Whose College Tour is it Anyway?

Last week I took my daughter Lucia to look at colleges on the East Coast. Lucia doesn’t want to go to college on the East Coast. Like many Pacific Northwestern kids, she wants to go to college in sunny California.

But my nephew goes to college in Boston and there are 78 schools to look at in that city alone, so it was as good a place as any to start. Lucia goes to a large, public inner-city high school. She gets little to no individualized attention, and because of COVID, the quality of her educational experience is more severely compromised than it’s ever been.

I think of college as a long-awaited opportunity for her to finally sink her teeth into some good learning, to find some intellectual, cultural, and social stimulation that she is not getting in high school.

Don’t get me wrong. My daughter loves high school. She loves the social aspect of it. She’s engaged and involved, but it feels like she’s got one foot out the door; like she doesn’t really take it very seriously because she knows it’s just a stepping stone.

I remember when I went to college. The course catalog was thrilling. There were so many choices and topics and areas of study I hadn’t ever contemplated. I was thrilled and delighted and relieved that learning could be so exciting. I took Urban Sociology and Cultural Anthropology. I took Spanish Literature and Metal Design. I studied abroad for a year in Spain. Though it wasn’t necessarily easy, college was absolutely eye-opening and educational and it changed my life.

As we visited different universities and colleges in and around Boston, some small, some large, a few somewhere in between, I found myself experiencing those same feelings I’d had in my youth — the plentitude of opportunity thrilled me all over again. We heard about internships and special dorms, dual majors, and summer abroad programs. There were gap semesters and community service programs. The opportunities were staggering and I wanted my daughter to have them all!

The college I loved the most for my daughter was a small, women’s college outside of Boston. The two sophomores who conducted the orientation were articulate, happy, informed, and grounded. They were organized and humble and confident and light at the same time. They loved their small college and sang the praises of the opportunities they’d had and would continue to have during their tenure there.

When we finished the orientation my daughter said, “Let’s skip the self-guided walking tour. I’m definitely not going here.” My heart sank. What did she mean? It was so perfect. Everything about it was idyllic. I wanted Lucia to have that special utopian experience where she’d be one of just a few hundred freshmen, where she’d be gently guided through the newness of college with kind loving hands. Or maybe I wanted that’s what I wanted for myself.

The next morning we went to a large in-city University. The students who led the orientation were equally engaged and competent and resourceful and thrilled to be at their University. At the end of the orientation, we did the walking tour. Even though it was freezing and a blizzard, we followed the student guide through campus, trudging through a foot of snow to see the buildings, the dorms, the dining halls. “This is one of my favorites,” Lucia said. 

I still liked the small women’s college better. But Lucia’s reaction to the big university helped me see that my lens was skewed. In seeing her love this seemingly opposite experience of what I wanted her to have, I experienced a flash of something I feel more and more lately — that my daughter is not me. There are many ways that she is like me, but there are just as many ways that she is not.

It was bittersweet, walking around all of those campuses with my almost-grown daughter. Each tour was a reminder that Lucia is almost done living at home, that before long my reign of influence will be a mere blip in her peripheral vision. If I had the choice to go back to being seventeen and choosing a college I might choose that small women’s college outside of Boston. I think that environment would have worked really well for me. But Lucia isn’t me. She’s her. And she’s going to choose the college that works best for who she is, no matter what I think about it.

Menopause: Another Perspective

Deep Sleep came back. The night after I wrote, Oh Deep Sleep, Where Have You Gone? it returned. I am sleeping through the night again. My FitBit tells me this is true. My scores have been between 80 and 90. I am waking up refreshed, full of rest that comes from the world of deep sleep, ready to welcome the day ahead. It’s a true gift. I feel like a magical fairy has blessed me with Deep Sleep again.

I’m at the age where I am waiting for things to fall apart. I am waiting for my hair to turn fully gray. I am waiting for my knees to give out. I am waiting for my belly to round like both of my grandmothers. I am waiting for my eyesight and hearing to go. I am waiting for longtime faithful companion Deep Sleep to leave me. Everyone says it’s going to happen. Friends, family members, doctors, random shop clerks, started warning me when I was 48, then again when I turned 50. And now I’m 53 so surely I am just biding my time until all of these things happen to me. 

These years of warnings are why I was so prepared to end my relationship with Deep Sleep. I set myself up to expect that losing Deep Sleep was inevitable. Some of the things I was warned would happen have happened. My hair is getting gray and my belly is much rounder than it used to be. My hearing seems fine but I’ve graduated to progressives. But my knees are great most days and my cherished friend Deep Sleep came back!

