“Actually, no I was not.”

“You do realize that this hysterectomy is irreversible?”

“Umm, yes. I assumed so much.”

“Well, try not to think that your loss of the ability to have children makes you less of a woman.”

This was part of the conversation I had with a pre-op nurse several years ago, before having my hysterectomy.

I was having a hysterectomy because I was in the very early stages of cervical cancer. However, I was elated because the cancer was not advanced; the surgery alone would be my cure without chemotherapy or radiation, and I would go on to live a full life. Not to mention I had decided ten years prior to have a tubal ligation, so I was not planning to have more children. But this nurse acted as though my life would stop. She asked me if I wanted to try to have a girl as I had three sons. She reminded me relentlessly that I would not be able to have more children. And she looked at me as if I had lost my mind when I said I wasn’t bothered by that fact in the least.

Honestly, I had never once had the thought that I would be “less of a woman”.  To me, this was a terrific ending to something which could have been far more tragic. I viewed this surgery as a bump in the road. A hysterectomy was the least of my worries, and albeit a major surgery, I wasn’t upset in the least. Would I really be viewed as less than a woman because the baby factory was closed for business? I didn’t think this would be any different than having my gall bladder or tonsils removed. Moreover, I already had three children. I always thought that number was fairly large in our modern world.

Did she think I’d really miss the monthly uprising of the uterine rebels? As she looked at me like I was a cold-hearted baby hater, I couldn’t help but think of my friends who have decided against having children altogether. They have to live with this condescension every single day.

I hear it all the time. The man or woman who decides that children just aren’t in the plans being belittled or badgered by others who think there is something inherently wrong with a person who doesn’t want children. For the life of me, I do not understand why there is disdain for people who choose not to have children.

Having a child is a life changing decision. It isn’t to be taken lightly. Deciding to be a parent isn’t like deciding if one is going to have pizza or Chinese for dinner. This is an actual life; a living, breathing human being who will be dependent on their parents for at least 18 years.

Parenthood isn’t for everyone.

That doesn’t make those who decide not to have children cold, uncaring, or incapable. It’s simply not what they want in life, and there are endless reasons someone might not want to be a parent. Those reasons are personal, very personal. Who is anyone else to judge a very responsible decision to not have children? After all, wouldn’t having children when they aren’t really desired completely irresponsible?

I happen to know many people who have made a conscience choice not to have children. Most of them are very responsible, caring, loving people. Children just don’t fit into their plan, but for some crazy reason, when a person states that he or she does not want children, we seem to get all stabby. We start throwing out generalizations about childless folks like they are less than human. We think we can talk them into having children by pointing out that life without kids is empty. People tend to approach childless individuals like we can change their minds.  We treat those who have decided against children as if they obviously don’t understand what they want in life. My friend Cam’s response to these judgments was “Like I don’t know what I want, and one day I’m going to wake up and be like ‘it’s time to make the babies’ like the old Dunkin’ Donuts commercial”.

Not having children is not crazy. It does not make a woman less than a woman or a man less than a man. In fact, if someone does not want children not having them is the most womanly or manly act that can be performed. Who would ever ask someone to have children because it’s the popular thing to do? Isn’t that a little crazier than choosing not to have children? And one thing to keep in mind: If you happen upon someone who openly states in the beginning of a relationship that they do not want children, that person is doing you a favor. It does not make them damaged or scary. It makes them wholly honest and good. Don’t fight it. If having children tops your list, simply move on.

I suppose it’s all part of our social construction of womanhood or manhood that procreation tops the list of what makes one a man or a woman. I think it’s time we break that stereotype. Those who do not have children have made a responsible choice. They are as capable of love just as anyone else. And you know what? They don’t spend sleepless nights covered in vomit and baby poo. Now, who are the crazy ones again?

Tammie Niewedde shares her life with 24, 21, and 16 year old sons. She also has a 2 year old grandson whose energy level reminds her exactly how old she is (40, and she owns that proudly!). In her home, you will find a 120 pound fur factory named Dexter and a few cats whom have decided that she is merely their staff.  The root of her love for books, writing, and  animals comes from being a child whose only siblings were books and her animals. She is a full-time student, mother, coordinator of all that is chaos, and a hopeless list maker. Most of her writing is creative non-fiction that describes her real life adventures. Her acerbic, biting  sense of humor may capture your heart, or it may induce rage. Nonetheless what she writes is true to life. You can often find her hanging out with the kiddos, studying, reading, writing, and making lists…of everything! You can find her on Facebook!

The first instruction on the menu was: Choose your meat.

When the man behind the counter asked me to choose, I told him, “None.”

He frustratingly shook his head, gave me a double look, and irritated, asked again, “What kind of meat do you want?”

“No meat,” I told him.

He shook his head again and jerked his body to shake off the anger. He was somehow upset with my refusal to eat meat. Fine enough.

Until I got my sandwich.

