Women Create

I know so many amazing women.

In time, I wish to be able to write about all of them. But in this post, I want to focus on two of my closest friends in Israel. Both women are brilliant, smart, motivated, multi-lingual and artistic. Both women are immigrants to Israel. Both women are independent and brave. Both women are mothers, both have triplets (all together now: Oy vey! Keinehora!)! Both women are artists, who began to create art after they had created new lives. They are recreating themselves in a way. I am so inspired by these women and I want to share their art with you.

Hilary is my honorary second mom/sista-from-anotha-mista from Kibbutz Saad. As well as playing several instruments and being instrumental in introducing me to her band, who allowed me to share a wonderful and musical year with them, Hilary is an acclaimed artist, as of the last few years. Several years ago, she took a class and that class turned into beautiful flower paintings and landscapes. Then came her abstracts- her use of color is amazing and the first 3 of that installment hang proudly in my living room. They lend color, depth and personality to the otherwise white blank slate room. They make me think of Hilary and her strength.

Hilary has 5 sons and a husband. That’s right, the woman has 6 kids in her house! I mean her oldest son helps a lot and her husband is a champ, but then she had triplets and God Bless Her, she then had one more just for fun. She is a nurse full time and over time, so she cares for people 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Her outlets, her music and her art are so expressive of her fun-loving personality, her kindness, her creativity, her open, adventurous side and her sensitive, feminine side.

Her latest installment of work is based on images of bamboo- the original piece was on request from a friend but as soon as friends and neighbors saw it, and the others- variations in size, color, negatives, neons, black and white- they began selling and going up in homes all over Israel, the US and Europe! Now, painting for fun is one thing, and it’s great- but on top of all of the other things to do in your life, to dream and act on a business concept, now that’s just fierce. But I understand her- I mean these pieces are good and they should be sold. I think that in the right markets, they could have serious mass appeal, which implies that her future work could have the same effect. I really believe in Hilary’s art and I love it. If you want to see more or get in touch with Hilary, contact me!

Marcia is a Brazilian queen, independent, strong, honest and kick-ass. Recently, she began designing clothes and, having been one of her first models I can tell you, this girl has vision, style and a serious understanding of how to make women look good. Her first two designs just hit stores all over Israel and I personally wear her wrap-meets-cardigan almost everyday. Marcia took this huge step- a new career, a new artform- within a year of just having triplets and building a new home. I don’t know anyone who would have the strength to do that. But she did. The first time I saw Marcia’s clothes, I already wanted one of each- they are flattering to all body-types and super sexy- dresses, tops, sleeves, oh my!

Marcia is the friend who met me at the airport when I made aliyah and helped me through the some of the hardest times of the past 5 years- and helped me celebrate some of the best times! Marcia has had quite an intense and amazing few years, she married a great man and gave birth to triplets! Yes, another set of triplets I am proud to know and love. With a big move and a broken leg, this woman has had her share of challenges this year.But she’s a champ and with her amazing family by her side, she’s kicking ass with her new clothing line!

Despite it all and with it all in her pocket, she still has the strength to start her own clothing design line, mass produce and market her women’s fashions. Her style is awesome, very feminine, very free-flowing, sexy, comfy but not shlumpadinka, curve-loving, beautiful fabrics and colors. Go here to see more and find a list a of stores, or contact me to get in touch with Marcia!

There are things we can all do everyday to support creative women like Marcia and Hilary- we can wear their designs and hang their art in our homes. We can talk them up, forward this post and other PR around to our friends and make sure we do our part to support these fierce women and their creations.

Go ahead, girls! Keep those creative juices flowing, we’re with you!

Fuck Working Out!

I will never be one of those people who love physical exertion. I hate when those little work-out bitches say that spinning feels so good, running calms them, cardio completes their day. Not me.

Working out pisses me off. It riles me up, makes me wanna scream. Exercise sucks… but I do it now, because like beans, its good for your heart.