As women age, there is an elusive magic suitcase full of unpleasant expectations awaiting us. We are prepped for all of the bad things to come. We are told in myriad ways that this, older age, is the end of the line, the stop where all the bad stuff comes. But that’s a bunch of bullshit. That’s some weird patriarchal concept designed to make women think that their only value is in their ability to procreate; that once those years are over it’s all downhill (but that’s another essay).

C.S. Lewis’s book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was one of my favorite stories growing up. Lucy and her three siblings are sent to the country to escape the Blitz during World War II. They stay with the professor, a friend of their parents, in a foreign town in an unfamiliar house. There, Lucy and her three siblings find a wardrobe that leads to another land. 

The adventures the kids had — both wonderful and perilous — drew me in and carried me away. What if menopause is like the first stop in Narnia? It’s scary. It’s foreign. There are strange creatures and mysterious events that make us feel lost and scared and alone at times. But there are also mystical, magical adventures that make us feel welcome and happy.

There are evil characters — like the White Witch — hot flashes, sensitivity to alcohol and coffee, hormonal mood changes. And there are good ones like Asian the Lion, the brave King of Narnia who saves the children. In the land of menopause Asian would be that strong inner sense women have at this age. It is the roar of knowing that it’s time to change jobs or shake up a relationship. 

And then there are Mr. and Mrs. Beaver, the kind couple who welcome the children and make them feel at home. In many ways, menopause feels like that. Finally at home, free from the heavy socializing, trying to achieve more, do better, get noticed. It’s nice to feel like it’s enough to sit at home and have a cup of tea. 

And for me, there’s Mr. Tumnus, the faun, who, in my menopause land, represents Deep Sleep. Mr. Tumnus is at first the kind and welcoming, nurturing and caring companion to Lucy when she arrives in Narnia. But Tumnus is under the control of the White Witch and thinks of betraying Lucy, forsaking her to the evil side of Nania. In the end, though, Tumnus’ conscience is restored and he leads Lucy back home to her wardrobe where she can rest safely with her siblings. 

Lucy and her siblings escaped to the wardrobe. Their life, war-torn, sequestered away from their parents, friends, and all things known to them, was already scary. Narnia was an escape, a place to be somewhere different, to be someone different. 

Menopause is like going to another land in a lot of ways. But like Narnia, the new land isn’t all bad. When I think about what came before menopause, life on the other side of the wardrobe, I feel delighted to have an escape from all of that. There’s good and bad here, but it’s also sometimes magical. 

Euphoria- More Willies than Boobies

I’m watching Euphoria right now. People warned me against it because I have a seventeen-year-old daughter. I’ve heard people say that it glorifies drug use and casual sex. As a mother, it is horrifying to watch, but besides the Molly, Fentanyl, excessive drinking, and access to prescription pills, the thing I am most surprised by is the number of penises I have seen on Euphoria.

Zendaya plays Rue, the star of Euphoria. She plays a complex, troubled, amazing sixteen-year-old who struggles with drugs, happiness, and the general bullshit of being alive. I love Zendaya. She went to the same high school as my nephew so I feel close to her, kind of like I know her a little bit.

Rue is exactly who I wish I had been in high school without the drugs. She’s her own person — independent, brave, defiant, and sensitive. Swirling in Rue’s orbit are all kinds of other teens — jocks, mean girls, basic girls, outcasts, bullies, and everything in between. And they all seem to drink excessively, take ridiculous amounts of drugs and have sex constantly. But it’s a really good show. The acting is amazing even though you are constantly shocked by a random penis on the screen.

I have never in my life seen so many penises. It’s true that I am a lesbian so that limits my exposure, but I’ve seen thousands of breasts in my life. And that’s not because I’m a lesbian. It’s because I watch TV and movies.

Since I was young, breasts have been part of what’s on the screen. If not the full breast, then cleavage. You don’t see men’s balls squirting out of their shorts at the rate that women’s cleavage is in full view ALL. THE. TIME. And full frontal of women’s breasts barely register to most of us anymore because we’re so used to seeing them constantly.

I don’t know if the producers and directors of Euphoria are showing so many penises because they are trying to shock the viewer or if they are doing it to change the narrative of what we’re used to seeing or if they have a completely different motive for being so penis heavy.

