I went to the bank at lunch time today. Yes, I actually went inside to interact with real humans to conduct my withdrawal and deposit business instead of pushing buttons on the ATM machine. Ever since our debit cards were compromised, I’ve gone back to my “old school” ways and have opted for human contact. It’s remarkably pleasant to be greeted by a friendly face, be able to verbally explain what I need done, and walk away feeling confident that my identity was not stolen.
In our digital age, where virtually every interaction is turning into a faceless transaction, taking the extra few moments in our day to be around humans can be astonishingly refreshing. Sure, too much humanity all at once in a crowded mayhem-like environment can be less enjoyable (like a busy subway system or a super Wegmans), but in small doses, we can be surprised by the satisfaction of interacting with living, breathing beings. When I walked into the local branch of my bank, it was quiet and calm, with light music playing. There were just a few other customers in there at the time… likely most others were outside using the drive through or the ATM. One man was finishing up with one of the bank Tellers, another man was waiting just ahead of me, and one older woman was visiting with the other bank associate. Yes, I said that correctly. She was visiting. She clearly was a regular, as she seemed to know the bank staff all personally. Within an instant, I could sense that she was a character. Dressed in funky boots and leggings, with curly unruly hair, she was talking with the bank Associates about mutual acquaintances, about a shopping experience she’d had recently, and about the local theater she used to work at before retiring. I don’t recall her ever saying anything about banking business, but the Teller seemed to be working on some sort of transaction for her, so there must have been a purpose behind her visit besides social.
OK, so true confession time. In my usual beat-the-clock, everything in my life has to be done in warp speed mode, my initial reaction to this woman was an internal eye roll and sigh. I mean, come on, really, must you just hang out and chit-chat? Some of us are on our lunch hour. Soon another Teller opened up an additional window, right next to where this woman was holding court, and called me over. I had waited maybe four whole minutes. As soon as I walked up to the counter, I started to change my first impression of this other customer. The women working there were obviously happy to see her, and enjoying the visit. She had an infectious happiness about her, like she was the kind of woman who embraced her own unique style, and truly enjoyed every person she interacted with in life. She had a big personality, and I started wishing I could get a better view of her without staring, and wanted to see what fabulous scarf or top she had on under her winter coat, which she had shown off to the Teller. I began imagining her working at the theater — the perfect environment for her. I bet she was charming and fun. Instead of considering her odd and annoying, I suddenly wanted to be more like her.
We all spend far too much time rushing around, head down, brain chock-full of issues, worries, what’s-next problems, and stressing over deadlines and how full our plates are. On top of all of that, we strive to look pulled together, attractive, and conduct ourselves in a “normal” way. For the most part, we attempt to blend in – feeling like we are getting away with some sort of risky behavior if we simply add some fun hair color or great shoes. When we do have interactions with strangers or distant acquaintances, we generally remain in our comfortable, polite yet distant zones.
Why? Why are we afraid to be memorable? Shouldn’t we all dare to step out of our comfort zones more and be like that woman at the bank? Many of us seem to think that we have to wait until we are older to have the freedom to act like we want. That seems like a colossal waste of fun.
I’m not suggesting we all start coloring outside the lines with our makeup, wear our pajamas 24-7, pierce bizarre body parts, or act batsh-t crazy. Nor am I saying that our stresses and strains aren’t real, and I realize none of us can be perky and carefree every day. But why not let our true colors and personality show a bit more? Why not be engaging and friendly and even a bit quirky? Yes, there will be some conservative folks who may roll their eyes or whisper about us, but that’s ok. Just smile and wink at them, because you at least made an impression. Let’s see the ATM machine do that.
As I headed back to work, I thought about other RW’s in my life over the years who have dared to be memorable and unique. We all know women who feel so comfortable in their own special, individual skins that they naturally exude confidence and charm. They aren’t afraid to march, in their multi-colored funky heels, to their own drummer and brighten the days of other people in their lives. Just thinking about each one of them made me smile.
Because, simply put, they are unforgettable. Kind of like bank lady.
Ahhh, the allure of cute winter fashion. As temperatures drop, snow falls, and days get shorter, we create images in our minds of looking adorable and festive in our trendy outerwear. We imagine looking, well, like this model. All matchy-matchy, smiling, stylish, happy and not the least bit cold. Because, after all, she’s decked out in her Lands End or LL Bean gear. She’s warm and beautiful.