My vegetarian sandwich came from the kitchen minutes later. I picked it up, anxious for mouth-watering vegetables until, just before I took a bite, I realized one half of the sandwich contained chopped chicken and the other half sliced chicken.

Clearly, this was intentional.

My first instinct was to grab the heap of food, set it on fire, and throw it at the arrogant, spiteful child who took my order. Instead, I took it back to the counter and politely told him my order was wrong.

Moments later, I received another sandwich, this time correct to my order. Presumably, this time the meat was replaced by spit because, by God, how dare I order food without a dead animal on it. “I have a societal standard to uphold here. It is my duty as a man to eat meat, not make my own choices based on rational discourse.”

Where I find blatant disrespect is not so much in the spite that someone took against me. If I hadn’t noticed the meat and eaten it, it wouldn’t have killed me. But this person got genuinely and adamantly upset with me for not eating meat. He decided to act in a way designed to hurt me, even if I didn’t know that I was being “hurt.”

His mind hardly seems like an intellectual one. Not because he eats meat and loves it, and not even because he was mad that I do not eat meat. Instead, he obviously clings strongly to this societal standard that states men must eat meat, and if they don’t, they should be served some sort of passive-aggressive punishment.

Our society often prizes the individual for courage to make one’s own decisions and life-altering evaluations regardless of what society, friends, or parents say should be done, but what about the effects of this?

My experience at this restaurant was a rare one. As a vegetarian, some of the common responses I have encountered are simple and polite: “Oh, why did you become a vegetarian?”

Others are less enlightening: “I love meat too much, so I could never do that!” which is usually followed by an overly self-gratified, self-satisfied laughter from uttering something both profound and humorous that I have never heard before.

What makes our decisions valuable is the evaluation we have employed in arriving at them. We have put the time in, thought out all the possibilities, bravely considered all the options, and decided upon an answer, not because our parents or society thought it should be so, but because we burned our fears and discovered our own conclusions.

Eat meat. Don’t eat meat. I am not concerned with anyone’s dietary preferences. I am only concerned with one’s bravery in living life, in small choices and large – regardless of the consequences.

Be brave. Think for yourself. And don’t childishly and spitefully sneak meat into a vegetarian’s sandwich.

Phil Grech lives in Tallahassee where he is pursuing an MA in English at FSU with plans to obtain a PhD after. He published his first book, “Don’t Waste Your Hands,” with Blue Cubicle Press in July 2009. In 2012, he self-printed a collection of essays entitled, “Iambic Pentagram.” He won the 2012 National SPJ Award for Online Opinion (small colleges). He has written for a diverse amount of magazines and newspapers. You can purchase his second book through his blog, and follow him on twitter.

So, with Father’s Day approaching, I think it is important that we look away from the negative view of men for a minute, and celebrate those doing it right.

The discourse of modern parenting often mentions the struggle of single mothers, but fails to acknowledge the growing number single fathers facing those same struggles. Dads who have found themselves raising children on their own are somehow left out of the equation, but are just as successful raising children. They cook, do the laundry, and bandage skinned knees. They take their children to soccer games, and forgo purchasing self-indulgent items so their children may have what they desire. Some even give up dating to concentrate on parenting. The single fathers of the world make the same sacrifices as single mothers, and deserve the same praise.

Fatherhood has evolved quite a bit over the last two generations.  Most men that are part of a two parent household share domestic responsibilities, work, and still make quality family time. There are also a growing number of stay-at-home dads. Some men are ostracized for being “too feminine” when they shun traditional parental roles, but these men, who help raise their children and empower the mothers of their children, are the men who make a difference in society.

Moms have always been recognized as the keepers of all that is family, but being someone who grew up both with and without my father, I know how important my dad was to me. A mother’s love is almost always assured since bonding begins before birth, but being loved and accepted from dad is special. While still connected to the child, the father/child connection is a more external connection. So when dad gives his approval and love, the bond is amazingly strong. It’s as if mom is obligated to love, but dad loves of his own accord. Dads have an effect on their children which is so strong it might make or break them. I suppose this is true of mothers as well, but there is just something special about a dad.

With increasing frequency, I witness dads involved in the lives of their children. Dads are active in school functions, taking their kids to the doctor, making dinner, helping with homework, and mending broken hearts. I hear dads telling their children to be respectful to their mothers. They tell their children not to act out violently. I have even seen fathers swapping recipes for pot roast or homemade play-doh. These men are redefining what society calls “manhood”, and children look up to them proudly.

“That’s my dad.”

Our culture once taught that manhood meant being cold, disconnected, and unemotional. Modern men have begun to be more connected, sensitive, and caring, and do so openly, despite sneers from the gallery of those who still believe manhood lives in a box of preset definitions.

I love that men have become less afraid to take their sons to the library and help them read their favorite books. I love that men take their daughters to the theatre to watch her favorite princess movie. I love that more men are actively involved with their children, period.