But for me, as a woman, the carefree showing of schlongs feels like a great shift in the balance of what we’ve seen for decades. I’ve seen WAY more penises than breasts in the four episodes of Euphoria I’ve watched. And the breasts I have seen have mostly been covered by bras. My favorite part of the penis- heavy show is that I have never seen Rue’s (Zendaya’s) breasts, and she’s the star! A beautiful woman, and the star of the show and they haven’t shown even a peek of her breasts. That makes me so happy.

You might be thinking, “eew, I don’t want to see so many penises.” And if that’s your reaction then don’t watch Euphoria. But if you want to see something totally different, then try it.

The experience has given me a lot to think about. For example, do those actors feel exploited because their junk is flying all over the place on large screen TVs and laptops all over the world? Do men and boys watching the show feel a little more exposed and vulnerable to see images of ding dongs that are bigger or smaller or fatter or skinnier than theirs so casually displayed? Maybe.

Girls and women have been in that position forever. We still are. I find it refreshing that in Euphoria the shift has been made. The focus is off the boobies and onto the willies. It’s about time. 

Oh Deep Sleep, Where Have You Gone?

Oh sweet, Deep Sleep, where have you gone? Why have you left me? How can I find you again? I used to fall asleep easily and wake up with the light. I would close my eyes, go somewhere far away, unknown, mysterious, and peaceful and wake up with the satisfying sense of having arrived safely at my destination.

For the past few weeks, my sleep has been regularly interrupted. At approximately 2 am every morning I jolt into a wide-awake state and I’m up for hours. It’s like a hectic layover in a crowded airport. I’m busy, distracted, and irritated. It feels loud and chaotic and relentless. I lie impatiently through the layover counting the minutes until I can get back on the plane to the final destination. 

I finally do fall asleep again. Sometimes I’ll take myself on a guided body-sensing meditation. I’ll move from my eyebrows to the tips of my toes to all points around and between. Then I’ll go to my breath, my thoughts, my feelings, and sometimes back to my body until I drift off to sleep. Sometimes I’ll count backward from 1000 by threes or sevens. Sometimes I’ll choose a word and run-through of every word I can think of that starts with each letter of the word. Sometimes I give up any magical technique and take my book into the guestroom to read.

I always fall back to sleep eventually. I can feel it happening. I can feel the exact moment when I have crossed over and I am heading back into sleep. I’m aware of it. My body feels tingly. I can feel my grip on the chaos loosening. And then I’m back; back on the plane, safely buckled in for the night. 

But it’s not the same in the morning. In the old days, the days when I rested deeply, I felt different in the morning. Just a month ago I laid my head down, settled into the familiar mattress beneath me, my favorite soft pillow, and fell deeply into another realm. I miss it — that sense of being swallowed by the darkness into utter stillness and peace. 

I miss that long rest I used to experience, that powerful absence from the duties of my life. I long for that feeling of being neither here nor there. In Deep Sleep I was suspended, not in the day before and not in the day ahead. 

I’ve been waiting for this phenomenon of interrupted sleep to happen. I’m 53. Menopause is breathing down my neck. I’ve heard countless friends talk about this exact thing. I’ve read books, listened to podcasts, prepared myself. But now that it’s happening, now that I’m here, I feel desperate. I took my nightly visits with Deep Sleep for granted and now that they are gone I am bereft, unmoored. I just want her back.

Where are you Deep Sleep? How do I bring you back? Will you ever return to me? Oh, Deep Sleep, how do I restore the wonder of your presence? 

I can sense these last few weeks of estrangement from Deep Sleep is just the beginning. Somehow I know this time that my interrupted sleep is not a temporary pattern. It’s not stress or too much coffee. It’s bigger and I will have to address it. 

I am going to have to do a little work to figure out a way to bring Deep Sleep back to my nights. On my list today is to talk to my new doctor. Maybe I need to start a little estrogen-progesterone cocktail. Maybe I have to cut out caffeine or stop eating sugar. Maybe blackout curtains will help. I’ll do whatever it takes.

I didn’t know how much I’d miss Deep Sleep until you were gone. 

Building a Relationship with My Boobies

Since age sixteen I’ve spent way too much time thinking about boobs. That’s when boobs came to me — at age sixteen. Before that, I was a long, lean, flat-chested girl. I was safe then, safe from the stares, the judgments, the boob management.

But since I got boobs, I’ve spent countless hours trying to hide them, ignore them, deny them, and shun them.