Stuffed into any variety of winter gear until we look like we weigh 30 more pounds than we really do, causing us to walk like a penguin, and the only skin that is showing is red and chapped, and our eyes and nose are running. True Cover Girl material.
It’s been there, waiting. Behind closed doors, lurking. Conveniently ignored most days, yet silently beckoning for attention. It is…our home office closet. Or, more appropriately named, The Place Where Stuff Gets Shoved Away. A depository for a bizarre mix of buried treasure – everything from a few old toys and games my son played with in his youth alongside early school projects, to formal dresses and suits hung in protective covers, a whole box of various DVDs and CDs, stationery and envelopes, files that wouldn’t fit in the file drawer, stuff cleaned out of my old work desk, a cassette boom box – and oh, look, there’s even some fluffy bird-like marionette puppet tangled and hanging in the corner.
When I was a young girl, like most other children, I hated going to the dentist. In those days there were very few, if any, Pediatric Dentists… just family dentists who did basically the same work on everyone from small children up to senior citizens. There were no cute stuffed animals or toys in the lobby, no pretty pictures on the ceiling to gaze at, no funky sunglasses to put on. I do remember the hideous — and to me, terrifying — cat clock that hung on the wall, it’s eyes and tail twitching and ticking with every doomed minute of my time in the chair – glaring at me, smirking at my fear and pain. I remember virtually nothing about the dentist himself. In my mind he was some kind of ominous dark, serious, old male figure ready to inflict some sort of dental torture. In reality, I didn’t really need to have massive work done as a child other than an occasional cavity or tooth to be pulled… and that scary dentist was probably some young man fresh out of medical school, for all I know. Any truly major work I had done was later in life, like the removal of wisdom teeth (I remember being fascinated that I woke up in a different room than I started, wondering how I got there), nearly three years of braces, and various crowns and root canal issues.
A friend sent me a card some time ago that showed a woman standing at a store counter, a sign hanging above her that read Exchanges. She was requesting an exchange to get her old body back. I can totally relate.
Well, my dear R.W. friends, we are in the home stretch. Christmas is just a few days away, which means all of our frenetic warp-10 level preparations must soon come to an end. We know the holiday is almost here, not because of the calendar, not because of the 24/7 Christmas music in every store, not even because of the number of doors open on our advent calendars. We know simply because we are reaching our annual level of exhaustion and backache.
Most days the thrill of going to the mailbox has been replaced with a sense of tedium. For the majority of the year, opening that little door reveals junk mail and bills. Half of it goes in the recycling bin, the other half goes in the ugh-gotta-pay-this pile. Gone are the days when we used to write letters to each other, or send nice notes just because. Let’s face it, the outside of the box may be decorated with a seasonal wrap — or if you are in Florida, the whole box may be in the shape of a manatee – but inside is a dark and boring pile of blah. Until December. Now I’m like an excited kid eager to open that door (or more accurately, send my husband out in the cold to fetch the contents). Sure, the junk mail and bills keep coming, but mixed in, like some sort of old-school traditional treasure hunt, are holiday cards.
As children, we are filled with wonder at how Santa could possibly fit toys and gifts for all good girls and boys into just one sack. Surely that bag must be magic and bottomless. And for him to be strong enough to sling it over his shoulder? We kids start to believe that the cookies he eats must be filled with super strong-man protein.
As women, when we enter various life stages and age ranges, we do so with flair and celebration. Becoming a teenager is exciting yet hormone and drama ridden, and the world is ours to conquer. Going into our 20’s is a major rite of passage, ushering in our young adult years. Moving into the third (and in my humble opinion, best) decade is a fun combination of being young enough to have fun yet learning how to “adult”. The 40’s are for some reason a major milestone, requiring surprise parties and festivity as we pretend-groan about being “old.” After that, however, the transitions get a bit more muddy.
The other day my husband joined me to run a few errands and do a bit of shopping. This is a fairly rare occurrence. Like many men, my husband’s version of shopping entails taking a quick ride to a hardware or auto parts store to pick up one or two specific items and get the heck out. There is no browsing. There’s no list in hand with flyers and discount offers attached. In his world, if the item is not easily found in less than 15 minutes, or is above the expected price, there ensues some brief cursing and a hasty departure. There is no joy or thrill in the hunt.
Real Women 