Remembering That We Are Women

About five years ago, I received an email from a woman.  She was someone I knew through work, but not very well.  I still remember the date:  January 2, 2008.  In her email, she told me about a New Year’s resolution that she had made.  She wanted to reach out to the people in her life that she admired and wanted to get to know them on a more personal level.  It seemed that I was part of that resolution.  She and I knew each other professionally.  We were often in meetings together.  Oftentimes, she and I were the only women in attendance.  Her resolution was to reach out to women like me, women she knew in a professional sense, but wanted to get to know on a more personal level.  I’ll admit, I was a little taken aback.  Why did she want to know me?  What was this all about?  I remember briefly wondering if she was going to try to sell me something.  Pampered Chef?  Candles?  I hated those kind of “parties” where women got together and then were forced out of politeness to purchase something that they didn’t want or need.

Thanksgiving? No, More Like Malaise

November sucks.   

This morning T reminded me of the other Thanksgivings that have been full of sadness, loss, or disappointment.  Of course, through the years, some Thanksgivings have turned out just fine.  If you were a statistician, though, you would see that our family has shockingly high odds of Thanksgiving misfortune.  One Thanksgiving, we sat by the bedside of our dying daughter.  A few short years later, we sat in the Emergency Room.  T, a VERY pregnant me, and one-year-old Luke were waiting for stitches to close a particularly bad “boo boo” to Luke’s head.  Luke had fallen into a bookcase just as we were getting ready to walk out the door to go to Grandma’s house.  If you throw into the mix the number of years when one kid or another just happened to be sick on Thanksgiving Day, our track record really sucks.  T and I talked about all of these things this morning.  He said that while he doesn’t believe in my November superstitions, he’s beginning to wonder if there isn’t some merit to my dislike of November after all.

How Do They See Me?

Last spring, I took a day off work to volunteer in Lola’s class for Olympic Day. It was on one of the last days of school. There are games, races, and contests. Well before Lola was born, I spent about five years as PTA president planning Olympic Day events. I knew the drill, but Lola didn’t know that. She became obsessed with what I was going to wear to Olympic Day. For about a week, she quizzed me on what I thought I might wear, and then she would point out that whatever particular outfit I was wearing would be entirely inappropriate for Olympic Day. These conversations would typically occur when I walked in the door still wearing the clothes I had worn to the office that day. What? I shouldn’t wear a skirt and heals to Olympic Day? Day after day, I had a lot of fun teasing Lola. Finally the weekend came, and when I came downstairs wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, she said “There! Wear THAT to Olympic Day!”