I hate all forms of exercise. Here’s why:

Walking outside (cause you know my ass is not running alongside traffic in daisy dukes like some soccer star) is just wrong. I walk from work in the city center of Jerusalem to my home- a nice 30-40 minute walk, depending how fast I take it. I take the dog, who sits faithfully by my side at work anyway and we walk home. At least it’s downhill.  On my walk home I pass my bagel stores, burger joints, pizza places, nice fancy restaurants. I smell meat and fish being cooked in the kitchen as I walk by sweating my fat ass off, knowing that a salad waits for me at home. I walk past the makolet (bodega) with its snack food calling my name and the skinny French immigrants and their chocolate stores, taunting me. Fat American Jewish girls ordering ice cream, as I can barely squeeze past their chubby cheeks on the sidewalk. If I could walk in a plain blank world with no delicious smells and no tempting food joints, then walking outdoors might not be so bad, but alas, my day is like one long temptation challenge on The Biggest Loser.

I don’t belong to a gym. I will not pay money to share a stinky locker room and see dangley old boobies in my face as I change. I will not sign up or wait for an elliptical machine when I  bought one a few years ago for less than the cost of 4 months gym membership. I will not be looked at while I sweat and drip and scowl. I will not watch my language or try not to look miserable just so that the gym yentas won’t mark me as the angry girl. I don’t want to go to silly classes and have some skinny bitch tell me what to do for an hour.  I certainly won’t find myself at a unisex gym, too intimidated to use the machines, oggled to death and watching grown men grunt, get red-faced and check themselves out in the mirror while they do so- If that’s what I wanted, I would have stayed married.

So I work out at home, where I really do have everything I need to weigh 20 lbs less than I currently weigh. Shameful. Dusting off the elliptical machine was a shitstorm of guilt and regret but I digress.

Being on the elliptical machine is so boring, no TV exciting enough to make me forget that I am running in place.

Lifting the free weights is awkward and I’m sure I’m doing it wrong- I’m positive that no untrained spaz like me could be doing this right. I will eventually hurt myself if I haven’t already.

Worst of all are the crunches and sit-ups. Fuck crunches and sit-ups. My belly is too fat to crunch right now and my back is too weak to help it get there. So the result is something between a flounder and a jelly fish beached on the shore at sunset. Helpless, hopeless, not pretty and very stinky.

Stretching isn’t so bad, I guess. But I highly doubt I can stretch myself into a size 8 from my living room floor. And don’t say, “You Should Do Yoga!” because all you get when you stick a high-strung, bloated bitch like me in a quiet, serene one-hour yoga class is some farting, a little uncomfortable laughter, the rude sounds of my cellphone which I inevitably did not turn off and  a walk-out 5 minutes later.

In conclusion- fuck working out! I will do it but I will complain all the way through. Because I hate exercise and nothing in this great world is going to change that.

And that is just one more thing I have in common with the great  Miss Oprah.

Operation Get Skinny: Join the PAA

Join the PAA.

No, not the Palestinian Authority Acrobats and not the Parents’ Asshats Association.

Pizza Addicts Anonymous

OK, well I am not such an anonymous person- as you already know I like spilling my guts out on the webpages of this blog- it helps me think, it allows me to feel and be honest with myself… and yourself and whoever else’s self will listen.

But I am addicted to pizza. Man, I love pizza.I mean, I grew up in New Jersey for God’s Sake where the pizza is delicious and made with the love that only a skinny man named vinny truly holds for cheese, sauce and crust. With toppings like baked ziti, eggplant, pineapple, or mountains of green olives like in Israel- or my newest recent topping-love: onion! The stinkier the pizza and the more fattening, the better.

When I was a kid, I remember that we had Pizza day once a week for lunch. The rest of the days I think we mostly brown bagged it, which was fine. But on this one wonderful day a week, we got steaming hot, oily, cheesey aromatic pizza with a thin crust and a messy shirt by 12:45 in the afternoon. I used to wait for these days to come around. Maybe I still do.

