A pat of encouragement

I find it funny that several uncomfortable things for women have been invented by men.  High heels, bras, the pap-smear test. Don’t get me wrong, I like a nice pair of heels, and for my boobs to not hang to my belly button, but sometimes I wish I could go without.  This feeling is strongest when the date for my annual pap sneaks up on me.

This, year it happened to be yesterday.

The experience is never one that I can say that I enjoy, but this time it was extra interesting to say the least.

First of all, I had to wait an hour and a half before they called my name and lured me back into an exam room.  Waiting is the worst. Not only do you have to sit with nothing to focus on but sticky magazines covered in who knows what, or a tv playing a promotional video (this time about gender identity), but you have to sit knowing that everyone there is thinking about vaginas. I tried to focus my thoughts on something productive, homework, what to make for dinner, what workout I’m going to do today, but my mind kept flipping back to those stainless steel salad tongs that were about to be shoved between my legs—and the pinch that would inevitably follow.

After about 30 minutes of waiting, a young woman (she looked about 20)walked in with her two young boys. This was fine by me. One of them actually had a cute giggle. Everything was going to be fine… that is until I remembered that I was waiting to pay a doctor to violate me and that in this instance nothing could really work out in my favor.

Apparently the woman checked all her parenting skills at the door. The two boys ran wild through the waiting room—screaming, pounding on the door that leads to the exam rooms, and swinging car keys. They boys hit two people in the waiting room with the keys, and screamed at the nurses working behind the counter. All the while, the mom sat two rows behind me and yelled “sit down and watch t.v.” My head was throbbing, and my patience was dwindling.

Still, I sat patiently with my legs crossed and tried to direct my attention to the buckle on my boot. This was fine, for about five minutes. Before I even had time to process what is happening, there was a nudge against my boot and a little voice growled “move!” One of the boys was under my chair, and wanted me to move my feet so that he could crawl the rest of the way through. Unacceptable. I leaned forward, looked at him with lips pursed, and said “no.”  Another punch to my boot, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I flung my heel back and gave the boy a little bop on the head with it. He cried. Mom yelled.

Thankfully, the nurse saved me by calling my name, but the hard part was yet to come.

I changed into the weird elastic gown—which is now like an oversized skirt in which you settle the elastic over your boobs—and agreed to let a male student join in for the exam. In the name of education, why not.

The man was young, blonde, and had a sheepish smile. Something about the way he struggled to make eye-contact made me smile. He was just as nervous about the salad tongs as I was. He started with the breast exam, working his fingers in the appropriate circular motion, and concentrating. I watched as he eyes widened as he examined a mole. This was fine, the mole does need looked at. He inquired about said mole, and when I agreed to get it looked at, I thought it was over. I was wrong.  He kept his eyes wide,  and leaned down so that his face was practically in my chest, and poked at the mole. Awkward.  At this point I was almost begging for the salad tongs, almost. He was learning, I couldn’t be mad, but I could laugh, and I did.  His face turned pink and avoided eye contact completely.

And it gets better.

Let the salad tongs, pinching, poking, swabbing, and prodding commence.

Ok, done. It wasn’t too bad. Awkward as usual, but not too bad.

I had survived. I would soon be able to drag my legs out of the stir-ups, put on my underwear, and get the heck out of there. Before I could do that, he rolled his chair back stood slowly, reached back, and gave my legs a simultaneous slap. 

I was free to  close my legs and go.

3 hours later I left with a so-far clean bill of health, a packet of pills, a new respect for the way my mother parented me, and pat on the…legs?

Until next year…

Old enough to know better, but too young to care… or too young to pass, and old enough to care

Old enough to know better, but too young to care… or too young to pass, and old enough to care

Lately I have realized that I am stuck in the awkward period where I am supposed to transition from a care-free young person into an adult. I am supposed to grow up, society says so, whether I like it or not. Personally, this process of ‘growing up’ has been going on for quite some time.

I have worked consistently since I was 16. While in college I have worked, and now that I am in grad school, I work full time.  My bills, my wants, my car, everything is my responsibility—and I prefer it that way.

I work hard. I am more than qualified to do my job, and as my boss, co-workers, and managers have expressed, I do it well.  Still, despite this fact, I am treated in a different manor by customers and coworkers alike.

You see, I am a receptionist/cashier/assistant sales administrator at a car dealership. Interesting title, I know. In my role as the receptionist, I constantly get treated differently by customers.

