Do you believe that?
I don’t.
On the contrary, I know a plethora of eager women who wish they didn’t have to wear a bra at all.
I also know a plethora of eager women who take their bra off the moment they hit the house.
Plus I know a plethora of eager women who skip the bra if they’re wearing a sweatshirt, sweater, or down vest.
Finally, I know a plethora of eager women who would never use the word plethora in a sentence.
Okay, maybe I’m talking about myself.
Frankly, I don’t want “in on the action” if the action means a bra that will tell the tristate area I’m pigging out.
However, I want “in on the action” if the action means Bradley Cooper.
And nobody needs a smart bra to monitor what would happen to my heart if Bradley Cooper were around.
By the way, researchers are not currently developing a pair of smart tighty-whities for men.
That’s too bad because I have a name for it.
SmartBalls.
But maybe men don’t need underwear with a sensor that detects their emotional changes.
They already have such a sensor.
In fact, they were born with it.
Too bad it doesn’t make any noise.
Like, woohooo!
The Off Switch
Lisa
Do you remember a commercial that used to say, “Reach out and touch someone?”
If you do, you may also recall that the product they were advertising was a telephone.
Because back in the day, people needed to be encouraged to use the phone.
Let’s pause for a moment of silence.
Not necessarily to mourn, but to consider how times have changed.
Because these days, you have to encourage people not to use the telephone. In fact, you have to beg them not to use the phone. You have to put up signs in hallways so that they won’t use the phone, and you have to designate special railroad cars so they won’t use the phone, and you have to pass laws so they won’t use the phone while they’re driving, because everybody uses the phone all the time, twenty-four/seven, nonstop.
In other words, we’re reaching out.
But we’re not touching anybody.
We’re too busy on the phone.
We have priorities.
We’re also watching TV all the time.
Do you remember when you used to have to wait a week for your favorite show to come on? The commercials called it “appointment television” and they encouraged you to “make an appointment” with your television to see your show.
Between you and me, it wasn’t that hard an appointment to get.
Try and see my gynecologist.
Next year.
But to stay on point, somewhere along the line, the appointment book got thrown out the window. And we started watching TV all the time, one show after the other, all the time, twenty-four/seven, nonstop.
I do it, too.
Last night, I was watching a new television show, and as soon as it finished, a commercial came on saying that I could get the second episode right away.
But it was already midnight, and I should have been asleep by eleven.
I pressed the ON button and started watching.
I watched the whole entire second episode, half-asleep and half-awake, so that not only am I tired today, I didn’t even see the stupid show.
I cannot be trusted with a TV in my room.
I’ve done the same thing when I watch shows on Netflix, where you don’t even have to press the ON button to watch the next episode, thus eliminating that single volitional act, that tiny moment when you have a choice about watching another episode or returning to your life.
Nah.
Plus I have been known to combine these nonstop activities, and undoubtedly so have many of you, so that you can be watching your 303rd episode of The Whatever Show, while you’re texting nonstop on the phone or cruising Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter nonstop.
When was the last time you were on the phone with somebody and you suspected they were scrolling through their phone during the conversation?
Or:
When was the last time you were barely listening to somebody while you were on the phone with them, because you were scrolling through your phone during the conversation?
Okay, guilty.
On both counts.
Anyway, it’s very clear what the problem is here.
It’s not our fault.
It’s never our fault.
You could’ve guessed I would say that, if you have read me before.
I never blame me, or you.
This is a place where you can come and I will reliably tell you how to solve problems in your life without changing anything you do.
Leave the diets and exercise to everyone else.
This is the true judgment-free zone, and all that we need is an OFF switch.
That’s the solution, right there.
If the television manufacturers would start making televisions with a big red OFF switch right in front, we would have a fighting chance.
It’s their fault.
In fact, the other day, I couldn’t find my remote, so I went to the television to turn it off and I couldn’t even find the OFF switch. I spent fifteen minutes looking for the OFF switch on the front of the TV, then ran my fingers along its sides, feeling up my TV.
The TV enjoyed every minute.
This is what I’m telling you, it’s TV manufacturers conspiring with TVs to get felt up.
With the phones, it’s easy to turn off the phone, but that’s part of the conspiracy.
Here’s how it works:
The phone turns itself off, in that the calls “drop” all the time.
And what happens every time a phone call drops?
We become frenzied and call back instantly.
You could’ve been ending a phone conversation with somebody, but if the call gets dropped, you’re going to call back instantly and spend even more time on the phone.
See, another conspiracy!
More shenanigans with the OFF switch.
Sometimes they don’t give us one, and sometimes they work in mysterious ways.
It’s just not our fault.