Today, as an adult, I should know better. One slice of Pizza has 400-4,000 calories, half a pound of fat and, and 0 nutritional value and yet it comprises nearly 100% of your daily required happiness. It’s sad but true. The pizza train is a one way trip to Fatassville. Population: me and 10 million Americans.

So I need to quit my one true love. The one thing that, aside from the dog, has always been there for me. When I left my ex with a couch, a TV and a bed, I moved into an empty apartment. Before my new fridge was delivered, I ordered Pizza. That pizza was there for me that first night. And it was there for me when I woke up the next morning. But I can’t stick by pizza the way it stuck by me. Because it’s making me chubby and lazy.

So I hereby officially break up with pizza. It’s not you, it’s my spare tire. We can still be friends (I say that now, but we both know it can never be true). I never meant to hurt you, you were always very good to me. I’ll miss you. *Tear*

Diet: Day 1

Misery. It’s just pure misery. I mean it’s only my first day of counting calories and my diet isn’t even technically legit (I refuse to eat reduced fat cheese. that’s sacrilege where I come from!) and still I am fucking miserable today. I’m HUNGRY!!

I got on the scale a few days ago. Here’s how it all went down…
Scale: ## Kilogram (you know my ass is not telling you how much I really weighed in at!!!)
Chubby Me: OK. I know that is too much, but I don’t know how much it fucking is in LBs. Breath. This might not be as bad as it seems.
(pause here to convert on my cell phone…  = ### Lbs)
Chubby Me: Shit! Fuck! What the hell? When the crap did that happen?
Scale: Well, it all started…
Chubby Me: Shut it! Isn’t it bad enough I just found out I’m fat?! Do you need to rub it in?! Jerk.

When I stopped talking to the inanimate object that had just calculated my new heavy weight champion boxing stats, I started to think. When did I gain all this weight? I mean I remember the delicious french fries, ice cream, mashed potatoe, white bread, hamburgers, cold beers and iced teas I enjoyed over the last few years, and as delicious as they were, they always seemed like an exception to the rule of eating healthy. Guess that was one of those lies we tell ourselves to keep going. Oh and I kept it going.

I did see my clothes shrinking but I thought it was the German dryer- it always shrinks my jeans. I just assumed it was because I can’t read the fucking German.  Grrr, Germans.

I don’t want to exercise. I don’t want to work out, sweat and kick my own ass. I DO NOT WANT TO DO CARDIO. I DO NOT WANT TO RUN, WALK, CRUNCH, LIFT, CURL, SQUAT or any of the sort. But I must. I know I must. I started with the walking. Check. But it turns out that I’m no longer 18 years old. Walking lightly for 40 minutes no longer helps me shrink  the belly I love so much. So I will work out… tomorrow.

But when I add it all up, it does equal ##Kilograms, or ### Lbs, and I’m not proud. I guess we do what we do to get by. I got divorced, got back on my feet, quit smoking, and now I have met my next hurdle. I don’t want to be skinny, my body isn’t built for it and I know the men love the cushion for the pushin’. I need to get healthier, more fit, than I am right now. I need to get into better shape, strengthen my core and get control over my eating.  So I will.

I’ll take you along with me for the ride in between my other rants. Feel free to share with me the story of your personal hell. I know I’m not the only one out here hungry as hell at midnight, thinking only of buttered popcorn, gooey brownies, Ben and Jerry and those little Keebler Elves. How many calories are in that sinful, naughty food-orgy fantasy? No. Wait. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

Math and Growing Up Girl

I have a confession to make. In every math class I ever took, from Kindergarten to college, I uttered the bitter words, “I will never use this in real life!” and  “I won’t need to know this in my future career as a Broadway star (I was a gay man even at 12)!” and the ever famous, “When will I ever use this crap when I’m grown up!?”