This is what usually happens: A customer walks in the front doors. I greet them with a cheerful “hello!” Many customers will turn to me and smile in response, some will even say hi back, but most of the time they look at me, then wander over to my coworker’s desk and stand there. At this point, I engage them again saying, “Can I help you?”  The response to this baffles me.  On several occasions I have been blown off by the customer completely. Either they don’t acknowledge that I spoke to them, or they will again just give me a smile. These reactions are irritating, but not even the worst. The WORST response is when people turn to me and say “No.”  You are probably wondering why that is so bad. Well, it’s bad because after they tell me that they do not need any assistance, they proceed to stand at my coworker’s desk and wait for her to ask-- as it turns out, they do need help, they just dont want it from me.

Why won’t these people let me help them? It IS my job after all.

With all these frustrations going on at work, I remain hopeful as I look for another job. (Not because of this, but because I am moving) Unfortunately, I have run into some issues when applying for jobs and meeting for interviews.

I have had several interviews, and at almost every single one I have had a comment related to how ‘young’ I am made by the potential employer.  One asked me if I planned to have children, ya know, because I’m at that age where most start having their first one. Not only was I a little insulted by the question, but I am pretty sure that question isn’t exactly legal. When I said ‘no, not for a long time.’ He raised his eyebrows and gave me a judging look. Then he proceeded to tell me about how they provide service for the entire family. Crap, guess I blew that one.

The second happened when I was asked the all time favorite ‘where do you see yourself in five years?’  My answer was a good one. The job I was interviewing for actually coincided to future plans.  After some talk with some of the other people interviewing me (it was a panel of 5), one of the interviewers looked at me and said ‘plans can change in college. I thought I was going to be a _____ but here I am doing ____!’ I reassured him that I was set on my choice, but the look on his face was full of doubt.

I find it harder and harder to step it up as an adult when people keep pushing me down. Society wants me to grow up, but employers, customers, even coworkers still see me as someone too young—regardless of my qualifications, education, or professionalism. Instead, they judge me on my age, appearance, and possibly my love for polka dots.

I wish I could scream my frustrations at the top of my lungs. Yes, I do love high heels, polka dots, cupcakes, and young adult fads, but I am also well educated, a quick learner, qualified, sincere, and professional.

I am youthful, and proud. Why must I be penalized for it?

Ahh, the troubles and triumphs of the mid twenty-somethings

Not forever, Just Always

This weekend, I cleaned my purse. This is always a daunting task. For some reason, my purse seems to acquire more and more each and every day. Pointless items, mostly. Old receipts, chewing gum, pennies, chap stick, paperclips, fortune cookie wrappers, tweezers, coupons, post- it notes scribbled with old lists and reminders. I tote all of these things around with me every single day. I hold them, bottled up under my arm and close to my heart.

As I dumped the contents of my purse onto my bed and fingered through the heap of pointlessness, I questioned the meaning of all of it. Why is it that I can let go of some things, but others stay with me (until the annual purse cleaning, anyway)?

The old receipts were stacked, torn, and thrown away. Pennies were deposited into my purple, plastic, crayon bank, and the load lightened. As I flattened the fortune cookie wrappers out on the floor and read the sayings I came across a fortune I had made myself.

On a strip of white paper, and inked in purple pen I had written the words: "Not forever, Just always".

This saying is one that I came up with when I was in high school. Sad, betrayed, friendless, and hurting, I came up with motto to keep myself from breaking down. I would never let myself become defeated.  Somehow I knew that I was going through my struggles for a purpose. There is always a reason. I had to believe that.

I wasn't defeated. I did make it through, and I continue to make it each and every day. One of my best weapons is the lessons I've learned along the way-- which is what my motto is all about.

We carry the pains, experiences, lessons, victories, and triumphs of our past with us always, but they will not be our forever.  There is always a future, no matter where we find ourselves in the present. That moment in high school was tough for me. I felt awful most of the time, but I am glad that I was put through all of that pain. I will carry that time with me always (to remind myself that I can persevere), but it will not be my 'forever'.

Don't throw away the bad times, utilize them. Take advantage of them. Carry them always, for they will not be your forever.

The other fortune cookie wrappers were added to a collection that I keep in a drawer (guilty pleasure), but not this one. Instead, I smoothed it out, folded it in half, and tucked it into the pocket of my purse.  That is where it sits today. Bottled up under my arm and close to my heart, reminding me that today is not forever, just always.