So to all the fathers out there who have grown beyond the traditional gender roles fatherhood: I commend you.

To the dads who are active in your children’s lives: You are making a difference in, not only the lives of your children, but also the world.

Keep doing what you’re doing, and know that the women of the world love and appreciate you for all you do.

Happy Father’s Day!

Tammie Niewedde shares her life with 24, 21, and 16 year old sons. She also has a 2 year old grandson whose energy level reminds her exactly how old she is (40, and she owns that proudly!). In her home, you will find a 120 pound fur factory named Dexter and a few cats whom have decided that she is merely their staff.  The root of her love for books, writing, and  animals comes from being a child whose only siblings were books and her animals. She is a full-time student, mother, coordinator of all that is chaos, and a hopeless list maker. Most of her writing is creative non-fiction that describes her real life adventures. Her acerbic, biting  sense of humor may capture your heart, or it may induce rage. Nonetheless what she writes is true to life. You can often find her hanging out with the kiddos, studying, reading, writing, and making lists…of everything! You can find her on Facebook!

(Image Source)

The male approached her and immediately groped her. She told him to stop and he responded by pouring his alcoholic beverage on her. Her female friends came to her defense, but ultimately felt powerless to defend her from the growing group of male antagonists who encouraged the abuser’s behavior.

Of all the men present, no one came to this innocent woman’s defense.

After she pushed the guy off her, he called her a slut and a bitch.

When she told me her story, she concluded it by saying, “Apparently reacting to being grabbed by strangers constitutes being a bitch nowadays.”

There are more offensive details regarding this guy’s actions, but they are being withheld to protect my friend’s anonymity. Those details, however, would enrage any person who believes women’s bodies should not be violated.

There is already much needed societal and media attention paid toward rape and attempted rape cases; rarely do we hear of cases where rape did not occur, but the woman was sexually assaulted by being touched, grabbed or violated in a way other than sexual penetration.

Is this because it’s too commonplace? Do many guys see this occur so often that it’s not worth mentioning and not worth defending the victim? Fifty-four percent of sexual assaults are not reported to the police, but in how many was the woman actually defended regardless of police involvement?

Many women are already strong enough to defend themselves without the help of a nearby male, but not all. In many cases when the woman does defend herself, she is called some pretty derogatory things. As my friend already noticed, not only is the victim in these cases not defended, she is further victimized just for defending herself.

Imagine you are at a party and you witness a man physically or sexually assault a woman. Do you do anything? Do you passively stand to the side and consider it acceptable behavior? Do you feel too afraid to break from your friends, look like the “bad guy,” and actually come to the person’s defense?

Is being an individual really that hard? What if your mother or sister was assaulted? Would the blood that courses through your veins boil because the men present were either too passive to do anything or believed that assaulting a woman is morally permissible?

Encouraging or refusing to defend a woman who has been violated does not seem like the type of behavior of a highly cultivated, sophisticated and evolved society. It sounds like the behavior of cavemen, dragging their knuckles through the dirt and communicating in grunts.

What will you do the next time you see a woman being assaulted or violated? Will you do anything? Will you imagine that it’s your mother or sister?

Can we evolve as a society to treat each other respectfully? I hope so.

(Image Source)

Phil Grech lives in Tallahassee where he is pursuing an MA in English at FSU with plans to obtain a PhD after. He published his first book, “Don’t Waste Your Hands,” with Blue Cubicle Press in July 2009. In 2012, he self-printed a collection of essays entitled, “Iambic Pentagram.” He won the 2012 National SPJ Award for Online Opinion (small colleges). He has written for a diverse amount of magazines and newspapers. You can purchase his second book through his blog, and follow him on twitter.

Alone.

I can usually talk myself out of the drama I know doesn’t really exist at the magnitude I’m positively certain it rumbles for all around me to experience. Sometimes, I cannot. It’s impossible and can last for days. Sure, I fumble through my morning, workday, conversations, evening, homework, classes, bed time as though it doesn’t exist and usually have a good night’s sleep induced by a Xanax. The next day feels less dramatic and then the hangover of the anxiety kicks me. The aftershocks. Those sneak attacks that come out of nowhere. My core heats up, my thoughts race. They lose their power as the days progress and eventually I wonder why I was so worked up over nothing.

Silly lady.

It’s that knowing I’m worked up over nothing that gets me through the full force of the quake. I brace myself against the door jam and I keep breathing. I know it will be over soon and life will continue. This is what I call faith.

I know I’ll get there if I just keep remembering whatever I’m over thinking really isn’t a thing at all. I’m convinced anxiety is a bad habit. Just a bad habit. One I can’t break from completely. Like the friend who only smokes when they drink. (I love country music. This song came to mind. That’s all.)

