, that is some biological magic.) and that baby weight is a worst-case scenario. We are filling their heads with images of waifish superstars and perpetuating generations of body dysmorphia by comparing Kim Kardashian’s PREGNANT body to a killer whale. What are we gaining by tearing vulnerable women down who are trying to fulfill the promise made that our generation could indeed have it all if they wanted it? This magazine cover has stuck with me for months; maybe because it hits close to home with one of my all-time most horrible memories (A really mean girl at camp called me Free Willy one time. Let’s not discuss that further, thanks.) or maybe because I think about the amazing mothers I know and the amazing people that they brought into this world and listen, they damn well earned some ice cream if that’s what made their pregnant bodies happy. I mean, the media’s portrayal of the female body is just a whole can of worms that I’m not going to open right now because this will turn into a thesis about the male gaze, but let’s just say the media’s widespread fat shaming gives normal people a free pass for fat shaming all the time and that’s a huge problem when one sees the groups it is actually affecting.

Finally, I want to talk about internalized fat shaming. The way our brains are conditioned after dealing with the aforementioned scenarios day in and day out. After seeing Kim Kardashian compared to a Killer Whale and thinking, what does that make me? The product of meltdowns in fitting rooms when it’s impossible to find jeans that fit or a swimsuit that doesn’t make you feel naked and exposed. The product of wondering how am I different from any other smart girl in ballet flats at the bar, sipping gin and soda and hoping my Spanx aren’t creasing where they meet my bra. It’s the feeling when you are eating with new people and you really want fries but you order salad, not because you are into wilty lettuce but because you are worried that someone would notice fries and scoff. Or worse, recommend that you lay off them. It’s the obsessive feeling, going through every photo taken at every party or vacation or performance and strategically cropping out an arm here, a hip here; disenfranchising these body parts and casting them off so that no one clicking through the pictures does the same to you. Only, my arms can do a lot of pushups. They can dead lift a bunch more than you’d think. And my hips, they have hip dysplasia and they pop in and out, which sometimes really hurts, but I don’t let it keep me from running or taking part in dance parties. But I have. In high school, I never danced unless it was choreographed because I thought too much of me would shake if I shimmied like that. When I started going out to the bars in Chicago, I’d silently pray that drunk guys passing wouldn’t comment about my size and shape that haunted me so much. And I’d crop my photos. And order salad instead of fries. And hope that anyone would notice if I’d lost weight. My weight was more than a number; it was a brand poking hard in my brain. On fire. Keeping me aware and alert and ashamed and anxious. And maybe it’s easier to say because I have started losing weight, but there’s not time for that level of concern. There’s not room in my brain to put a foot in front of the other or ponder changing the world or sing too loudly to my In the Heights Pandora station with that level of shame. And I made peace with that a while ago, even though it’s a journey with peaks and valleys and better days and worse days.

There are things I’m willing to be ashamed of. Not many, but a few. I’ve read all of the Twilight books multiple times. Bailey and I saw the films in marathon form once. I once stole a cab from some drunk tourists after a Cubs game. I used a ten dollar bill I found in a cab to pay for a cab one time. I tripped on a swiffer and face planted and cracked my iPhone screen in a spectacular show of clumsiness. You get the point. But I will not waste time being ashamed about my body. I will not be concerned about fitting into Lululemon’s business model or ever waste my breath in one of their stores again. I will not feel bad about my body and the things it can do because there is some cookie cutter standard that is supposed to apply to people when it comes to size and shape. I will not feel bad about my body because someone thinks I’m lazy or did something wrong to end up the way I am; they clearly don’t know me very well. I’m done giving in to all of these different things shouting at me to feel bad about my body. I will not pity my PCOS or my little cells struggling to balance out insulin or my aching feet after a six mile run. No one should. Because your weight is not a measure of who you are or what you are as a human; there is no value attached to a number on a scale. If you want to change that number, great. If you don’t, great. But don’t forgo yoga pants because you think someone else will think they look silly or that you’ll look ridiculous trying to run a race in those tights. Understand that there is beauty in being human, in having thighs that touch and not being a sample size.

