"Michael Phelps", "Secret Service", and How To Redeem Your Good Name

So, you made a mistake. A big one. Maybe you were caught laundering money to a terrorist-like group (woops, nope, that's "Revenge"). Or you slept with your married ex-boyfriend in an elevator (Carrie Bradshaw. Hello.) Whatever it is you did, your name has been dragged through the mud and no $9.99 wash can make it look brand new again. Or so it seems.

We've all been there. We've even seen celebrities and American icons blow it all on small, fragments of fun. Michael Phelps smoked some hoo-ha after his gold medal. Now - a full four years later - reporters claim: "On the Road to Redemption: Can Phelps Take London After an Embarrassing Fall?" Even not-so-famous people are doing the wrong things. Secret Service proved they weren't so secret after all when they were caught with a hmm-hmm outside of a hotel room. "The incident does not reflect a systematic problem." Meh-okay. But there is something that they - and you - have in common: you can redeem yourself! Amend! Atone! Absolve! (thank you, Webster). That's right. Simple things you can do to put your name back in bright lights. Or at least a shameless one: 

1. Perpetuate a good deed, whether it be in a printed newspaper or a newsfeed status. There is nothing more annoying than seeing people immortalize their mundane routine on social networks, but the only thing they need to do is read a few words. So, make sure it's short, sweet, and to-the-point. Example: "Fun day with the pound puppies!" [insert a picture of you playing with the local dachshunds or bulldogs. Everyone loves puppy bulldogs.] There's also nothing bad about helping our animal and human society. 

2. Visit your grandparents - because they will always love you no matter what. To them, you are still the wide-eyed, nose-picking grandson or granddaughter who can do no wrong. And is it just me or is it whenever you meet an older person, you automatically talk in higher pitches and ask questions like "You got that?" or "Can I help you?" Just me? Just me. But visit them anyway. If it doesn't work then at least you got a great family visit out of it. And if you're really lucky, a crisp, five-dollar bill.  

3. Keep your mouth shut. For awhile anyways. Danny Tanner told Michelle: "If you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all." It's the opposite of gambling; you won't lose anything if you have nothing on the table! You want it to turn to craps again? No? Then do nothing but watch that ball on the roulette wheel, baby, cause it ain't worth it.

Absolute Last Resort:
4. Change your name. Think of it as re-inventing yourself rather than giving up. You've always loved the name since you were little so why not make that dream come true. "Yes, that says Princess Jasmine."

I was kidding about the name change. About the whole thing really. So, you made a mistake. Big deal. Chances are you'll make another one. Did you learn from it? Well, then that's all you need. Reporters may write about it four years later or you may get fired from your job, but everyone's choices are 50/50. And everyone knows that in Vegas those are the best odds. But, seriously, no gambling. That only leads to trouble.

5/25/2012

Where's Waldo?

I've always hated those books. Pages and pages of the impossible task of finding ONE person in overly-populated locations: the beach, the mall, the park. How the illustrator got the idea of stuffing 100 people into a restaurant is beyond me. But I hated them. Searching every gap and every open space for just a glimpse of a red-and-white striped sleeve. And when you do finally find him, it's almost an unfair game: "He's only showing half of his body! How was I supposed to find that?!" Or the feeling of defeat when you thought you saw him, but it was just a little girl in a ski lodge: "She has a red-and-white stripped scarf."

The more I thought about Waldo and his mind-games, the more I thought about the Single Gal's very own "Where's Waldo?" game playing in her life. Where is he? HIM. The One. Standing next to the hot dog stand? On the ferris wheel? Are we really required to turn pages and pages of locations, trying to find this one guy with horrible fashion sense and a ridiculous hat?

There are women out there who will stop at nothing to find their husband. They will date until the sun goes down...hoping that when they wake up, Mr. Right-Now will still be in bed. Sometimes they will marry the first bozo who comes along. Sure, most of the time it's true love, but some of the time it's truly pathetic. But I don't blame them. How else are we supposed to play the cards we've been dealt without any clues or any lifelines to use? We get one shot. One life where we spend most of the beginning of it trying to find a mate. Now, I'm thinking about March of the Penguins. But I've got to give those little guys some credit; ALL of them are black and white. Their Waldo could be any of them.