How did I get into this habit? Has to be rooted in childhood, right? I remember being horribly embarrassed to get on the bus in elementary school. I’d hide my bashful smile while I searched for somewhere to sit. Kids would make fun of me or call my name, teasing, I can’t remember. I just remember being teased on the bus. Trapped on the bus.

Nah… I don’t think so. I mean, it didn’t help, but I remember being in my early 20s and not giving a shit at all what people thought of me. Except, of course, the cute boy I liked who didn’t like me. Oh the drama! I thought for sure I’d never love anyone like I loved Gary!

Weez, my 9 year old daughter, recently asked me who my first crush was. I said it was a boy named Shawn in Fourth Grade and then a guy named Gary when I was in my mid teens. She laughed, “Gary? Like Sponge Bob’s snail?”

Not exactly.

I had a pretty rock solid sense of self. Then again, I was in my early 20s. I had a core group of friends and, let’s face it, I was immortal as are most 20somethings. I did, however, leave home for Ohio State as I approached 22 years old. I had to live in the dorms… I had no friends on campus. Not a single friend. You’d think at a school as huge as Ohio State I’d have known someone. Well, I did, but I wasn’t invited. Or at least I outgrew my welcome. I learned I was awkward. I do remember becoming incredibly self conscious at Ohio State.

I did eventually gather around me a great group of friends, but that burn of being rejected stayed. That fear that what I try to be a part of will back fire stayed. I remember learning about Social Anxiety in my mid to late 20s. Holy smokes! Yes. That’s what I have! A name! I’m not crazy. I have Social Anxiety!

That sucks.

Social Anxiety… I now know what it is, but man that sucks. My Aunt calls us “worriers.” She said it’s a family trait. It isn’t a trait, it’s a bad behavior passed down the generations. Yes, my eyes hyper focus on Weez and yes, this adds to my anxiety. Being a parent is so NOT easy.

How do I stop this? It’s all on my shoulders. It’s all up to me. IT’S ALL UP TO ME. I feel like Atlas.

Hahaha! It says, “…hold up Uranus…” Yeah, I’m 8 years old…and a boy.

Weez and I talk a lot. I let her know she is loved a lot. She has no fear. She’s being raised with a strong sense of self; a stronger sense of self than with which I was raised. She’s given the best tools I have to conquer almost anything. I might doubt myself like mad, but I know I’m stronger than I think. I hope I’m giving her better advice than I was given as a kid. She has the power to ask for what she wants. She and I will continue to talk.

Me, however, I still have the “worries.” I can still have a great time somewhere and walk away the next day or even that same night dismantled by fear. It so sucks. It doesn’t happen every time. It happens from time to time. The older I get, it happens more. I don’t get myself involved in less though. I get involved in something and brace myself.

I hope I can get a handle on this before I hit 50. Sure, I said that when I was, ya know, 30.

I’m 40.

I don’t fall apart and hide in a corner. It’s more of a functional alcoholic. I can get through my day and the next, but the “thing” is always there reminding me I’m not good enough and I never will be. That “thing” is such an asshole.When I can ignore it, which is most of the time, it’s small and unnoticeable. When I can’t? My goodness, it’s a hairy beast of a prick. Just breathe. Ignore it and it will go away, right? Riiiight.

Like right now. I’m writing and I feel great. I had something bother me today and the hairy prick raised an eyebrow so I wrote to swat it away. Writing always makes it better which is weird because um, I publish it and um, you all are reading this. Sphincter Factor Code Red.

The good thing is I’m not alone. You may be reading and nodding, “Yes! Me too!” Or maybe not. Maybe you’re judging me as much as I fear. Either way, you’ve read and this is off my chest…for now.

Alicia Wozniak was born and raised in Cleveland. “Woz” now lives in Tampa, with the rest of Ohio. This 40 year old can be found teaching Zumba, all over Facebook, figuring out Twitter, blogging, and working her full time gig in a marketing division of a textbook publisher. She wonders how many jobs she really needs. If she isn’t moving, she’s unconscious. Life, which includes a Weez, is good and as long as the beer is cold and it isn’t snowing, she’ll keep moving forward – Xanax close at hand.

I also found the article to be considerably sexist and slightly homophobic, as it seems to place the burden of being charming solely on men and insinuates that men whose sexuality is anything but hetero-normative are the only truly charming men. Perhaps that is just my interpretation, but the author does seem to link genuine charm to sexual ambiguity and any correlation to obviously heterosexual men and charm seems an afterthought linked to sheer coincidence. By the end the author seems to be quite contemptuous of what he originally called a “social virtue” — reminding us that, “Charm is charming. Just don’t be charmed by it.”

As an editor, I could happily castigate the seemingly erratic writing, but as a writer I understand what it’s like to have dueling ideas about social ideals, especially something as subtle as charm. Though I found this article to be poorly written, it did give me pause to consider what was and is considered charming in our current culture.

