A Rant On Entitlement

A few nights ago, Grover and I stopped at IHOP on our way home from the airport. It was after midnight, so the restaurant was almost empty. Still, there were four people in a booth near ours; I can’t imagine they were out of high school. Here’s an excerpt of what I heard one of them say on our way in:
“No, I don’t want to do that because I don’t want people calling me a thot and then they’ll be calling you a thot and I just don’t want to be putting up with that shit.”
For those of you who don’t know, “thot” is the new hip word for “slut.” What a promising beginning.

I noticed that our waitress was unusually preoccupied with this particular table. The young woman whom I had overheard was agitated. An almost constant stream of “excuse me” and “waitress” was punctuated by finger snaps and eye rolls. Here’s what I heard next…
Customer: Where are my eggs?
Waitress: I’m sorry; I thought you said you didn’t want them. I would be happy to–
C: No, I said I won’t be paying for this, but I want you to bring me some more.
W: I’m very sorry, but–
C: You know what? Get me your manager.
So the poor waitress did. I saw her recount the story with hesitant gestures and glances over her shoulder. The manager was a young man, not much older than myself. The customer claimed that there was a hair in her food, and, “We wouldn’t be having this issue if your girls in the back had proper hair protection.” The clumsy accusation was greeted by giggling which interrupted the manager’s kind offer to replace the food, despite the girl’s insistence that the entire meal should be free.

A few minutes later, the waitress reappeared with a plate of steaming hot eggs–which the customer proceeded to refuse.
“No, no–you know what? I thought I wanted them, but now I’m not sure. I’m scared–I’m afraid to eat them. What if there’s something wrong with these ones too? I just–how about you give me these things for free, and we can call it even?”
The waitress was visibly upset now, and had to fetch the manager again. He rolled his eyes, taking the plate of now-lukewarm eggs, and strode over to the table. I’m not sure what exactly what was said, as I was paying my own bill at the time. However, I did see the ungrateful child munching on eggs and laughing wildly as we left the restaurant.

Now. I have no problem with it if you want to return your food because they got your order wrong, or if there is something unsanitary about it. Most places will replace your meal without charging you in such cases. However, if you proceed to make a public scene or heckle the wait staff about it, this message is for you.

If you think that it is your right to get a free meal, think again. You are not entitled to special treatment, no matter how bad you think your meal was. It is never appropriate to treat a waiter who has done their best for you as abominably as that customer did. For starters, she was kind, courteous, and did her best to rectify the situation. And, point of order, she didn’t even make the food! Furthermore, the accusation against the sanitation of the back rooms was completely ludicrous, as it is safe to assume that the customer in question has never seen the kitchen of an IHOP, or any other restaurant. I hope that one day she (and anyone like her) will be made to work as a waitress, and that she will be heckled at one in the morning by a child as ungrateful as she was. This is just the kind of immature behavior that makes me wonder what her parents would say–if, indeed, she has parents at all! (Okay, maybe that was a bit extreme. I’m a bit fired up over here.) Look. What I’m saying is that we as a society seem to have lost our concept of appropriate public behavior in the sea of our own self-centeredness. We need to realize that the world does not revolve around us, and that we aren’t entitled to anything. We complain all the time about things that we can control or change, but we don’t make any effort to do any good in the world. We can’t even be bothered to be kind to each other–or even respectful. It’s disgusting and tiresome, and I very nearly gave the girl in the other booth a piece of my mind.

Some December Thoughts

So. You’ve probably figured out that NaNoWriMo was kind of a bust for me. It was, in no small degree, difficult to write a story that was already half-conceived on a busted computer that I hadn’t backed up. The computer is fixed now, and I’ve learned my lesson about hard drive backups–and typing on the iPad. Ugh. Worst ever. We are definitely going to buy a keyboard for that thing.

I did write a bit in the month of November, though not nearly as much as I had planned. But that’s okay. Sometimes, we need a period of germination, and I think November was one. I’ve got a new story that makes me tingle with the need to write it. Don’t expect any sneak peeks, though; this one is personal, intense, and I question its propriety. It lights my brain on fire, though–and that’s what matters.

Now, on to more holiday themed thoughts.