As a young woman of 24, who has been in the game/watched the game/thrown lampshades at the game, I feel like it's time for a Game Changer. It's time for someone to step up to the plate, or step into the arena, or step onto the court with different rules in her hands. What if finding Waldo isn't the top prize anymore? What if you do something else? Something that will lead Waldo to you? Something that will make Waldo leap out from behind the concrete statue, or from behind the water fountain, or run out of the cafe at the train station. Something bold, something brave, something, dare I say, very few, if any, women do: TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. You. You. You. One single rule. Instead of pining over this lost man, you'll go swim in the ocean...maybe butt-naked because it's on your bucket list. Or ride that scary rollercoaster with your best friends. Or sit and have a picnic in the park with your niece. You'll let other "Where's Waldo?" players delve deeper in despair because he's is no where in sight. But you don't have to worry. You have your rule. The one rule in life's game that you're sure to win, because, hey, how can Waldo resist irresistible YOU?

Women of the 21st Century: The Extraordinarily Ordinary Woman, The Attractive Nerd, The 35-Year Old Fiancee

Our female society has reached new heights! We have created larger and more beautiful mountains to climb! And move! Many before us have envied the females who can bring a king to his knees with just the flick of her wrist. So long are the days of the stereotypical cheerleader who rules the schools -- or the days of Mediocre Molly waiting around for her day in the sun -- or the days pining over lost loves and hoping our Prince Charming will come save us from a broken heart. I do declare: Goodbye girls of the 20th century and make room for the women of the future:

The Extraordinarily Ordinary Woman - Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge
All right, so maybe it was only the female population that cared about the Royal Wedding, but it has to be said, it is truly a fairytale story. The story of a typical upper-middle-class, History of Art major from Berkshire, England who captured the heart of the most eligible bachelor in Britain. Oh wait...THE WORLD. None of us really know what truly happened but watching those E! Behind the Relationship segments and Hallmark original movies tells us that Kate was simply herself. She was seemingly just like every one of her classmates but somehow Prince William found something special in her. As did the rest of the world. It's rare to see a woman who takes on responsibilities far beyond her control and yet still carry herself with grace and beauty. She is the world's illlustration of the statement "be true to yourself and follow your heart." She has no specific talents (she doesn't sing, dance, or juggle ceramic plates) but she has the incredible ability to be her ordinary self. And that's just extraordinary.

The Attractive Nerd - Rachel Sterne, Chief Digital Officer of New York
Voted one of the most influential women in technology in 2011, Rachel Sterne has earned every accolade from innovator to brainiac. All the articles about this 28-year old tech-goddess discusses her accomplishments like founding a citizen journalism site with only a bachelor's degree in History and French. Even without a Master's degree she teaches at the prestigious Columbia Business School in addition to her duties to the government as the City's first Chief Digital Offer. Yoqzers. This girl is on fire. One article matches her beauty with her brains and names her the "hot" new CDO. Who would have thought that the word "attractive" and "nerd" could be used to describe a woman? Education, brains, street sense have all become more and more attractive on the modern woman. Being intelligent, being well-versed, accomplishing goals -- all of these things are no longer setbacks but credentials to being a successful and worldly woman. We can thank Sterne for giving us faith that Hermione Granger may exist after all.

The 35-Year Old Fiancee - Keisha Smith, Mentor
One of the mentors in my life I met through a part-time job working at a nonprofit organization. I learned an incredible work ethic as well as lessons in love and in life. One of my favorite piece of advice from Keisha is: Find someone who is ambitious, goal-getting, and genuinely happy for other people when they succeed. Keisha has been engaged to her fiance for almost five years now. It's not because they are scared but both look at marriage as a huge journey to embark and want to be fully prepared for it. In this day and age, when most of my peers are looking to settle, getting settled, or already settled in their marital nest, it's refreshing to hear perspectives like Keisha's. To her, being someone's wife is a new identity that she wants to take time to understand and fully be when the time comes for her to walk down the aisle. She looks at marriage as something with precious intricacies that deserves her attention. This realization didn't make her love her fiance more or less, it gives her a sense of who she will be as a wife, and as his wife. Despite popular belief, the statistics are right, and women are becoming more and more aware of their role in marriage.