I don’t think we can narrow the concept of charm down to one sex or the other. I think both men and women can and do fail to cultivate the charisma and intellect to interact face to face with one another. We have lost the ability to pick up on the subtle nuance of conversation and we often miss the serve in a jolly verbal volley. (Thank you to my friend Tommi for that wonderful phrase.)

You see, that’s what charm is. It is a jolly verbal volley. Charm is the ability to make those around you feel comfortable, to be empathetic and adaptable enough to be genuinely at ease with oneself while being welcoming, humorous, and perhaps even a bit non-sexually flirtatious in conversation with anyone. It is the skill of engaging in entertaining small talk that can lead to more intimate platonic and romantic relationships. I agree that our current culture, not just men, lack these simple social virtues. Women are probably a bit more able to tap into these social skills, due to often being the more socially aware, sympathetic, and conversational of the sexes, but it is still something our society has failed to continually cultivate. The question we have to ask is “Why?”

To be honest, I don’t think we can point to a single specific reason. Perhaps it’s partly because we are all so preoccupied with ourselves and our technological fixations that we fail to recognize social cues unless they are in an electronic format. Maybe it’s because we are a society that feigns outrage at every perceived offense. It could be that we spend more time being entertained than entertaining others. It’s also possible to attribute it to our sense of individual entitlement which often blinds us to the feelings of those around us. There are a multitude of reasons our culture might not be as charming now as it seemingly was then, but I can say with near certitude that while charm has fallen behind in cultural evolution, it is a social virtue that still exists, albeit rare and sometimes stunted. It’s just a bit more politically correct now. Which is a good thing. The article above is written with an almost blind nostalgia for times long past. The men mentioned in the article lived in a society with rampant misogyny, racism, homophobia, and very clear gender roles. Their charm, no matter how endearing of that era, would often be considered offensive in current culture. Today we would be appalled if a man kissed a woman the way Rhett kissed Scarlett. Our society has undergone enormous cultural shifts in a very short period of time and we are still on changing ground, so it’s not terribly surprising that our social virtues haven’t quite caught up. I believe it will, though it won’t be as simple to define as conversation at cocktail parties where men pompously crack wise and women giggle demurely over their martinis. It will be more subtle and genuine, and equally cultivated and appreciated by both genders.

Charm is charming. Nurture it in yourself and others, it’s a wonderful social tool for building personal relationships.

Camicia Bennett: Founder of The Well Written Woman, Florida Native and cerebral creature, she loves her  husband, yoga, red wine, potty humor, swearing superfluously and putting hats on her dog. If given her druthers  she’d be surfing the web and writing randomness from someplace sunny and tropical whilst sipping her favorite  vino. Oh wait, that’s exactly what she does.You can find her tweeting incessantly or randomly sharing her own  brand of slightly pretentious propaganda at her personal blog.

Almost all of us face some conflict on a daily basis, be it internal or external. We all struggle with something or another. Some of us face financial woes, relationships issues, and illness. Many people face a multitude of demons which lurk in the shadows awaiting their demise. One of those eerie-faced demons, which seemingly rise up within us unannounced, is depression.

There are misconceptions and stereotypes regarding depression. Many people believe those who are depressed just feel sorry for themselves. I’ve overheard a lot of folks say a depressed person should “just get over it”. Many believe if someone is depressed, she or he is also suicidal. While suicide can definitely result from depression, one who is depressed does not necessarily want to plummet from the nearest building. Sometimes depression is like the flu, complete with a fever of 104, which just never goes away. It may not result in death, but being depressed can make a person feel pain–intense pain, both physically and mentally. The main thing to remember is, depression is a disease. It is not the chosen emotion for the day used to garner attention. Trust when I say, no one would choose depression.

I happen to know this woman who never wanted to admit she was depressed. There is such a stigma attached to admitting a mental health issue. People look at you funny, treat you differently. Everyone acts like a person has a communicable disease when around someone who has stated some form of mental illness. So, she just kept it all locked inside the internal vault of her mind, and painted on her smile as usual. Her filing system for her emotions worked supremely until there was too much emotional junk to fit.

One day, as she tried to cram more hurt feelings, disappointment and anger into her filing cabinet of a brain, the drawers exploded. Her brain was then closed for repair for weeks. Nothing she did gave her an ounce of pleasure. All those spilled out emotions contaminated everything she did. The only thing left for her to do was to lie in bed and purge those files. Thankfully, she had a few good friends who were willing to help her clean up the mess and get back to her old self before she gave up completely. Damage control was next on the docket. So what did she do? To begin with, I sent myself some flowers.

I didn’t send flowers per se, but I went out into the yard, into the sunshine after a brief summer rain, and I picked a beautiful bouquet of flowers to brighten up my room and spirits. The aroma therapy alone was magnificent. I mean, who couldn’t smile with the scent of fresh-picked peonies and roses wafting through the room?