Well, I’m a grown ass lady now and I admit it: On a daily basis I use math.

I am not a Broadway star. And I use math daily. But I didn’t always.

I wasn’t good at mathas a girl growing up, whether it was due to the difficulties I had concentrating, or the boy-minded focus of HS math teachers, or just a natural mutual repulsion, me and the arithmetic never hit it off.

In my years after high school, I depended on roommates to do the bills, friends to work out tip and later, I found a husband to do it for me. So strong was my aversion to numbers that when I met my ex-husband, I let him take on all of the finances, budgets and I just lived in clueless bliss. Now this may have also been a way to avoid responsibilities, granted- but I can’t deny that my lack of confidence in my math abilities, my hatred of working with numbers, was the common denominator.

My avoidance of +, -, x, /, %, <,>,$, and #s carried on. Until. Until the day I left my marriage. Until my lawyers asked me for figures I couldn’t give them. Until my savings began to sink to oblivion. Until I had to make a budget and stick to it- with the use of- gasp- numbers and math.

At work, I avoided making budgets, depended heavily on others to help pass the numbers end through while I wrote reports. Just plug them in, I thought. Looking back, it led to mistakes and missed opportunities to learn and grow. I was scared to make mistakes and I missed out.

Numbers are powerful. We know that money is powerful- but it isn’t if you cannot manage it well. It is the person who confidently has control over numbers, money, that holds the key- that has the potential to create change and sustain change. Lack of ability to fully control numbers, budgets and money is a glass ceiling in itself, holding women back from moving past certain levels of jobs to upper management, where the purse strings are held.

Teaching math skills and confidence manipulating numbers to young women should be just as important to feminism as promoting positive body image, self-defense and leadership skills. The gender gap and the glass ceiling is a product of patriarchy, and so is a male-centered method of teaching math, and the gendered separation of logic related toys (Legos for boys) and imagination related toys (dolls for girls) during childhood. But a large percentage of teachers are women. A large percentage of educators have the opportunity to help girls become just as confident as boys in this important skill-field.

Here is a great example of a math book written by women for girls- and an interview with the author on a mission. I’m with her, and these great ladies!

In 1992, Mattel’s Teen Talk Barbie said, “Math is tough!” and it was the fuck-up heard ’round the world. But when I said it as a child, I didn’t get too many gasps from the world’s concerned masses. Recently, I took on a job in the administrative arts (secretarianism) in a non-profit, originally thinking it was just a pay check, I was handed a mess of finances, to help the director get it in order and keep it in line. Budgets, incoming donations and expenses. Numbers. My friend and boss came in to my office while I slaved over the numbers. I was literally in the middle of a wrestling match- it  was me or the math and only one of us was coming out on top. There I was, all sweating and struggling with the numbers- she listened to my frustration and fear- she pushed me to keep on working on it, probably knowing how important it would be for me in the future. Thank you, if you’re reading.

I need math in my grown-up life. I now embrace numbers, I own them and I manipulate them with ease. OK, not ease necessarily, but definitely now with a calm about me. I do my best and it’s getting better all the time.

Math + Me = LOVE

Strategy: Girls Scare Boys

Tired of being a strong, independent woman inside your apartment and then a shaky, scaredy-cat girl walking home at night?

Even in safe-city Jerusalem and especially in creepy New Brunswick, NJ I haven’t always felt self-assured on the streets at night. I’ve marched in some amazing Take Back the Nights- and it is so important to experience the unifying feeling of a women’s march against violence and rape. But we can’t always be lucky enough to be surrounded by hundreds of dykes while walking home from work (we should only be so lucky!). So I have taken two steps towards feeling stronger and more confident on the streets at night:

Step 1: IMPACT. Learn self-defense and IMPACT is the only way. It is a real life, real experience kick-ass course that builds confidence and teaches the moves while convincing you that you can do it. And believe me, I could if I had to. So find an IMPACT course near you and take it up ASAP (for Jerusalem and Tel Aviv go here).