This year marks my first time celebrating all the major holidays without my family. I’ll be honest, it hasn’t been easy. Grover has been taking extra hours at the hospital, in addition to studying for his certification exam. Don’t get me wrong: he’s still been the most attentive husband on the planet, but I feel guilty for distracting him with my forced holiday silliness. I kept telling myself that I good wife would make him study for the entire week before his test; I, meanwhile, made him decorate ornaments and Christmas cookies with me. (Things are looking up though. He took his test yesterday and PASSED! No more studying!!!)

I’m torn, though. You only get one first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first anything as newlyweds. I want to make these things fun and memorable; I certainly don’t want to look back and say, “We didn’t engage in any holiday fun-time because Grover was really committed to things at work.” I don’t want him to look back with regret.

But that’s not all. I’m compensating. I know that I am. You see, I have these two wonderful parents and one wonderful brother and three lovely sisters and their husbands and four amazing nephews who live more than four hundred miles away and I just miss them terribly and sometimes it makes me so sad that I just break down and cry. And that’s not even including my thirty-plus hilarious cousins, ten hysterical aunts and uncles, and two grandparents who have been driving since the Model T Ford. My family is huge and colorful and pulsing with life–really: my grandfather is the most with-it ninety-three-year-old you’ve ever met, and my grandmother is not far behind. I know that life in New England didn’t stop just because I moved… but the ache almost makes me wish it could have. My cousins are decorating Christmas cookies, my nephews are doing crafts with the kids my sister nannies, and Chris freaking Evans did a free meet-and-greet in my hometown and I’m not there to be part of it.

The phrase “New England” brings my to my next point: the weather. You may recall my gripe about Virginia’s lack of a proper autumn; well. I’m beginning to think that Virginia’s seasons are broken, or at least malfunctioning. I realize that I’m not nearly as close to the tundra (Canada) as I used to be, but this isn’t exactly the Caribbean. What I’m saying is

Where is the snow?!

I used to joke that I had a mild form of seasonal depression. Now I’m beginning to wonder if it’s true. Because, while I have always felt that snow in September is a bit much, no snow two weeks before Christmas is just unbearable. Today’s forecast reads a current temperature of forty three, with a high of fifty seven. Fifty seven degrees. What is this? This is all wrong! This is like Pine Tree, Vermont in Irving Berlin’s White Christmas. Where are Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye staying? I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of them.

Okay, yes, I understand that this weather is probably considered “normal” for Virginia. But the world is grey and overcast. Without a sparkling layer of snow, there’s just no hope. I haven’t even seen frost yet. This isn’t even global warming. It’s just… sad; the kind of sadness that seeps into your skin, crawls inside your soul, and curls up inside your gut.

Which brings us circling back to my holiday activity compensation. I’m trying to create the giddiness of Christmas without family or snow. Sometimes it feels like mourning, but I have a good husband to hold me and a great Savior to strengthen me. Soon enough, it will be the New Year, and I’ll see my family again. There might even be snow.

On Vows

Hi, guys! This one has been in the works for MONTHS! I am not kidding. But here it finally is!

 

I really like How I Met Your Mother. It’s a fun, upbeat show about love and friendship, and about how relationships change over time. Overall, I thoroughly enjoy watching it–so don’t take the following criticism of one plot point as me hating on the show as a whole.

(Yes, this does contain spoilers. Deal with it.)

In the last season of the show, Barney is trying to write his wedding vows hours before his wedding. When Marshall and Lily offer to help him, calling themselves the “Wedding Vow Experts,” Barney exclaims, “Poppycock!” and proceeds to point out ways in which Marshall and Lily have broken every one of their vows (including, but not limited to, “I vow to keep the romantic spark alive”). Later, after being demolished by Barney, Marshall takes Lily to the sanctuary and tells her,

“Our wedding vows–maybe they were just too perfect for real life… [W]e’re different people than we were in 2007, but that’s okay. Maybe we just need some updated vows.”

They proceed to make more vows about not pointing out dog erections in the park and letting one another use the restroom in peace.

Romance, ladies and gentlemen.

Lily scoffs when Marshall says that he will keep at least eighty percent of the vows they’ve just made, to which Marshall replies,

“I vow to keep updating [these vows] as we go, because one set of vows can’t cover a lifetime of growing and changing with you, of raising children with you, and falling more and more in love with you every day, Lily Aldrin–which is what I vow to do for the rest of my life.”