This post isn't about women overcoming obstacles for their right to vote or beign so harshly oppressed that they need to burn bras and not shave. This is about the new definition of "female" and the new meaning behind "the modern woman." The women of the future has only one concern and that is to be her fabulous self.

200-Pound Dumbbells

Picture this: the guy you're dating doesn't call you over the holidays, like he said he would. In most instances, this wouldn't be a big deal. If only this wasn't most instances - and if only this wasn't the 10th time he decided not to keep a promise. No matter what, a man should at least be as good as his word. 

Picture this: you're moving on with your life. You've found your own goals. You are unstoppable! Nothing is too big or too high to reach! There is some peace of mind in your heart and your swear you hear Natalie Cole's "(This Will Be) An Everlasting Love" play with every step you take.

Picture this: a mutual friend calls to see what's up:


"Have you heard from [The Guy You Were Dating]?"
All right time for the big guns.
"No, I haven't. But you know what, I'm okay. I don't need someone right now. I think somewhere deep down I knew that this was coming."
There you go. Good job.
"If someone doesn't want to make room for me in his life, why should I be sad about that?"
Bring on the positivity! Keep 'em coming!
"If he broke his promise about this, then he's bound to break his promise for other bigger, important things."
Take that, broken heart.
"Wait. He was supposed to call over Christmas break? The first week of January?"
Yea...?
"You know that he was in a ski accident, right? Over New Year's. That's probably why he couldn't call."

[pregnant pause]


"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you."


Who cares if you didn't tell me or not! For weeks I'm picturing this Godzilla that holds no remorse for the girl who's heart he chewed up and spit out onto the curb. All right maybe that's a little dramatic. Now, what am I doing? I might as well be kicking a sick puppy.


"He has to go to rehab. He only has one functioning arm. It's taking him twice as long to do things."
Good. I hope it takes him FIVE times as long to do things. I don't care if he's suffering or in pain. He didn't even call to tell me. I hope he can't get his one-handed jackhammer to work on his Pee Wee Herman either.


(And in the true hormonal fashion) Picture this: crying on the phone with my best friend not knowing why I'm so upset.


"I feel like such a jerk for thinking he was this monster. He's practically bed-ridden."
Okay that was dramatic too.
"Why am I crying? Why do I even care?"
You were so over him.


In between sobs and gasps of air, I was able to make out what my best friend so poignantly put into words: "Because you're alive. You're human. You have feelings. Don't feel guilty for thinking he was a jerk. How were you to know? You're crying not only because he got hurt and you care about him, but because he didn't think you were a person that could help him through this."


Isn't that what really hurts us as women? At the root of our personalities is the innate ability to be maternal, (paired with that secret female intuition that we can't even explain.) When someone says they don't need us in their time of need, it almost rips us to shreads. Emotionally, mentally...even physically! Think of your (future) five-year old son who lets go of your hand to join his new classmates on the first day of kindergarten. Or imagine waving to your parents as you enter the airport about to embark on your first college semester abroad. It hurts. But in a way, it hurts so good. Maybe this was his way of saying to let go. Let go because there's some thing (and some one) better out there waiting for me. Letting go doesn't kill you after all. And what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Oh

Home changes as often as the strangers on the street.
(but then again each one becomes a friend once we meet.)
I kept coming back thinking I left something behind,
only to notice that I lost nothing the whole time.
That last walk along the brick streamed a whole movie in our heads.
We held each other's hands while the credits rolled at the end,
and I saw how this place made my heart grow up and wide.
And with each step towards the plane I said, "Thank you, Omaha. Goodbye."

Battle of Rock Springs Cafe

I have never taken a bullet, but I assume that falling for your best guy friend feels about the same. When it hit my chest, the tingles traveled all over my body and froze my smile as a way to prove that I was fine after such a surprising blow. The first shot rang out on one idle Friday night when he came into town to help his brother move into a new apartment. I thought we were going out for a friendly drink and late night pizza. Little did I know, my heart ordered a side of “should I have made a move?” I pondered the question as it brought me to the front of the battlefield; it was my very own Battle of Bunker Hill.

