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being nessasary

a quirky look into being

Category Archives: women’s interest

Chicago is being hammered with snow, ice, and its infamous gusts.  I am on my journey home, and am not really thinking about how my bus was delayed because of said weather or the fact that my new UGGs are prematurely aging.  My heart is focused on a wheelchair-bound woman.  She lacked the bottom half of her left leg, but her spirit – that was completely intact.

She initially chatted up my boyfriend as we waited at a bus stop. Finding refuge in a used bookshop’s storefront, we huddled close to hear the lady talk about the weather, and her keen ability to use swears (swears that no one’s daddy can even imagine, she said).  She won me over right then – I knew she was the kind of crazy I relate to.  After all, you have to be a little nuts if you’re disabled, and as I came to find out, sick.  I gathered that she was around seventy years old, having been born and raised on the streets of the Chicago.

We got a good taste of what her life was like.  I could tell she was into her God and the holiday season.  She couldn’t be too poor off considering she was dressed well, didn’t have an odor of any kind, and she lacked that stressed, sad look that some folks have when life has them down (or maybe she was crazier than I perceived).

Conversation flitted from topic to topic until I saw the bus through the falling frosty air.  She rolled herself onto the sidewalk while I made sure the bus stopped for us (we had attempted to catch an earlier bus, but it blew past us as if we were yellow snowmen).  When it stopped, the personality who had delighted my boyfriend and I with several laughs and smiles, paused.  She could not move herself over the icy mound obscuring the street curb.

I know stubborn.  Yet, with all my health issues these past few years, I have learned when to accept help.  This woman was on that page with me, though I am most certain she got there much sooner than I.  She lived independently, yet knew when to accept my offer to push her forward.  Thankfully, when the tread on my boots didn’t allow me the traction to push her forward without the terror of spilling her into the gutter, I asked my kindly escort to step in.  He pushed her over the threat, and helped her up the bus’ wheelchair ramp.  It was quite the feat considering she asked the crowed bus to give the driver and us nice white folk a round of applause.

The passengers were a bit confused by her merry behavior, but it did not seem to faze her.  We stood behind her as the bus did its business.  I noticed her fidgeting with a long pink ribbon on the handle of her wheelchair.

I’m a nosey cancer survivor.  I ask when I sense another troop.  She smiled up at me and questioned how I knew.  I pointed at the ribbon and smiled while saying, “I’m one too!”  She didn’t do the whole, “Baby you’re to young,” speech.  She grabbed my hand in the most congratulatory manner I have ever felt (forget those two graduations I have gone through) and said, “We are survivors! We are here to prove things can be done!”  If we weren’t on a crowded, slippery bus, I would have hugged the lady.  What a woman.

She continued on to talk about my dimple, and how she wanted one when she was little.  She used to stick her fingers in her cheeks hoping the dent would stay.  When she asked her mother where dimples came from, she replied, “They came from angel kisses.” Like all curious children, there was a second question along the lines of, “Well, then how come you have them and I don’t?”  Her mother playfully answered, “Well, God just must love me more.”  She laughed.

As my boyfriend and I prepared to get off the bus she wished us a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  We returned the well wishes.  But after reflecting upon this woman, I demand that she is Happy and Merry.


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I woke up nice and early this lovely 9 degree morning to get some sun.  Nothing like a cuddling up with a book in the frosty air surrounded by Christmas lights and puzzled mailmen.  Teaser sentence aside, I went to get an spray tan to look somewhat human for the Groupon office party this Friday evening.

Call me an oompa loompa all you’d like, but you’re the one who sounds silly when you ask if I recently went to Mexico.  The ladies at Indy Air Tan do an amazing job, and they don’t give me cancer.

Being fake isn’t all that bad when done in moderation.  It is not exactly nessasary, but it can help one feel better when battling a bout of self-conciousitis.  In the wild world of women, we have established our own religion when it comes to beauty and maintenance, much of which stems from an inner state of being.

Last night, while trying on cocktail dresses, I was struggling to find one that was even worth buying.  They were either too small (I do not suggest eating a heavily salted meal with a beer before dress shopping),  too big (I was swollen, but not two sizes larger!), or my pastiness overwhelmed me in this season’s black and sequined fashions.

I typically opt for color when it comes to dresses.  Black just reminds me of funerals. I have seen to many of those the past five years, so my one LBD hides far beneath the crust of my closet (plus some of the internal makings of it poke out and stab me in the bosom).

LBDs aside, I do not mind it when girls wear ridiculously high heels to conceal the fact they’re 5’2 or wear glue on lashes – whatever helps a lady feel that much cuter is fine by me.  The only time I find fake sad is when a woman is decked out head to toe with artificial lights.

Her hair is dyed (usually poorly), she has had bad botox injections in her cheeks and lips, her make-up that looks like Barbie did the honors, her boobs tuck under her chin and so on.  You know what I am talking about.  I want women to be happy, but masking practically everything on the outside also masks what is going on indoors.

Halloween is for masks (and it is one of my favorite nights of the year!) – but I don’t want to be Britney Spears for longer than 6 hours.  It would be nice to not have a bald spot anymore, but I happen to like my body’s many imperfections – like my crazy crooked spine and my cheekbones. Hell, I even like the massive scar on my head.  It’s super badass if you ask me, and it is an amazing conversation starter!  Every woman should really focus on her freckles before making a permanent change to what she was born with.  No one really enjoys fake flowers that much.

We all have our little secrets – mine being the occasional tone inducing spray tan.  Others have their eyelashes and collagen enhanced lip gloss. I urge ladies to not lose themselves into making outer perfection.  What would a sea with a few swells be without the fish and shipwrecks beneath?

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