In case you’re wondering, yes, I know the struggle of this woman intimately because this woman is me. I’ve never allowed myself, before this moment, to publicly admit that I often struggle with depression. And for those who believe that depressed people are scary and damaged, we are not.

Depression is like a build-up of sludge in the drain. It’s not noticeable at first, but eventually, the drain just stops working. That doesn’t mean the drain can never work properly again. Rather, it simply means it must be cleaned and flushed thoroughly. It will work again, maybe even better than before.

I’m not a psychologist. I’ve never worked in the mental health field. In fact, my education in the field of psychology goes no deeper than psychology 101. But there are things I know for certain. People who are depressed need compassion. Someone being frustrated and barking “what’s wrong with you” at a person does not help them talk about the problem. Someone telling a person to “get over themselves” only deepens the issue. Depression is not a sign of narcissism, it’s not feeling sorry for oneself, and the one of the few things that really helps is a genuinely caring ear to listen.

We, who suffer from depression, are not “digging for compliments”. Sometimes an overabundance of complimentary expressions only makes the feeling worse because the words seem fake.  All we really need is someone who can show some compassion, listen without judgment, and give us support. There are times when a person has become so depressed he or she is in danger and it is an absolute must to get that person the professional help he or she needs, even if there is resistance. If a person so much as hints at self-harm, call a hotline, call a family member who can get her or him help, call the police if need be, but get that person to safety.

What has been the hardest thing for me, a frequently depressed person, to learn is that I should be my own best friend. It’s okay to love myself. Sometimes, I can put myself first, and that’s not only acceptable, it’s necessary.

So yeah, I sent myself flowers. And while I put those flowers in a vase, I told myself how much I mean to me. I told myself how strong I am, that I am a good person, and that even though I have failed at times, life hasn’t beaten me completely. That is a message everyone deserves to tell themselves. More importantly, they need to send that message to themselves every single day.

*If you know someone, or are someone, struggling with depression, seek help. If you feel, or know someone who feels, suicidal, don’t hesitate to seek immediate help. Your life is too precious to waste…even when you think it’s not.  1-800-273-TALK (8255)*

Tammie Niewedde shares her life with 24, 21, and 16 year old sons. She also has a 2 year old grandson whose energy level reminds her exactly how old she is (40, and she owns that proudly!). In her home, you will find a 120 pound fur factory named Dexter and a few cats whom have decided that she is merely their staff.  The root of her love for books, writing, and  animals comes from being a child whose only siblings were books and her animals. She is a full-time student, mother, coordinator of all that is chaos, and a hopeless list maker. Most of her writing is creative non-fiction that describes her real life adventures. Her acerbic, biting  sense of humor may capture your heart, or it may induce rage. Nonetheless what she writes is true to life. You can often find her hanging out with the kiddos, studying, reading, writing, and making lists…of everything! You can find her on Facebook!

The fact of the matter is, not only do I wear sensible shoes, everything else in my life is fairly utilitarian yet comfortable. I don’t wear the latest fashions mostly because I’m not 5’10 and 120 pounds. I’m just not the target market for fashion designers. I have curves. Fashion designers apparently have curve-aphobia.

I don’t have beautiful, fancy furniture; my sofa looks like it survived some sort of catastrophe. My chest of drawers and desk are adorned with scratches and nicks the likes of which would send most people running to the furniture store. I’ve come to own most of my furniture either through inheritance or through a second-hand store. And don’t get all excited about the “inherited furniture” thought. It’s more like, “Oh hey, this is pretty much junk so you can have it” than family heirlooms. But these are what I choose because they have a character which new shiny pieces just don’t have. Kind of the way my wrinkles give my face character.

But I’ve also found, even during my job search, I was looking for something comfortable, something sensible. I search for employment in places where I can serve a purpose. My goal is not to become some tabloid-worthy billionaire, nor do I wish to do a mindless job which means nothing to me. I want to help people whilst doing what I love.

I realize I have majored and minored in areas of study which, for the most part, guarantee me a lifetime of unemployment (English, sociology, and philosophy), but I still feel like this is what I need to do. More importantly, this is a job I can wake up for every morning without feeling the need to swan dive from the highest building.

Isn’t this what matters in life? Isn’t life about being able to carve out a little place in which to function happily? Shouldn’t we all work to be involved in what makes us feel alive, makes us tick?

Not everyone has that opportunity. Not everyone can be choosy. I haven’t always had the ability to be particular about a job opportunity. Trust me when I say if there was a low-paying job out there that made me want to rip my face off, I’ve probably done it. I’ve worked in fast-food, customer service, convenience stores, factories, and even picked watermelons. Yes, watermelons. The least glamorous job in the world is being buried up to the ankles in mud whilst fighting off troves of mosquitoes and itchy vines, but I’ve done it. We all have to start somewhere.

Life still isn’t grand for me. Most of what I do is considered internship. I’m not an editor, senior writer, publisher, or even a semi-popular author. But it’s that first step in my journey, my comfortable journey. I will wear my sensible shoes on this sensible trail, and I’ll be mostly happy.