Yes, yes, you’re allowed to sigh and say, “Aaaaw.” I did when I first saw it. It really does sound very sweet, doesn’t it?

But that’s what frightens me. The whole point of making a vow is that you’re making an eternal promise. There is no expiration date. The traditional wedding vows of loving, honoring, cherishing, and standing by one another in all circumstances don’t leave much room for interpretation; they’re binding “’til death do us part.” That’s what marriage is! It saddens and frightens me that we’ve lost that. Compare this with Sherlock’s “Last Vow,” or the vows that the Musketeers took in The Three Musketeers (I’m thinking of the 1993 film adaptation, but I’m sure this bit holds true to Dumas’ novel). Their vows are binding for life, even to the point of giving up that life.

I’m sorry, but COME ON! The opportunity was too good to pass up. (Photo: ASP 2014)

 

“Yes,” we say, “but those are heroes. Surely you cannot expect the same of someone as ordinary as me.” The difference between a hero and a coward is conviction and decisions. My father is a hero for standing by my mother when she had cancer, and they are both heroes for bringing their children through it unscathed–all because of a promise that they made in the seventies, to stand by one another for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, for better or worse.

Back when my dad looked like this!

Maybe if we took our wedding vows more seriously, we’d have fewer broken homes. Maybe.

Dress Codes and Purity Culture

Shout out to Emma Watson, for being classy, brilliant, and totally well-spoken. You do you, girl.

Allow me to begin by pointing out that the world has gone completely mad, and I’m not sure that anyone can stop it.

A Facebook friend of mine posted an article about how teachers in a certain state are being instructed to stop identifying their students by gender. I read it and, unimpressed, followed a sidebar link to a related article. I spiraled down the rabbit hole awhile before stumbling upon an article in which a teenaged girl stood up to her principal regarding matters of female dress (sidenote: I also saw a few articles on whywe should use the word “woman” and eradicate the word “female). The principal is reported as using phrases like “modest is hottest” and “boys will be boys.” The author pointed out the inherent contradiction in the former, pointing out that “purity culture” shames women into hiding their bodies, while teaching them that men are helpless predators (how’s that for a contradiction of terms?). I’d cite the article specifically, but I don’t need to. This kind of so-called “journalism” has so permeated our culture that I can barely go on social media without being assaulted by it.

I barely even know where to begin my response. Let’s ignore the bit where the principal allegedly excuses men from being responsible for their own sexuality. That conversation has been engaged ad nauseum, and I don’t feel the need to contribute to it. Instead, let’s explore that jab at “purity culture.”

Allow me to offend everyone equally, beginning with the proponents of abstinence. I agree with the author’s statement that modest is hottest contradicts itself. The adjective hot, in this context, has inherent sexual connotations. Modest, at its most basic, means not drawing attention to oneself–in this case, by not dressing scantily or ostentatiously. Maybe it’s meant to be ironic. I still never liked it.

I think I’m qualified to have that opinion: I went to Christian school for grades five through nine, and again for all four years of college. Why is this pertinent? Because phrases like that are thrown around a lot at Christian schools. (I’m actually vaguely impressed that a public school principal had the gall to.) That’s because, predictably, this so-called “purity culture” is born from Christianity. I am a Christian, and I waited until I got married to have sex; you can guess, then, that I am a proponent of abstinence–which is where I begin to offend the other half of the audience.

The problem that we encounter, then, is legalism. How do we make sure that everyone is respectful of each other’s sexuality, especially in educational settings? My Christian elementary school had a pretty strict dress code: polo shirts, Docker style dress pants, and athletic-wear for gym class that could be bought through the school. Certain colors were preferred; I once got a written warning for wearing a purple shirt.

Now. Did I, as a ten- to fourteen-year-old, occasionally resent these restrictions? Absolutely. Have I been psychologically or emotionally damaged by this experience? Not even slightly. I’m married now, and, while I may not always like my body, I’m not ashamed of it. I think there’s something to be said for dressing appropriately. Context is very important. When attending an interview, men and women alike are expected to dress professionally. I fail to see why institutions of learning should be any different. We should be allowed to express ourselves in how we dress, yes; but that doesn’t mean that we should be dressing provocatively or in a way that distracts from the goal of our environment.