A Bill of Rights for Tiny Ladies

I am writing this after an inexplicably long hiatus, sitting in an apartment on the 27^th floor of a building that is clearly not mine, although in the past few weeks, I’ve spent more time here than I have in my own place. Time hanging out with a fiercely independent almost-two-year-old, who thinks hugs are the greatest gifts and Cookie Monster in her best friend, but still has a comeapart when there is no ice in her water. Last week, I spent a day with Tessa, now almost four, who was an immobile dollop of rosy-cheeked and giant-eyed four-month-oldness when I met her. She has grown into a quick-witted person with thoughts and opinions about everything. (Word to the wise: Those opinions are ALWAYS right.)

These tiny women are treasures in their pirate hats and tiaras, conquering building blocks and Spanish phrases while learning to spell and count. They will grow from striking toddlers to precocious little women and the world can’t drop the ball for them or for any of the other rad little ladies out there. The last time I wrote about this, my friend Elyse challenged me to write a Bill of Rights for Tiny Ladies and so I am, a bit overdue. Supporting young women as they grow into older women is the way the world moves, the way it becomes better. It is a spark to light a fire to make a brighter tomorrow for women everywhere.

1.)    The unequivocal right to identify her dreams and pursue them, whether that is at breakneck speed or snail’s pace.

2.)    A nickname that is based on something she did that was silly or impressive, not a physical attribute or a moment that will be horrifying in five years. No one wants to keep explaining the aforementioned horrifying incident, especially not a poor pubescent lady trying to be ladylike.

3.)    The understanding that she does not need to explain herself or apologize. Ever.

4.)    A respectful space to come to terms with and learn to love her physical being. This is so hard. I had a space like this at home and it still took me 26 years to reach a place where I was really and truly comfortable in my skin. And I still take celebrity fat-shaming really personally, as though it’s some valued reflection on my own body. I JUST LOST 30 POUNDS, for goodness sake. This is a cycle that has to be broken before another female life falls victim to it; I know I’m done being a victim to it, sensitive though I still may be.

5.)    The chance to inherit or form her own healthy habits regarding activity, nutrition, stress, and self-esteem. Young women should not be forced to feel the shame regarding their bodies and stress, etc. that their mothers and female relatives do. There needs to be dialogue to help older women cope with these issues in an effective way to make sure young women are not having the anxieties, the bad habits deeply rooted into their psyches.

6.)    The ability to walk across a room or down the street in silence, without feeling unsafe, if she so chooses. Walking home late at night or down that block that seems a little sketchy or through that area where there are a lot of bars or even just to the other side of the bar for that matter, what grown woman hasn’t felt her breath catch in her chest and sped up her footfalls as fast as possible, searching her purse for a possible weapon. Or just been grabbed by some random guy. Or just had some drunk guy start a (usually inappropriate) conversation with her, about her lips or her legs in that dress or the way that dress would look on the floor. These conversations and actions would merit lawsuits in a workplace and they don’t make getting from point a to point b any easier.

7.)    The knowledge that there is someone who is on her side, no matter what and no matter when. No one should ever have to feel wholly alone, especially in the delicate time before being a grown up. I think back to the time my friends Mollie and Brandon followed my ex-boyfriend to my apartment, knowing he was going to break up with me. In the moment my world felt like it had fallen apart, there they were. Everyone deserves that. 

8.)    An understanding of what it means to be a woman and that chance to understand what that means to her. The knowledge that being a women has not always meant what it does in our society and respecting those who pioneered feminism and suffrage and lobbied for the rights of women. The knowledge that there are women, still, who are not afforded freedoms we take for granted every day.

9.)    A cultivated celebration of diversity. She should learn that tolerance and change are always worth fighting for and that the world can only be made stronger by the countless perspectives in it if we stop and listen to each other rather than fight each other tooth and nail.

10.) The empowerment to order for herself at a restaurant. This does not sound like a big deal, but when was last time someone ordered for you at a restaurant? Unless you are sharing something and really only one of you can order then, it makes you feel a little meek and awkward.

11.) The ability to make a decision, firmly and unapologetically. This is important. Whether it is where to move after college or how a person prefers their eggs a la Runaway Bride, it shows decisiveness and that she actually knows a little but about herself.