No matter what we choose, we should choose to do what we might define as sensible. Some people might consider my definition of sensible to be crazy. Some people define a sensible occupation as being an accountant, a welder, a CEO, or an artist. The definition is subjective. The only important thing is the owner of that definition believes it to be true in his or her heart. No one can define that for another.

Whether you wish to be a doctor, a mechanic, or anything else in the world, just make sure you are doing what you love. If you can’t do what you love immediately, work towards that goal. It gives a person hope and something to work towards. Having goals gives a person a reason to climb out of bed, change out of his or her comfortable pajamas, and take on the world. Never give up on your goals, and never give up on yourself. Do what you think is sensible, and don’t worry about the rest of the world. Most importantly, always remember, what one person thinks to be uncool is another person’s delight, and all the little meaningless jobs you’ll ever do will give you character and help you find your definition of sensible.

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Tammie Niewedde shares her life with 24, 21, and 16 year old sons. She also has a 2 year old grandson whose energy level reminds her exactly how old she is (40, and she owns that proudly!). In her home, you will find a 120 pound fur factory named Dexter and a few cats whom have decided that she is merely their staff.  The root of her love for books, writing, and  animals comes from being a child whose only siblings were books and her animals. She is a full-time student, mother, coordinator of all that is chaos, and a hopeless list maker. Most of her writing is creative non-fiction that describes her real life adventures. Her acerbic, biting  sense of humor may capture your heart, or it may induce rage. Nonetheless what she writes is true to life. You can often find her hanging out with the kiddos, studying, reading, writing, and making lists…of everything! You can find her on Facebook!

My premonition about what my children would be like wasn’t the only one that would be badly skewed. I also just knew I wouldn’t end up looking like one of those old, tired soccer moms. I would often wonder how in the world they had let themselves go. Didn’t these women have any pride? How did they go from fashionista to fashion no-no in what seemed like the blink of an eye? In the words of every Scooby Doo villain, “…if it weren’t for those pesky kids!”

Remember back when you thought 40 was old? Well, back then, I was hot. No, for real. I was extremely stylish, and looking fashionable and put together was a priority. I never left the house without perfect hair and makeup. My nails were always professionally done. My clothing was impeccable and my accessories were fabulous!

When I had my first daughter, I was determined to keep this up. I refused to fall victim to the soccer mom look. Call it vanity, but I wanted to look my best. After all, isn’t my appearance my public statement that I had my shit together?

Fast forward a few years (decades) to the present where forty isn’t old and I have friends who are becoming (very young) grandparents. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and the person who stares back at me looks tired. She’s wearing flats instead of heels, a shirt that strategically covers her belly, and a jacket to cover those wings flopping at the back of her arms. I turn around quickly in hopes of catching a stranger standing behind me, but the reality is the “mom” looking back at me is me. How did this happen?

It started when peer pressure led me to sign my kids up for activities. “It will make them well rounded,” they said. The jury is still out on whether or not my children are well rounded, but my expanding clothing size certainly suggests that I’m getting, well, rounder. Before becoming active, my day consisted of working a full time job, making a nice dinner, playing Chutes & Ladders and giggling with my family until 8 PM and then putting my kids to bed at a decent hour so my husband and I can actually talk. Now it’s a mad rush out the door in the morning with kids in two different schools (one in elementary and one in middle school), cramming a full time job into part time hours so I can leave early to be home when my kids get home from school, homework (mostly fighting about homework), and then the evening rush of carpool to and from these ill-advised activities.

Communication with my husband is done mostly via text messaging with the occasional email when we have time to write words that aren’t abbreviated. When we do have some down time, inevitably, one of us is taking a nap.

It’s because of a schedule like this that laundry pulled out of the hamper that can pass the sniff test is deemed wearable. Cute high heels have been replaced with comfortable, sensible shoes because I never know when a birthday invitation will be discovered at the last minute at the bottom of a book bag and I’ll have to make a Target run. My cute jewelry lays lonely in the jewelry box because by the time I get to the point where I can add accessories, I’m too busy signing permission forms and giving lectures about unfinished homework to even remember where my car keys are, much less that I have a jewelry box.

I’ve done a few things to try to fight the mom stereotype. I have tattoos, my nose is pierced, and I have a funky haircut. Of course, I also wear glasses a good amount of the time because I’m too lazy for contacts, my pants have elastic bands because zippers and buttons just aren’t comfortable on my roundness, I prefer comfort to style, and I drive a mother effing mini-van.

Sigh.