As he waved to the waiter for the check, I couldn’t help but notice how many times he twirled the chewed straw in his now empty Dr. Pepper cup. It was as if he was twirling his rifle in front of the dying casualty in front of him.

“Dessert?” I quickly asked, changing the subject in my mind.
Of course he doesn’t want dessert. He already asked for the check.
“Nah. Dessert’s not really my thing.”
“Not even pie?!”
You. Are a loser.

I thanked God that the dimmed lights in the pizzeria hid my blushing face. I forgot that not everyone shared my love of the flaky crust and fruit or cream-filled dessert.

“I mean, you’re right. We’ll wait. I’ll show you that great place tomorrow.”
“Sure. Whatever. Play you for the last slice?”
He held out his fist, ready for our usual game of "Rock/Paper/Scissors for the Last One." I ignored his recklessness with my heart and played along.

I lost.

That night, I buried my feelings and acted like I didn’t really want to bring him to my secret pie place – an hour outside of the city.

My eyes watched for the 65-mile speed limit as I waited for him to join in my awkward rendition of a Michael Jackson song. Suddenly, he opened his mouth.
“Okay, I’ve got to tell you about this dream I had last night.”
Was I in it?
“Yeah, sure go ahead.”
“So, I’m at a party on some cliff. It’s a clear day, perfect for swimming. There are drinks, all of my guy friends are there, some cute girls.”
Um, maybe I don’t want to hear about this.
“All of your guy friends, huh?”
“Yeah. We were jumping into the bay and everyone was chatting and having a good time. And then I see her.”
This little story is starting to sound a lot like a John Hughes movie. It better end with you bringing me a birthday cake with sixteen candles.
“You see ‘her’?”
“Yes. This girl. She is talking to everyone and everyone is talking to her. I’m completely drawn to her, like I want to tell her the truth about my feelings.”
Oh, God this is it. Ring the bell, the British are coming!
“Well, do you?”
“The thing is that every time I try to, she disappears or gets pulled away or distracted so I can’t tell her.”
For God’s sake, who is she?!
“Who is she? Do you know her?”
“No, I have no idea. But then something else happens.”
I know! She turns around and it’s me, right?!
“The suspense is killing me.”
“I make a jump off the cliff, almost hitting a bed of rocks at the bottom. It nearly kills me! I’m talking near-death experience. All of my friends help me out and when I reach the top, I see her again. I am determined to tell her how I feel, but when I finally get to her and I’m about to tell her - like the words are coming out of my mouth - I wake up.”

BAM!

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.“You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m not. I just don’t know what it means.”

Suddenly, I’m very aware of the time my brother-in-law brought me to the shooting range as a graduation present. He wanted to show me how to load a gun and how to shoot it correctly, always aiming for a little above your bullseye. I looked down at the circle design of his tee-shirt. The center was just two inches below his chest.

What it means?! Well, that’s easy. Yes, that girl is me. Not “I wish it were me,” it actually is! You see, just because I have come in and out of your life for three years, it does not mean that I can be thrown into the heap of random girls! The odds of you having this dream when you were visiting your friend over the summer are pretty slim. This dream is telling you, “Hey! You might actually have feelings for her. Yes, the girl in front of you! Put down your fork and kiss her, you idiot!”

He looked away and admired the country air the café oddly captured: tables and booths made of oak wood, animal heads hanging from the walls, pictures of old patrons next to Sandra, the first owner.

“This place is pretty cool. Play you for the last bite?” He held his fist to his palm to challenge me.
"The last bite?"
That was it. I loaded my rifle.

One. Two. Three. Shoot.
“All right!” He cut my flat hand with his fingers.
“Best out of three?”
“Fine.”
One. Two. Three. Shoot.
“Rock will smash your scissors.” I popped my fist on his fingers.
One. Two. Three.
“Shoot!”
I picked up my fork and scooped the last bite of pie into my mouth. He was crazy to think that he was going to get my heart and my chocolate cream.