That is where this “purity culture” falls short: forgetting about context. We’ve created a place in which young women cannot talk about sex. Sex is bad, dirty, gross, exploitative, and something that only men want. We forget to teach young women that they were created as sexual beings, and that sex is meant to be a gift. Even now, I’m uncomfortable talking about sex with other married women (Purps and my mother are exceptions). Girls and questions about their bodies and nowhere to go–which often leads, by my observation, to promiscuity. I’m told that boys and girls alike turn to masturbation at this juncture.

And let’s not forget about the young men. The claim that purity culture falls solely on women, excusing men as helpless, hormone-driven rapists, is totally ludicrous. Often, young men are told don’t want, don’t look, don’t touch, resulting in a self-image every bit as warped as the one that young women come up with. Young men feel as dirty and depraved as young women, so don’t give me that feminist victim-complex nonsense.

I do think that we’re beginning to turn a corner, though. Real Sex by Lauren F. Winner talks about healthy Christian sexuality. The Marriage Bed is a sex website for engaged and married Christians; it even features a section on “sex-positive wives.” We’re turning away from being a culture that fears sex, and becoming one that sees sex as good and valuable in its proper context–and not just procreative sex; recreational sex, too. We’re finally becoming empowered in our sexuality, and that’s healthy (in moderation).

Meanwhile, the broader culture is running the other direction, to the degree that we have lost sight of the importance of sexual purity. We say that sex is meant to bond two people who love each other, but doesn’t casual sex create more strangers than lovers? Modesty and purity are about more than protecting one another; they’re about honoring one another. Our society could do with a bit more honor.

Missing Autumn

My photography skills have only improved since I was a freshman in college–by which I mean that I take far fewer photos now than I did then.

I cannot shake the sneaking suspicion that winter is going to wallop me from behind; one day, I will wake up and the world will be cold, trapped in a blue-gray haze, and hidden under a sheen of frost. My suspicions come from a lack of autumn.

I do not know what the good people of Virginia call this season, but it is not autumn. The trees are still green, even though their leaves begin to litter the ground. The air is warm and inviting, not dry and crisp. I’m sitting on my balcony–sockless, in a tank top and yoga pants. There is not a jacket nor a scarf to be seen. I drank some sparkling pumpkin spice cider the other night and it tasted… wrong. There’s an unopen gallon of apple cider in the back of my fridge. An ice cream truck just passed my apartment!

October air should hold the promise of coming hibernation in its cool air and the brightly lit trees that show the last moment of nature’s wakefulness. It shouldn’t feel like summer has barely begun to die. What is this season? Surely it cannot be autumn.

I’m wishing for fall, you see, because–though the world is falling asleep–fall brings new beginnings, especially for children. New school year, new athletic rotation, new holiday celebrations; with these come new gifts, new friends, and new things to learn. New memories are made during autumn. Some of my favorite memories were made during autumn.

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My sisters and I used to go into the woods after school and pretend we were the Boxcar Children. New England’s boulders furnished us with boxcars and make-believe hideaways aplenty before the poison ivy and pressures of life took over. (We’d even imagined a makeshift refrigerator for pilfered milk in the cleft of a rock. No water kept it cool in reality, but we saw what could be.) One by one, the woods no longer captivated us. The rocks and trees lost their wonder. And the Boxcar Children, such as we were, have faded into memory.

My mother used to decorate the house for fall, though I don’t know if she has this year. I’m not talking about Halloween or Thanksgiving, although she has those too. My mother decked the house out in pumpkins and gourds, colored leaves and friendly scarecrows–and let’s not forget the fall-scented candles. I used to walk home from the bus stop, shuffling my feet through fallen leaves whose colors were still fading, then pass through a front door with a happy fall wreath on (I’d slam through it with my shoulder because it was too heavy for my arms), and enter a home of warm colors and smells. Even on my loneliest days, coming through the door meant comfort. Even when the two-inch-high scarecrow tableau felt like my only friend, the reds and oranges of fall made me feel warm.

My first season of color guard.

My first color guard

I found my niche in the fall of my sophomore year of high school. Even if I didn’t make my very best friends in that color guard, it gave me a thing–a thing that I was good at, a place where I could belong, and activity that was social and kept me moving. Even the hardest practices, the ones that ended with angry instructors, felt right. I belonged on that field, with a flag or a saber in my hand. I was meant for this. I didn’t mind the late nights and numb fingers, bus rides and petty spats. I was there to spin. It may seem strange or silly, but I still love it seven years later. I’d train and compete on my own, if I was good enough; I’d teach, given the opportunity.

