For my birthday, I am getting a ridiculously expensive pair of boots. Lest you think I am indulging in my inner girly girl (which would be a reasonable assumption given my taste in shoes), I am not. I have realized that, now I no longer work where I need to wear suits to work, I do not need another pair of cute heels. Sigh. (SIGH!)
I am, however, getting a pair of boots that makes me want to drool for a whole different reason. I have wanted boots like these since I was at least 16 or 17. My mother, even now, will be horrified... truly horrified. I think my husband wonders what happened to the meek little geek he married (the meek is fading, the geek? Not so much.) but he seems to love me anyway - what a saint! I'm pretty sure my sister will think I've lost it totally. My friends, though, even if it's not what they'd choose for themselves, they understand. Yes, I am getting combat boots for my birthday.
Well, partially for my birthday... the things are just as expensive as my Stuart Weitzman ankle boots. My darling husband (and, in this case, I mean that absolutely sincerely) is donating $100 toward the cause, then I've traded our family checkbook all my personal Target/Best Buy/random-other-places-the-family-spends-money giftcards that I've been hoarding over the last 3 years for $150 cash (what can I say, giftcards are a great gift for me, I love them but I just don't have time to shop!). Then, I figure the remainder (which is actually just extra support insoles and boot blacking) can fit into the budget.
I feel a bit like I'm pretending. These are the boots. They're the real deal. (They were recommended to me by a couple of people, including my friend Tina who, despite being on desk duty since she had her second child, still takes the occasional overtime traffic gig.) What right does a distinctly unathletic suburban mother of 3 with no connection to (other than friends in) the police or the military to wear such boots?
But, you know, I'm doing it anyway. Even if it does mean I ate a bowl of crunchy dumbass for breakfast. I am tired of falling on my butt when my tennis shoes hit anything remotely slick. I am tired of wrenching my ankles on the potholes in our driveway and just about every other paved surface in New England. I am tired of my back killing me after standing around watching the kids outside. Thus, good workboots. Why this pair in particular? (Uh oh, the geek is escaping...) They look like the boots from Stargate. ::crams geek back into the encapsulated time/space rift:: And they'll look right with my cargos. (What?? You *knew* there had to be a girly girl reason in there somewhere, didn't you??) (Yeah, I wear cargos. I may look odd but, damn, they're comfortable and eminently practical pants.)
Well, at least I won't be going to the range this summer in heels...
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Apr 14, 2010
Dec 3, 2007
I'm Proud of You
"I'm proud of you."
"Pride goeth before a fall."
"It is better to lose your pride with someone you love rather than to lose someone you love with your useless pride." (unk.)
"And nothing to look backward to with pride, and nothing to look forward to with hope." (Robert Frost)
"Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves; vanity, to what we would have others think of us." (Jane Austen)
What is it about pride? We strive for it; we disdain it. We both commend and condemn it in others. But, really, what is it? Is it the self esteem we crave or, as Jane Austen suggests above, the esteem of others?
I have been thinking on pride today in a roundabout way today - about how much reward there is in hearing someone else say "I'm proud of you." I do not ever recall my parents saying that to me - I'm sure they must have at some point but my mother, in particular, was (and is) one to whom there is no superlative, no high compliment appropriate for her children as there is always room for improvement and, after all, they might get too proud of themselves.
Is it, therefore, pride in ourselves that is so abominable, pride in our achievements? Or is it the craving of the approval of others? The satisfaction of having someone else be proud of you? I am beginning to think that, like most things, there should be a middle-of-the-road word that covers the appropriate amount of "pride" - enough so that it is healthy but not so much as to be obnoxious.
It is unfortunate, I think, that many of the women I know do not take pride in their achievements. They downplay what they have accomplished if, indeed, they take note of it at all. I find this reflection brings me much sorrow for I know many, many women with many, many accomplishments to be proud of. For some, it may be a grand achievement of publishing a book or building a self-sustaining business; for others, simply making it from one end of the day to the other given all the burdens they must shoulder; for still others, fighting a constant battle against seemingly neverending forces to work toward their best and highest good.
I think that one of the most heartwarming things to hear from someone is not necessarily "I love you" but "I'm proud of you." "I love you" carries so many burdens and uncertainties with it but a heartfelt "I'm proud of you" brings nothing more than a real sense of accomplishment and gratification that someone else noticed your perseverance, your struggle.
I want each of you to know that, for so many reasons, I am proud of you and my wish for you this holiday season is that you experience genuine pride in your accomplishments and continued struggle against strife. You have each come through so much. Be proud of yourselves. You deserve it.
As Mr. Rogers sang, "I hope that you are proud of you too."
"Pride goeth before a fall."
"It is better to lose your pride with someone you love rather than to lose someone you love with your useless pride." (unk.)
"And nothing to look backward to with pride, and nothing to look forward to with hope." (Robert Frost)
"Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves; vanity, to what we would have others think of us." (Jane Austen)
What is it about pride? We strive for it; we disdain it. We both commend and condemn it in others. But, really, what is it? Is it the self esteem we crave or, as Jane Austen suggests above, the esteem of others?