I’m proud to be a Mom, I just don’t necessarily want to look like one. Although I’m starting to understand the appeal of mom jeans (the high cut goes OVER the belly roundness rather than cutting into it!) it doesn’t mean I want to look like I’ve given up. Giving up is the easy way out and if you’re a mom you now us moms don’t ever do anything easy. So today, even though I didn’t take an exorbitant amount of time getting ready (I have an 8 year old who thinks I’m a hair dresser and demands her hair be fixed to perfection) I did slip on some heels in place of my usual flats. I also added earrings AND a big honking sparkly ring for good measure. I was admiring my big sparkly as I carted my daughter off to middle school and we were bopping our heads to Justin Bieber in the Glam Van.

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Chrystal Getz is a working mom, wife, certified Lifestyle & Weight Management Specialist, and aspiring writer. A mid-western girl who has been transplanted to the east coast, her hobbies include sarcasm, over extending herself, working out and occasionally blogging. She’s a straight shooter who loves to motivate people. She doesn’t believe in diets and fads, but rather hard work and moderation. (Seriously, who could give up chocolate and beer?) Her realistic approach isn’t for everyone. Only those who are looking for results.

For the last two years, after exploring various health and spiritual practices, I began fasting weekly. For quite a few months I maintained a practice of fasting once a week solely on water and sometimes plain tea (without sugar). Please don’t misunderstand me, I don’t fast to lose weight (nor do I promote it). There are various reasons why I started fasting, but to put it simply, I know that I often live by the desires of my flesh. I often rely on food for comfort and I have always had issues with temperance when it comes to food. I often eat until I’m completely stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey. There is greediness to how I eat.

I woke up today and realized I had no excuse to avoid fasting. It’s a Sunday and I have absolutely no plans. There’s also no food, not a single Saltine cracker, in my apartment. If I want to maintain this practice I guess I should be building up some fasting stamina…or something like that.

The reason I say God has a sense of humor? Due to the fact that I’m not eating, I’m feeling on edge, to say the least. I’m also bored out of my mind and suspiciously the internet just stopped working at my apartment. It’s almost as if God is just laughing and saying, “You know how you would totally use Facebook and Pinterest all day to distract yourself from sitting with the uncomfortable feelings coming up, well that’s not gonna happen today. Sorry kid.”

Some may wonder why I fast if it’s so unpleasant. Some may even think of fasting as pure torture. When I tell people that I fast, they often exclaim they could never do it and offer explanations such as “I can’t function on low blood sugar” and “I like food way too much.” These are obviously excuses, I mean, are there really those among us who don’t like food? However, I understand the reasons for the excuses. Most of us are so incredibly coddled by our bodily and worldly pleasures that the idea of being without them can be downright terrifying.  It’s scary because if you strip all those things away, what exactly is left? The answer is me, myself, and I or you, yourself, and you. That’s frightening because most people avoid truly facing themselves their entire lives through distractions like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, over-time at the office, becoming Target-holics, staying glued to their weekly episodes of “Mad Men,” alcohol, drugs, romantic relationships, Facebook, and all the other forms of numbing out.

When you fast, you feel everything completely amplified. You feel physical hunger which most of us don’t actually experience on a daily basis. Typically, we eat more out of routine, habit, boredom or for social reasons than because we’re truly hungry. Fasting also allows you to feel the depth and spectrum of your emotions, which can be very intense.

Despite the difficulty involved, I feel called to fast. Fasting is a spiritual practice because I have to rely on God instead of food. Instead of focusing on worldly hunger, I shift my focus onto my spiritual hunger. Fasting is not easy to do and it often brings up anger, frustration and feelings like I would kill someone if it meant I could eat an In-N-Out burger (and fries of course). However, I also feel a sense of accomplishment and inner peace by the end of the day when I resist the temptation to quit.

Lately, I haven’t been fasting. Most days that I’ve attempted, I’ve given in to the hunger mid-day. Today I’ve made a decision to stick it out! A friend of mine recently said, “People without discipline are worthless.” At first I thought he was being very harsh, but I now understand what he meant by it.

Discipline is an important part of life. Without discipline, we just wander aimlessly. Discipline makes us stronger, it helps us grow and it holds us accountable. Also, there are always benefits to that discipline that come after putting in the time. Discipline, whether it’s of a spiritual or physical nature, does not offer fuzzy good feelings in the moment. It’s a rare quality in a world that’s completely bombarded by instant gratification.

Fasting, for me, is an opportunity to rely on God for my strength. It’s an opportunity to realize that maintaining a steady practice will satisfy my needs. Discipline will bring me more joy and contentment in the long run, much more than chocolate cake ever could.

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Madelaine Memmer is twenty-six years wise and a Los Angeles native with a true love for writing. She has a B.A. in Women’s Studies but due to her level of spiritual study, one might think she’s working on a degree in personal development. Wherever there’s a retreat, lecture, website or book on spiritual growth, you’ll find her around. When not gallivanting and traveling the world, you can find her in Los Angeles at yet another seminar or busy adding more countries to her ever-growing travel bucket list. Follow her travel and life adventures on her blog or her Facebook.