I felt safer without boobs. The butcher at our corner store called me “son” when I was twelve. I remember feeling a little tingle of satisfaction shimmy up my spine when he called me that. “I’m safe,” I thought to myself because I don’t have boobs.

I was so late in developing that part of me that I thought I’d never get boobs. But then I did, almost overnight when I was sixteen. I was a competitive swimmer and suddenly none of my suits fit. But worse than that, I could feel everyone staring at me when I stood on the starting block waiting for the official to start the race.

I had such shame about my new breasts that I became radically silent about them. I didn’t ask my mother to take me to get a bra and, in my memory, she didn’t ask me to go buy one. Instead, I stole one of my younger sister’s bras (she’d developed breasts much earlier). It fit okay so I wore that bra. When she asked at dinner where her pink bra was, I put it in the laundry so it would end up in her drawer again.

But before I did, I wrote down the size. The numbers and letters meant nothing to me. I just knew I had to match them. I had been saving a Playtex catalog that had come in our mail. I looked through the pages to find the simplest, most modest bra I could find. I filled out the order form for that bra in my sister’s size. I took my babysitting cash to the bank, got a money order, and mailed the order form back to the people at Playtex.

I waited patiently for my bra to come in the mail and I wore that one, just that one for months. Eventually, I started taking bras from my stepmother (who also was not anywhere close to my size) but for the rest of high school, I never bought another bra. 

In college, I had more independence — a checkbook and a debit card — and I became a little more brazen about going to the department store in my college town to buy bras. I did so in secret, never with friends, and never actually knowing my size. I’d take multiple sizes into the dressing room — always choosing the simplest, least sexy bras I could find. As if hiding drugs or stolen property, I’d tuck my new bra purchase into my bag and feel relief at not having to do that again for a while. 

Because I never knew my true size or the style of bra that would best suit my body, I bought too many bras, hundreds over the years that were ultimately unfitting or unsupportive, or uncomfortable. My attempt to deny the existence of my breasts was like an affair I was trying to hide. Year after year, shopping trip after shopping trip, I’d stuff the unworkable bras into my underwear drawer with the rest of the misfits and go shopping again.

It wasn’t until I became the mother of a daughter that I decided that I had to develop a relationship with my breasts. First I had to feed her with my breasts so I had to communicate with the two foreign orbs on my chest. We both grew to love the ladies for the bounty they provided.

But I needed to do more. My daughter would develop breasts someday and I didn’t want her to have the shame I had. Once I stopped nursing I went to Nordstrom to get a bra fitting. It was one of the most challenging things I’ve ever done. I worried tirelessly about a stranger seeing my naked torso. After all these years of hiding my body, how could I possibly show it to a random woman at Nordstrom? What if she had tiny perky breasts? What if she could detect my crushing insecurity? But I did it for my daughter.

The woman was so nice. She didn’t say anything like, “Wow, your boobs are really big and saggy.” She didn’t avert her eyes. She lifted and measured and crossed her arms across her own well-fitted chest, leaned her right ear to her right shoulder, and said, “What kind of bras do you like?”

And I understood that day that I wasn’t a freak. I just had big boobs. Big boobs that I didn’t have a relationship with. From the time my daughter developed breast buds, I celebrated her breasts. First I took her to get colorful little cami bras of her choosing. Then, when her breasts grew bigger I took her for a bra fitting at Nordstrom with the nice, accepting, shame-free women who had shown me so much grace and acceptance.

Each time my daughter’s bras stopped fitting we went back to kind women at Nordstrom so they could fit her again. I was always surprised when my daughter wanted me in the room with her for these fittings. She had no shame. She accepted her body. She did not carry my internalized boob disdain. 

My daughter is a young adult now and she has a relationship with her breasts. She likes to buy beautiful bras. She has bras in all colors and styles. She changes clothes in front of her friends. She wears bikinis. I am so relieved that my burden is not her burden.

Early on in my life with I learned to disassociate from my breasts. It was easier to live without a relationship with my boobs than to accept that they were actually mine — permanent, on my body for the rest of my life. 

Ultimately, I decided to develop a relationship with my breasts to be a good mother. And I’m grateful for this moment of post-partum clarity. I still have shame. I still hide my body, but I have a relationship with my breasts. I can comfortably browse the bras at Nordstrom without lurking like a weirdo. It’s been a journey. And I’m still on it. But I’ve come a long way. Thank you to the wonderful bra-fitting women at Nordstrom.