Becoming Thirty
Francesca
I’m writing this on my thirtieth birthday.
Thirty is a “milestone” birthday, but it’s a confusing one, because it looks so different for different people. I have friends who are newly engaged and friends who are recently divorced, friends with kids heading to preschool and friends just entering grad school. We all made very different choices in the last decade.
I was talking about this to my best friend, a woman I’ve known since we were ten, and she made a good point: for most of our childhoods and our young adult lives, we hit every milestone in stride with our peers. We all learned to parallel-park, badly, around sixteen. We took turns holding each other’s hair back at twenty-one. We threw our caps in the air the year after.
The sameness was reassuring. No one had to go out on a limb to grow up. It just happened to us, together.
But after college, the choose-your-own-adventure stage of life begins.
People talk about your twenties like they’re a wash, a lost decade of struggle and irresponsible fun, a time capsule for future nostalgia and regret and little else.
When I blow out my candles for thirty tonight, I won’t be making wishes. I’ll be making plans.
I did not find this to be true.
My twenties were a decade of decisions. After years of tracked steps to choreographed achievements, I emerged from college stunned by the terror and wonder of choice.
And it did start as terror. I was initially drawn to people and pathways that would make my decisions for me; a part of me wanted to be funneled into my future. Every choice seemed like an opportunity to make a mistake.
But then I just started making them, both choices and m
istakes. You can’t hide from decision-making forever. That life demands action is its saving grace.
So I decided where I wanted to live, what city, and what apartment. Then where I wanted to move when I couldn’t live in that first place another month.
I decided what I wanted to do to make money, choosing which dream to make a professional reality and which to keep just for myself. Then I had to decide how to manage that money, what needs and treats to spend it on, and what new dreams to save up for.
I decided which friends were best for sharing drinks with and which were worthy of sharing secrets. I decided which friends would become family.
I decided which men to give my number and which ones to give my heart.
I can’t say I decided whom to fall in love with, that part remains uncontrollable and magic.
But I did decide what to do after I fell in love, how to treat the men I loved so that they felt it in their bones, and how to treat them when the love wasn’t enough to keep us together.
And with years of practice, I got comfortable with the business of making choices. I learned to value my own judgment as much if not more than someone else’s. Of course it’s important to be open to outside perspectives, but I don’t think that’s most young women’s problem. We learn early how to view ourselves and our choices through other people’s eyes.
In my twenties, I unlearned how to please everyone. I made peace with disagreement. I didn’t always know for sure that I was right, but I decided to trust myself anyway.
So it was far from some careless period—I took all of these decisions seriously. Even when I made them badly, it wasn’t for lack of trying. And when I got it really right or really wrong, I took note, all the while improving my personal algorithm for happiness, compassion, and success. I was building my own life’s parameters for the first time.
My twenties were filled with the heavy work of deciding the person I want to be.
My thirties will be for becoming her.
This is not to say the choices are over. I still have plenty of big ones, maybe the biggest, left to make. But I have a decade of trial and error behind me to help me decide. Now this new, wide-open decade doesn’t feel so scary, it feels exciting. I know who I am, I know where I’m going, I’m ready.
So when I blow out my candles for thirty tonight, I won’t be making wishes.
I’ll be making plans.
Mother Mary and the Eyebrow
Lisa
Let me tell you something about Mother Mary, my late mother who is nevertheless with us in spirit, her feistiness in our hearts and her voice in our ears.
Probably like your mother’s voice, except after two packs of More 100s a day.
The fact is, as feisty as Mother Mary was, she never yelled.
That may surprise you, but it’s true.
My mother ruled our house and she never once raised her voice.
It was Teddy Roosevelt who said, speak softly and carry a big stick, and I’m betting he knew my mother.
She spoke softly and carried a wooden spoon.
Her spoon was like a scepter, only used for stirring gravy.
Instead of yelling, she had a series of Meaningful Facial Expressions that conveyed her will.
Chief among these was The Eyebrow.
Mother Mary used to lift, arch, and flex her right eyebrow when she didn’t like something I was doing, though she used it only when necessary, like a handgun.
The Eyebrow was meant to convey:
Cut that out.
Put that down.
Don’t be fresh.
That’s not funny.
Mind your own business.
Don’t have so much to say.
Mother Mary also had a Major Glare that she could fire at me from the stove, which made it more potent than The Eyebrow, like a long-distance missile.
The Major Glare meant:
Don’t talk that way to your brother.
Don’t be so fresh.
Who are you kidding with that (action or comment)?
Where do you get off?
This last is impossible to translate. If you’re from South Philly, you get it immediately. If you’re not, please don’t sweat it. If you can’t figure it out, let it ride. No one is meant to know everything in the world.