12.) The ability to say no. When society is constantly telling women that they need to have it all, I feel like this skill gets really muddied on a large scale level.  Every facet of life does not require multitasking. Likewise, every moment of every day does not need to be saturated with activity or plans or commitments. It is ok to learn to say no and make use of that skill.

13.) Access to positive female role models (and male), both real and fictitious. When I was young, my role models were Olivia Newton-John, Bette Davis, and Nancy Drew. I’m now really inspired by Amy Poehler and her work with Amy Poehler’s Smart Girls, Tina Fey, CJ Craig, and Nancy Drew.

14.) Access to as many books, musicals, plays, operas, paintings, etc. as she can consume. My parents were truly amazing and took me to the library so often that I literally read every book in the Young Adult section. Every book. I also listened to every single musical theatre recording in the Beavercreek Public Library, and subsequently, the Ball State University Library. I still read voraciously and I remember seeing my parents reading and playing music and doing art all the time growing up. They did these things with me and I think that explains about 95% about who I am, particularly my affinity for Rock Music from 1975-1983.

15.) The knowledge of how to seek out and cultivate relationships with other females who will make you stronger, even when you cannot find your own footing. Female to Female relationships can be really tricky. There was a recent survey I read and I wish I could find to actually link here, but it was a hard copy alas, but the gist showed the way that females who claim to be “friends” in the workplace hold each other down. Think about Mean Girls. Think about your friends, your frenemies. In a culture where young girls are raised thinking it’s normal to treat each other the way girls on TV do, it’s no wonder girl on girl hate and bullying is so rampant. Now that I am an adult, I understand that friendship is not a constant, it’s an ebb and flow that changes as the people in it change and their needs vary. And that’s kind of a beautiful thing. But you have to find people who will support you, lift you up, believe in you when you are feeling crummy and be willing to do the same for them. Otherwise, what’s the point?

16.) An understanding of feminism and its importance and why you cannot denounce feminism as an intelligent woman in 2013 and beyond. My heart sank when Katy Perry actually voiced the words that she is not a feminist last year. Being a feminist is not about being militant or butch; it’s about celebrating women. It’s about helping them be equal. It’s about a lot of really amazing, smart sparks who want to change the world and respect the women in it. And the women who did that before. Women in 2013 would not be where they are, 20% life earning gap or not without feminism and when a pop icon denounces the entire vein of education and thought, a huge opportunity for cultivating change is lost and wasted.

17.) The opportunity to make mistakes and messes in a safe space.

18.) The opportunity to learn how to have relationships with men who are respectful and kind, either romantically or platonically.

19.) The opportunity to know that beauty is more than just what some magazine tells you. I’ll spare you a rant about the media’s affect on body dysmorphia and eating disorders. However, beauty is something more than black dresses and red lipstick. It is generosity and kindness and seeing  baby smile. It’s crashing waves on Lake Michigan and seeing elephant seals on the California Coast. It’s hugging your mom after not seeing her for months and that little voice that you heed when you do the right thing. It is just so much more than skin deep.

20.) The opportunity to never be told she’s fat or skinny or made to feel like she needs to do something desperate to change her body just to fit in.

21.) A vocabulary so full of words that it is unnecessary to use demeaning ones toward friends. Language is the entire basis of most interactions that people have. Aside from English being a predominantly masculine language, women have adopted many extreme words as terms of endearment. But, just because a word is a term of endearment to one person doesn’t make it kind to another. I think these conversations based on name-calling like this are detrimental to female-female interaction.

22.) An understanding of how far kindness and gratitude can truly go. Seriously, they are everything.

23.) Ceaseless education. No one should ever stop learning; the almost two year old is Jewish and I have learned a ton about Judaism and keeping kosher from her family. It’s awesome. Every child, boy or girl, should have the chance to pursue education in a way that works for them as far as they can.

24.) Time to try out a myriad of different things and weed out the ones that are a bad fit to stick with the ones that really work. I sing really well. But my first instrument was the piano. Then the saxophone. My parents said the happiest day of their lives was when I stopped playing the saxophone. And as it turned out, knowing theory from piano made studying voice really easy for me; much easier than practicing piano. Which is how I realized I had a pretty decent voice. I still sing, almost constantly, but I actually take lessons even in adulthood.