Step 2: Act like a crazy lady on the street. It’s my new thing. I’m working out a way of scaring the scaries and freaking out the freaks.

Now, I know you might be embarrassed to do this but it works.

Case and Point: Last year, I was walking my dog at night in the field behind my house. The field is dark but my dog, Jersey, likes to poop there, so what can I do?I gotta go there. So, a young man comes up to play with Jersey and takes a step near me in the dark, invading my personal space and asking me if I live in this building. I can’t see the man’s face and I am feeling vulnerable to this potential threat. So I start yelling at him, like a crazy person. Using my IMPACT skills of telling the person violating my space that I want them to stop and walk away… but a bit loonier that they taught is in class. It’s my personal spin on the defense tactic.

He walks away.

A week or so later, two men walk by and the same thing happens- they play with my dog and then come up to me, asking where I live and why am I out here alone at night. I feel threatened, scared, so I started to yell at the guys. As they skulk quickly away in the shadows, I hear one console the other, “Don’t worry man, she did the same thing to me last week.”

Moral of the story: the roles are reversed now. I am the creepy neighborhood stalker now. I am the one who is freaking out the boys on the streets, late at night, skulking in the shadows. I love it.

Understand the tactic here: I am yelling normal, sane commands like “don’t step any closer to me” and “stop!”, “back up!”, but my eyes and my voice are conveying a slight crazy that implies a danger that women can’t always convey to men. Because, untrained, we are physically vulnerable, acting like a nut job gives us the necessary intimidating factor to feel safe.

It may not get you elected neighbor of the year or community prom queen but it helps me feel confident on the streets at night.

So walk that dog in your dark field, girl… just get you some crazy eyes and stay safe!

Women’s Psych 101

My name is Shira and I am in therapy.

Admitting it sounds funny, even though I’m sure that most people who read my blog are in therapy (no offense, but let’s be honest). I feel like there is still a stigma, like we whisper it when we leave the office for a  ‘50 minute hour’.

Truth is, I feel lucky. I found a great therapist when I needed the help the most and I could afford it. Therapy is so hard at first,  and it’s exhausting and it’s lonely sometimes. But it’s amazing and life altering when you put the work in and trust the process.

So  I propose to you that mental health is a human right. I am sure that I’m not the first feminist to assume that for most women, mental health comes at a price- either financial or personal- that they cannot afford. Not that having money makes you happy, but not having the financial means to talk to someone when you need, can cost a woman her life and future.

Recently, the price of my own therapy was raised- and this is within the national health care package in Israel. My American girlfriends struggle with changing jobs and changing health care providers and the issues of prescriptions covered by the previous carrier but not the new one, and waiting lists for appointments with covered doctors, new doctors.

So we turn to the wonderful world of Non-profits. Non-profits that provide therapy for those who need it and cannot afford it, are amazing. The work they do saves lives. But their resources are limited and they usually work off of some sliding scale of need, which cannot begin to take into account the diverse needs of  a multitude of women in different communities like those that exist in Jerusalem.

• It is valid that a woman who has a full time job and makes ends meet still doesn’t want to make yet another payment at the end of the month.
• Therapy is not a  “leisure” or “extra” activity, though it is deemed so when compared to her otherwise socially-acceptable needs.
• It is hard enough to get out of work, when, for example, one non profit in Israel could only offer my friend appointments during the hours of 9am and 5pm.

So, though I am sure they are understaffed and underfunded like the rest of us, women’s health non profits don’t quite seem to be able to help, across welfare lines.