To stay on point, the atomic bomb in Mother Mary’s arsenal was The Frown.
You prayed The Frown did not come your way.
They say Italians talk with their hands, but they’re wrong.
They talk with their faces.
The Frown was Mother Mary’s ultimate warning sign, and The Frown meant that she was going to Point Away, and if she Pointed Away, that meant that whatever you had done was so bad, you had to leave the room. She didn’t care where you went, only that it was Out.
In fact, if Mother Mary said anything when she Pointed Away, it was, “Get out of my sight.”
Spoken, not yelled.
My mother was not alone in believing that quiet can be more powerful than noise. The Godfather rarely spoke a whisper through three movies, except when he got to Johnny Fontane, who would try anybody’s patience.
Really.
What a whiner.
Act like a man.
I bet your mother had an array of meaningful expressions, scary frowns, and lifted eyebrows, and they would come in handy in this election season.
Because every candidate is yelling.
Now listen, I’m no Pollyanna.
I know that people get angry and I’m generally a fan of emotion. And to be real, it makes great television. A debate where everybody is yelling at each other is totally fun to watch.
Until you realize that’s how we choose a president.
In a country we love.
Nobody in the debates is listening to each other because they’re too busy yelling. And they don’t listen to the question, either. They just wait until the question is over and take it as their signal to start yelling. Then other candidates on the stage interrupt them and start yelling. Nobody listens to anybody else and nobody answers the question, and when it’s over, the surrogates say it was a great debate.
The problem with yelling is that it’s the same thing as bullying.
And it seems like every week there’s a new debate, where we can watch candidates bully each other. And then we start to talk to each other about our views, and our voices get louder, and we start bullying each other.
It’s not our fault, it’s theirs.
But maybe we can stop it.
Because the last thing we want to do is act like politicians.
By the way, this is the week when we lost Antonin Scalia, who may have been the most conservative Supreme Court Justice ever, and his best friend was Ruth Bader Ginsberg, who may be the most liberal Supreme Court Justice ever.
They adored each other, though their views were very different.
The Happy Eyebrows!
It’s not coincidental that neither of these people was the type to raise their voice. I have seen arguments before the Supreme Court, and although Justice Scalia’s questions were pointed, he did not yell. I also heard Justice Ginsberg ask questions from the bench, and you could barely hear her.
Don’t think this is because they’re judges, because I’ve seen and heard judges yelling in court.
At me.
So what I’m saying is that true power lies in a soft voice and a listening ear.
It’s okay to disagree with someone.
It’s not okay to yell at them, bully them, or call them names.
And it’s not okay to rejoice in anybody’s death, nor is it okay to exploit that death for political gain.
I know that because I was raised right.
By The Eyebrow.
Moo
Lisa
Thank God.
Help is here.
I know, you’ve been worried.
You thought the world was going to hell in a handbasket.
You thought nobody cared about
the serious problems we face, women in particular.
But you needn’t have worried.
Because now there is a neck and chest cream.
Thank God, right?
I saw the commercial on TV a few minutes ago, and I was like, they are talking to me.
Specifically, my dry neck.
Which the ad called “crepey.”
Like Death.
You would think we’d met!
And don’t forget about my desiccated chest.
You know what’s shriveling there.
The ad was too polite to say so, but I’m not.
Prune City, on both sides.
Okay, I’m exaggerating.
Raisin City.
In truth, Bilateral Raisins.
Apparently my body parts are withering away.
There are deserts with more moisture.
I did some research online and found an article that called neck-and-chest creams “décolleté creams.”
Very classy.
Décolleté is French for boobs.
You can tell by the accents.
They have a French accent.
The article said, “We canvassed the market for neck and décolleté creams and found over forty products.”
Forty!
Are there forty types of drugs to fight breast cancer?
Uh, no.
How about ovarian cancer?
Nope.
Are there forty types of birth-control pills?
No.
Are there even forty women CEOs in the entire country?
Sowwy.
Thank God there are forty types of boob cream.
News flash:
I don’t care if my neck and my boobs age.
At least not enough to start slathering cream all over my neck and chest.
I mean, think about this.
We’ve gotten used to the idea that cosmetic companies sell women moisturizers for their face.
But evidently, the companies didn’t make enough money.
So they started selling us neck creams.
But they still didn’t make enough money.
So they went down to the chest.
Will they stop there?
What do you think?
Remember, before you answer, that this is a capitalist country.
Still.
So of course, they won’t stop there.
Your dry belly is their profit center.
And don’t make me go further south.
I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere but the Pool Page 3