25.) A chance for opportunity and adventure beyond her wildest dreams.

I’m not naïve. I understand what an undertaking it would be to provide any one of those things to any one child, much less a world of them, factoring in constraints of poverty and rural/urban settings, etc. But something has to change for the ladies of the US, of the world. The politicization of uteruses, the pay gap, being one of the only developed countries with a parental leave system so sloppy that we can hardly support new families. There are obstacles, giant hurdles that require more than a leap of faith and change of heart. That being said, if no one ever tries to celebrate these aspects of girlhood by building this well of self-esteem and knowledge into our future women, where is the future going to go? And maybe by investing in the future, we can solve some of the problems we have today so that our little women don't have to tackle them tomorrow.

Boston

When any kind of national or local tragedy occurs, my default setting is a frenzied devouring of any information I can find on the subject, voraciously reading and trying to make sense of it all. On September 11, I stared open-mouthed in my Honors Geometry class as news rolled in, on the cusp of 15 and full of fear, unable to look away. When I read about the first reports of the Sandy Hook shooting, I was glued to my computer, gchatting with Casey and crying. We called our moms, reading and keeping each other in the loop as more and more information surfaced. Yesterday, I stood dripping in a towel, just emerged from the shower when I heard my phone vibrate. I could barely choke out the words to tell Bailey what had happened as I saw the headline.

Explosions? At a finish line?

As a runner, the finish line is the pinnacle of a job well done; a place to do a little softshoe that your body withstood the test you just gave it. A place to celebrate the fact that even if you had to listen to your PowerSong 7 times and took a minute per mile longer than normal, you finished the race.

It’s where my friend Emily propelled me forward the last half mile of my half marathon when I was feeling weak and woozy and unsure why I’d ever decided it was worth it to run 13.1 miles to begin with. This was the place these people had trained and worked and missed happy hours and sleeping in on Saturdays to be.

I read more and more yesterday. The discussions of the sounds of the explosions, the blood on the sidewalk, the limbs torn from people’s bodies. I thought I might throw up. I kept reading. Searching for more information, needing more information, desperately needing to understand how and why something like this could happen. Needing to understand why people are so full of hate and rage and violence.

I run for a lot of reasons; one of them is certainly as a way to offset the anxiety I feel and have always felt about the world, to give my frenetic energy another space to take hold that is not my brain. When I am in motion, my brain can stop obsessing about things like dark gathering clouds and thunderstorms (the weather phobia I saw a psychiatrist for as a child after Hurricane Opal), the odds of a stranger being able to break through a deadbolt AND a regular lock on my front door and steal everything I own, or the likelihood that I might be in the wrong place in the wrong time.

Yet, in the wake of events like yesterday or Sandy Hook or September 11, I can’t stop or slow down enough to put myself into physical motion. I can’t process. I can’t do anything but feed the manic frenzy inside my head. The frenetic fear gives way to hopelessness about the state of humanity, something that can’t be reconciled with my ceaseless, normal optimism, leaving it feeling shredded. The echo of a stomachache, not unlike the ones that sent me to the nurse’s office weekly at Forest Avenue out of fear from puffy white clouds that might carry thunderbolts, still remains. Something absent, vacant fills my head.

 My first thought this morning, as I opened a news app to see if there was new news, new information, was how I was ever going to coax myself across another finish line again. My race buddy, Laura and I, just signed up for a 5K next weekend; my legs felt paralyzed at the thought.

And the first article I came to was about a 78-year-old man, who had been knocked down by the blasts, so close to the end of the race. AND HE GOT UP AND FINISHED IT. Seriously. I don’t know if I could finish a marathon in the best of conditions, but good lord, this man who is clearly hearty of body and spirit, finished it.

The next article was about dehydrated runners who had finished the race helping to care for victims in the medical tents after the explosions.  Weak and exhausted, they helped to carry and lift and aid those who had been hurt. Such is the constitution of the kind of person who runs marathons.