I have been thinking on pride today in a roundabout way today - about how much reward there is in hearing someone else say "I'm proud of you." I do not ever recall my parents saying that to me - I'm sure they must have at some point but my mother, in particular, was (and is) one to whom there is no superlative, no high compliment appropriate for her children as there is always room for improvement and, after all, they might get too proud of themselves.
Is it, therefore, pride in ourselves that is so abominable, pride in our achievements? Or is it the craving of the approval of others? The satisfaction of having someone else be proud of you? I am beginning to think that, like most things, there should be a middle-of-the-road word that covers the appropriate amount of "pride" - enough so that it is healthy but not so much as to be obnoxious.
It is unfortunate, I think, that many of the women I know do not take pride in their achievements. They downplay what they have accomplished if, indeed, they take note of it at all. I find this reflection brings me much sorrow for I know many, many women with many, many accomplishments to be proud of. For some, it may be a grand achievement of publishing a book or building a self-sustaining business; for others, simply making it from one end of the day to the other given all the burdens they must shoulder; for still others, fighting a constant battle against seemingly neverending forces to work toward their best and highest good.
I think that one of the most heartwarming things to hear from someone is not necessarily "I love you" but "I'm proud of you." "I love you" carries so many burdens and uncertainties with it but a heartfelt "I'm proud of you" brings nothing more than a real sense of accomplishment and gratification that someone else noticed your perseverance, your struggle.
I want each of you to know that, for so many reasons, I am proud of you and my wish for you this holiday season is that you experience genuine pride in your accomplishments and continued struggle against strife. You have each come through so much. Be proud of yourselves. You deserve it.
As Mr. Rogers sang, "I hope that you are proud of you too."
Nov 16, 2007
I've Been Eating Rice Again.
Jade's blog entry today got me thinking. First, whoever wrote the Nerd Handbook is dead on right and could've been living in my head. Secondly, how helpful it would have been if my parents had been able to understand this stuff.
From that second point, I made one of those leaps to greater self-understanding that only occurs once in a while. John and I were talking about my parents and how they always go to bed at the same time. John asked whether it had always been that way. As I was thinking back, a random memory came a'calling that really made me understand something about myself.
When I was in grad school, I often worked late in the photo labs because I'm most creative at night. I'd come home (I lived at home during grad school - NOT recommended to anyone) and, because I hadn't had supper, made myself a big bowl of rice because I was too lazy/tired/indifferent to make an actual meal and wanted something hot because, well, it was Upstate NY in the winter. I sat down at the TV in the backroom with my big bowl of rice to watch the 11 pm rerun of Scarecrow & Mrs. King on Lifetime. Apparently, my mother got up to go to the bathroom and heard me. She came in and you'd've thought I'd stolen the last can of beans from the soup shelter... no, more like the last can of beans out of the hands of someone who hadn't eaten in a week. She raised such a ruckus, she woke my father. He said something understandable, like "what is going on here?!" and she replies, "She's eating a big bowl of rice!!!" as if she'd been saying "she's murdering the neighbors!" or "she's fucking the dog!" For God's sake, it was a bowl of fucking rice; it wasn't like I'd suddenly decided to cook the sirloin from the freezer of something.
At any rate, in recalling this, I suddenly realized why I am so cynical. I figured it was just a Gen X thing and, to an extent, of course, it is but this was really groundbreaking for me. Of course you're going to be cynical if, no matter what you do, even the most innocent thing could get you in trouble because the rules keep shifting. John compared it to living under a miniature communist totalitarianism - the point is not what the rules are but that the authority owns you.
I wish for you all a big bowl of uncontested rice this evening.
From that second point, I made one of those leaps to greater self-understanding that only occurs once in a while. John and I were talking about my parents and how they always go to bed at the same time. John asked whether it had always been that way. As I was thinking back, a random memory came a'calling that really made me understand something about myself.
When I was in grad school, I often worked late in the photo labs because I'm most creative at night. I'd come home (I lived at home during grad school - NOT recommended to anyone) and, because I hadn't had supper, made myself a big bowl of rice because I was too lazy/tired/indifferent to make an actual meal and wanted something hot because, well, it was Upstate NY in the winter. I sat down at the TV in the backroom with my big bowl of rice to watch the 11 pm rerun of Scarecrow & Mrs. King on Lifetime. Apparently, my mother got up to go to the bathroom and heard me. She came in and you'd've thought I'd stolen the last can of beans from the soup shelter... no, more like the last can of beans out of the hands of someone who hadn't eaten in a week. She raised such a ruckus, she woke my father. He said something understandable, like "what is going on here?!" and she replies, "She's eating a big bowl of rice!!!" as if she'd been saying "she's murdering the neighbors!" or "she's fucking the dog!" For God's sake, it was a bowl of fucking rice; it wasn't like I'd suddenly decided to cook the sirloin from the freezer of something.
At any rate, in recalling this, I suddenly realized why I am so cynical. I figured it was just a Gen X thing and, to an extent, of course, it is but this was really groundbreaking for me. Of course you're going to be cynical if, no matter what you do, even the most innocent thing could get you in trouble because the rules keep shifting. John compared it to living under a miniature communist totalitarianism - the point is not what the rules are but that the authority owns you.
I wish for you all a big bowl of uncontested rice this evening.
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