The devil, Angel

“Thou shalt not lie. Especially you, Kimberly Stein.” I haven’t seen the sacred stone Decalogue in person, but my guess is that God added that footnote, circa 1995, once he saw how I started to live my life. I am generally a truthful person. I’ll always tell you when you’re being nice, if you look pretty, if you look like a fool dancing, or if I think you should get rid of those Coach shoes that make you look like you have your head up your ass. I’ll tell you all those things.

However, there are those things that should never be told. Lies must be taken in their place as a matter of survival. And as I sat in that passenger’s seat, completely lying to myself to survive the heartbreak of him not saying it back, I couldn’t help but remember the last time I felt the pains of guilt after a lie.

I was seven and she was Angel. Even with my young mind and my sarcasm still developing, I knew that this was a heavily ironic coincidence. The girl who prided herself as being the principal’s Third Eye is named Angel? The girl who tattled during recess time is named Angel? The girl who spit on my perfectly cleaned tree stump house is named Angel?! I knew better than that. Even in first grade.

It was raining that afternoon. I was standing with Jonathan, someone I thought of as a friend. Watching her walk away from the principal’s office – for the fifth time that lunch recess – was the last straw.

“She is the biggest brat in the entire world! Why would anyone want to be her friend?”
That’s right. I said it.

Little did I know, Jonathan decided to say it, too…To her…Some friend.

Coming in from recess into our daily Cool Down session, Mrs. Manos pulled me aside.

“Kimberly. Can I see you outside please?”
Outside? I never get sent outside. Outside is for hair pullers and foot trippers. And nose pickers.
“Okay.”

Angel pretended to rest her head on her desk when I passed. I could’ve sworn I heard her hiss.

Mrs. Manos leaned towards my innocent face and asked me the question:
“Did you call Angel a ‘brat’ today at recess?”
Well, many times, but at today’s recess?
I thought for a good minute before I answered with a response that would haunt me until my early 20s.
“No.”
I did. And I meant it.
“Are you sure?”
What’s with the third degree?
“I did not call her a ‘brat’.”
“I think you’re lying to me.”
What the heck, lady?
“You’re not supposed to lie. You know that.”
“I know.”
Oh God. Here come the tears.
“I want you to sit on the bench during afternoon break.”
“Okay.”I can do that.
“But first I want you to go inside and apologize to Angel.”
WHAT?!?!

Through the dimness of our classroom, I begrudgingly walked up to Angel’s desk, passing the group of goldfish swimming freely in their five-inch deep bowl. Lucky bastards. I quickly spouted a “sorry” before running to my own desk to cover my face with humiliation. My best friend, Kristen patted my back as I sobbed uncontrollably in the back of the room. Kids would look back as I heaved oxygen into my mouth through the wails of sorrow. Snot dripped to the top of my plaid jumper but I buried my face even deeper into my sleeve. I peeked above my arm to catch a glimpse of Angel in peaceful contentment as “Puff the Magic Dragon” played for the second time.

Bitch.

Looking back on it now, that devil Angel gave me a gift that day. A sleeve soaked in my own nasal mucus, as well as the mortal sin of lying. I never really lied before that and after experiencing the shame of being tagged a Liar for the rest of my short first grade career, I couldn’t bear to do it again. Too strong was the vision of me sitting on a bench, coloring inside the lines as I heard others sing, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” It killed me -- but she helped me speak the truth.

That is, until this moment - the moment when I had no other choice but to tell a lie that deep down I knew I couldn’t pin on anyone, not even her. On that Wednesday afternoon, I sat there as he offered a sympathetic laugh in response to the lame-ass joke about balloon animals I heard my little brother recite.

“Where is that from? A popsicle stick?”
“No.”
Yes.“
I could teach you a thing or two about comedy.”
“Yea, sure.”
Please teach me things.

Slowly, my head made its way to the reflecting window and I lied straight to my face:
You don’t love him.
If Angel were here now, she would, without hesitation, tattle to Mrs. Manos about my inappropriate behavior. But I’m not afraid of some Third Eye. I’m not afraid of a chorus of children singing to me that I'm a liar. I’m 23-years old now and I’m not afraid to say I'm not at all in love with him. I’m going to lie my ass off, Angel, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Go puff some magic dragons.