A third told stories of people racing inward to assist, coming together for a “27^th mile”, just like the Mr. Roger’s quote says. Rather than running for their lives, people were giving each other coats, helping to move the wounded, coming together to get to a safer place.

So, even though today, my mind is manic and my heart is full of sadness and fear, I have found my optimism justified. The world is bursting at the seams with people who are good, who are willing to help, to love, to come together; it’s just really hard to see that sometimes in the wake of events that are terrifying and huge and inexplicable. I am training for the Soldier Field 10 Mile and today, my training plan says I need to run 4 miles. I will ignore the anxious ache in my stomach, the fear of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and I will run my run and keep crossing Finish Lines because of what they are and have always been.  I implore you to find a way to do the same.

Boston, you are on my heart and in my soles.

How

I was thinking really hard about something, staring at the sparrows flitting about underneath my window this afternoon. It's not a topic that's uncommon; I devoted an entire blog to it when it was so pressing on my mind that it needed real, separate space to breathe on its own, mostly for the sake of silliness in the face of being incredibly panicked about the stress that I would never actually figure it out. (Although, for the record, I would still throw Taylor over for a Manning if you read the post about being a Football Wife in the When I Grow Up blog.)

What do I want to be when I grow up?

Don't get me wrong. I'm really proud of the person I've become; I have surprised myself with strength I had no idea was buried deep in crevices and corners I didn't know existed. I know what kind of person I want to be. I know what kinds of activities I want to partake in. But I'm still troubled by how I will make a difference, how I can get to a place where I am making a difference (and still making enough money to eat food that does not come in a box. God as my witness, I will never eat Aldi boxed macaroni and cheese again.)

And there has been a topic of interest, something that has been troubling me and pulling me in. An area where I'm feeling like maybe I might be able to make a difference. Girls and self esteem and creating a safe space where they can go and figure out how to be awesome.

Ok, that's a sunshiny answer to a problem that's a little deeper and darker and goes into the interpersonal relationships of girls, which is a problematic area due to a culture of bullying, an outbreak of bad role modeling in the media and in real life, and a lack of understandable or relatable feminist perspectives on what it actually means to be a woman in 2013. Growing up is hard enough, but add to that the media's presentation of rail-thin whitebread models as a norm for beauty and the use of the female body as a political pawn scattered all over the front page and things are nearly impossible. And that's without someone bullying you, telling you you're worthless, making you feel bad about the person that you are and the woman that you will someday grow into.

Self-esteem is a treasure and we should be doing everything we can to help you women understand that they are special in a world that is so willing and ready to tear them down at every corner. (Seriously.)

I want to find a way to fit into that niche. I want to find a way to create this space and make it a place where girls can relate and interact and tolerate and understand. I want them to have opportunities that they might not be able to find in an overcrowded classroom, in a public school with budgets being slashed constantly, or within the confines or a neighborhood demarcation. I want girls to learn to speak to each other with respect, value books, find their bliss and talents. I want to empower young women to help them understand that feminism is about so much more than something that Katy Perry thought it was cool to denounce on TV and that they don't have to get black out drunk in college if they don't want to, etc. etc. I want to make this into something concrete, something like Smart Girls at the Party, but a few steps further into the community.

As I thought about making changes and what is broken that needs to be fixed, I realized I have no real idea how to even begin doing this.

So, I did what I always do when I'm at that kind of loss.

I texted Valerie. I asked her what you are supposed to do to start doing the thing that you think you might want to do when you grow up when you figure out what that thing is.

She didn't have an answer either. But she liked my niche.

And I was fired up too. I thought about all of the amazing little girls I know: Belle, Tessa, Kira, Eloise, Zoey. I thought about them growing up in this current female climate and it made me sad for a broken system of misunderstood feminism and the culture of meanness and bullying that has been cultivated in its place. And maybe it's been there all along. Maybe it's why I didn't like that episode of Girls I watched or why I'm so adamant about self-esteem and trying to love myself, even when I think it's hard. Maybe this is a dream I'm supposed to figure out a way to chase in some big or small way. I guess I didn't really think it through all that far. But I certainly am thinking now.