3 stories, just samples of many, to rock your gourd:

1. In Israel, one such org  told a friend, who barely makes ends meet after taxes and has student loans coming out of her ass, that her income (before taxes, and not taking into account her debt) implies that she could afford full price therapy. She was welcome to come in for an appointment at 11am on a Tuesday. Thank you for invalidating our feelings, our financial state and our work day.
2. On my own mental health journey, when first inquiring within my national health care provider as to mental health  in Jerusalem, the person answering the phone had not yet had her morning coffee and she was brutal. When I asked regarding English-speaking therapists (I inquired in Hebrew, mind you), I was told to learn the language now that I live here and suck it up. She hollered something rude about immigrants and I asked her name and hung up. This person who answered the phone is the first stop for all people in Jerusalem who are looking for affordable mental health help and she’s heinous. To be judged or yelled at, in your vulnerable state,  is a mockery of such a department and all departments in the field. I called back after that first conversation, spoke to the manager and told him of the unfortunately incident. He was sorry to hear of the correspondence but he told me he was glad I called, so he could take care of it. I doubt he did. Thank you for embarrassing and traumatizing us after we muster up the balls to ask for help.
3. Another friend of mine had a wonderful, affordable  therapist through a non-profit. Her  therapist was fired, with no warning, and she was given no forwarding information to allow her to carry on her treatment. Thank you for giving us a glimpse into what privilege can buy. Thank you for showing us that only money, and not good intentions, assure you stable, consistent professional help.

Point is, it is hard to find cheap, quality, consistent therapy. Maybe the revolution needs to start, at least for now, in our minds. Because I want to see a day when a women’s mental health is as important as the needs of her children, family, work, car and even the puppy.

Without our marbles, ladies, how can we save the world?

that funny feeling

Ahh, that funny feeling. No, not the one you got when you found your friend’s dad’s playboy stash when you were 12. The funny feeling I’ve been thinking about lately is the one that sits in your core and you can only hear it when you get real still.

Oprah talks a lot about it, the feeling we get in our gut that tells us that something ‘just isn’t right’. Intuition- I’m sure we all know, or at least in hindsight we can see when the inner-nudging tried to reach out to us,  but we just didn’t listen and it altered our lives. Or maybe we did listen and we know we have our lives to be thankful for that we listened to our inner voice.

While I am talking about hearing voices, I’m not talking about coming down with a case of the crazies or all of those little anxious pushes and pulls throughout the day (oh yeah, like your neuroses are so must cooler than mine). I am talking about the feeling, the nudge in your gut, that pushes you toward a new direction or urges you away from a decision.

While I didn’t listen to that feeling, which I admit was more a pushing, shoving, screaming in my gut than a mere nudge, I learned to listen. I learned to feel it, listen to it. I’m still learning, always listening. It’s probably the most honest part of me. The part that forced me into therapy (the best personal decision of my life to date), that forces me to keep paying for therapy as they raise the prices (don’t get me started!), and pushed me to start writing this blog a year ago.

I’ll make more mistakes. I might be making one as you read this. It’s human. But I have the mistakes to thank for a new perspective on what and who is good for me and how to make the best life for myself.  I complain a lot, I rant like a madwoman but with good reason. I work hard, I live on a tight budget, I find myself in 2 court battles and I just can’t seem to catch a break sometimes. But that being said, I am so lucky. Lucky my funny feeling  screamed until I heard it, lucky I (eventually) listened, lucky I have great jobs, great friends, a great apartment and a new found perspective.

Say what you will about my gut, but since I started listening, I’ve been doing OK.

92 Days

Well, it’s done. I got my get- my divorce is finalized .

It’s over and I’m so relieved. It was a surprise- a pleasant one that got thrown together when the opportunity presented itself- and the quiet in my head is tangible. I think I actually saw the weight lift from my shoulders as he repeated the words after the rabbi in the rabanut.

To my surprise, the rabbis were sympathetic to my place in the unwanted relationship with an unstable man and they seemed to understand the urgency of this ceremony, allowing the arrangements to go on for hours, once the opportunity presented itself.