One of my college color guard shows. I believe credit for this photo belongs to Rob Jinks Photography.

I fell into some of my best friends in the autumn. I was wandering and happened upon the very friends who named me. They invited me in to watch a B-list horror film about “a tire who falls in love with a girl and kills people!” I watched, and they told me to stay. What followed was my favorite semester of college, full of movies and laughter, antics, hi-jinx, and journals full of quotable moments. I became a Twirl in the autumn, and she is my favorite version of myself.

Remember these guys?

The same friends gave me my Purps in the fall. Noodles’ story of how he’d asked her out was useless, so I had to ask her, even though we didn’t know each other very well. She worked in the library, and I happened upon her at the circulation desk. I expected her to think I was crazy when I asked for her version of the story (with little prelude). To my surprise, she flew around the table and hugged me! The next fall, we were roommates.

This is Purps being adorable while she gets ready for my wedding. I love her. Photo: Annmarie Swift Photography 2014

I had to.

And now we come to Grover. It seems like a poor excuse to tell our story, but I only mention it because it’s pertinent. It was really his older brother’s fault. I lived just over a mile from campus at that time, and Crazy wouldn’t stand for me walking myself home after dark. I had no one else, so he gallantly volunteered. I resisted, but he was more stubborn than me, in the end. Nearly every time he walked me home, Crazy would say, “You know, Grover is single.” This forced me to reply that I was off dating or that he’d never like me like that or that I’d love to go on one date if he would ask me. Plus, I would point out, he liked another girl; he told me so all the time, even asked me for advice about her. She didn’t like him–barely even saw him–but guys rarely changed their mind about this particular female. I had no shot. We made better friends, anyways.

And we were good friends. That September, we were practically inseparable. We liked the same music, used the same pens, were in the same level courses, and were friends with the same people. He liked Jane Austen, and I was an English major. I even met his family at Homecoming. When anyone asked if I liked him, I said “not yet,” leaving me as the only one surprised when I finally figured out that I’d liked him for ages and was actually crazy jealous of that girl he kept talking about–not that I’d ever tell him to stop.

I’m not sure how Grover transitioned from thinking I was “weird” to being alright with dating me. I suspect two of his brothers (Crazy and Swole) had something to do with it. At any rate, it was early November when we went on our first date.

I woke up that morning convinced I was insane. I hadn’t dated since high school, and every other guy I’d liked during college had run for the hills without a single date. But that was all this was destined to be, after all: One Date. Singular. We’d agreed. No commitments, no expectations–just one coffee.

I dressed in an outfit he’d never seen and did my makeup properly for once. Just before leaving my apartment, I slipped my leather jacket on for confidence. Today was the day. A real big-kid date.

This is the first known picture of Grover and I together. It’s not from our first date; the first time I went to his family’s house, his sister insisted that we take a photo. I didn’t understand at the time. Now that we’re married, I think I do.

All morning, I tried to convince myself that it would be okay with me if he changed his mind. There was still the other girl, after all, and–maybe I wasn’t really ready. Maybe this was a stupid idea. I was supposed to graduate single and live in a loft in the city for a year–just me, alone–to pursue my writing career. I shouldn’t be dating. That was crazy talk.

But then Grover ate lunch with me and my friends. The food staff were worried by how little I ate that day. I blushed, but the dark butterflies went away. I wanted to date him–I was going on a date with him!

The air was cool and sharp as we walked to the coffeeshop. Stock conversation passed between us, but I was too busy with my feet to notice. I’d nearly made it to the door when Grover said, “You know I’m paying for you, right?”

I stammered for a moment before my sleeve snagged on an almost-bare decorative bush. I yanked it free, failing to catch one last deep breath of the autumn air.

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I say all this to illustrate and come back to my original question:

What’s the point of it all if there’s no autumn in October?

Where am I to find my new beginnings now? I never knew my love for autumn until I lived in a place where she never visits. Give me colored leaves, crisp air, and amaretto lattes. I’m ready to transition out of summer. Bring me autumn.