That having been said, the process in the rabbinic system is RIDICULOUS. The ceremony of divorce involved the man doing a lot of  ‘repeat after me’s and the woman doing a lot of ‘waiting outside so as not to worry my pretty little head over this big man business’. I spent the better part of the time in the hallway/waiting room. It’s mildly offensive. Also, I have not counted out the possibility that there was a game of circle jerk going on inside the courtroom while I waited outside during the “writing of the get”. I’m just saying, it’s possible. The sexual tension in that room was overwhelming!

At the very end, when they recalled that my ex was actually divorcing me and not the 9 bearded old men in the room, I stood up and did my part- no talking, no words, no voice- just catching a paper and walking to and from a door (that’s actually all true). As a part of the ‘repeat after me’s, my ex said the words that freed me from him and freed me for others. Thanks to no will of his own, while repeating after rabbi oldie mcoldberg, my ex acknowledged our divorce, my desire to get out and be free, out loud and in my general direction. It wasn’t heartfelt- it didn’t need to be- but it gave closure in retrospect. Somewhere, hidden deep in that nasty patriarchal world, I found something symbolic that only made that sweet day sweeter.

The rabbi informed me that it is now illegal for me to marry a Kohen- a Jewish man who is a descendant of the bibalical Aharon- and that it is illegal for me to get married within the next 92 days. So unfortunately for you, you will not be receiving a wedding invitation from me in the next 92 days- well, i guess 90 days now. Brilliant.

Thank god for the wisdom of… well, 90 year old Ashkenazi homo-erotic rabbis. Thank god for the strength and support of my friends and family. Thank god that part of my life is behind me.

Superwoman

Up, in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a Plane! No, it’s my dumb ass working 70 hours a week, taking care of a dog, getting divorced, singing in a band and wondering why I’m exausted!

The superwoman thing has to do with wanting to do it all and do it well. I want to make the world a better place. I want to be a part of movements and organizations that do good work and talk about that work. I want to advocate for good causes, and write about them here on this fine blog. I want to fit in the other stuff too- the dog, the music, the divorce… OK, well the divorce is the part that I definitely could do without. But when it is over, I’m going to fill that time with  something else, for sure. Activism! I wish I had time to be a part of some of Jerusalem hell-raising efforts- I love a good throw down and I haven’t been involved in any of the latest protests against Jerusalem’s haredization (religious control and over run of the city).

I like the busy feeling- I thrive off of it. I want to feel like the world rests on my shoulders, like I hold it up. Narcissism? Maybe.  But I don’t think so. I like doing good work, I want it to matter. I like being a good friend, a good family member, a productive member of society, an honest but still polite coworker, a good dog mom. But I still want to be young, go out, have fun. I want to have it all and do it all.

Recently on a particularly busy work day while I was nursing a leg injury and trying to balance a million things, I got a chat message that turned into a phone call that turned into a visit from people who found a tiny puppy  and were on their way to a city kill shelter because they didn’t have time to find the pup a home.  I couldn’t look away, maybe because I’m a good person, but probably also because I can’t resist the thrill of adding another project to an already overflowing plate. Saved a dog, found him a home via friendly a neighbor. Played with a puppy- nothing is better than puppies. But still, stupid. So stupid.

But then there’s the drain of trying to do it all. It’s too much. It’s too hard, It’s exausting and It’s unnecessary. If I drew my lines like I should- if I went home after a 7 hr day, if I had seperate email accounts for work that I only checked from my office, if I had thought twice about how much work a dog would be, if I only worked one of my jobs, if I lived with roommates, if I wasn’t writing this while also watch a movie. When was the last time I only watched a movie and didnt also check my email or write a blog post?  Maybe if I forced myself to relax I would enjoy things more, relax more.

The superwoman complex isn’t all bad- it pushes us to be better, to want more. It both motivates us and pressures us. It is us, only some days we wish it wasn’t. But other days, we can see that it makes all the difference in the world.

If you haven’t heard Alicia’s Superwoman, you need to.