Mirror, Mirror on the wall...

A high school classmate of mine posted something on Facebook today comparing herself to a well-known and extremely thin celebrity. The gist of the post was why bother competing if we have already lost. It is a very good question but it got me thinking about body image and the way we view ourselves as women.

I don’t think any female wakes up every day and thinks she is supposed to look like Barbie or Kim K or Gwyneth Paltrow. I do, however, think we wake up every day and are told that we should want to look this way. This puts us in this weird middle place where we know that the whole world is not judging us on a daily basis, watching the number of calories we take in, the number of hours we spend in the gym, and how flattering our outfits are on these rock hard Pilates bodies. No. We might be judged by the people we know, our friends, family, coworkers; and we might be judged in passing by strangers we walk by in the mall or at a restaurant, but in general we do not experience the same type of scrutiny to always look amazing as celebrities do, and yet we feel we should put ourselves through that experience.

Most days after showering I look at my naked body in the mirror and I see some really positive things. I have great collar bones, my back is really nice, I have a stellar ass, my legs are long and toned (even if there is a tiny bit of cellulite). But I also seem to focus on the negative aspects of my body. My stomach is not flat, my hips are too large, I have back fat that cosmetic surgeons refer to as flanks (I know this from looking up liposuction), my breasts are too small, the backs of my arms are not as toned I would like them to be, my nose is slightly crooked, my upper lip is too thin, my eyebrows are different shapes, my ankles are too skinny, and so on. Yet, with all of my imperfections, most days, I look in the mirror and can overlook the things I hate about my body. I can put on clothes and know they flatter my body. I can walk out of the house with my head held high and know that I look good.

The paparazzi don’t follow me around every single day, and I think that helps my self-confidence, living in the PNW doesn’t really hurt it either. But I guess my point is, who decides what is beautiful and why do we all expect to fit into the same box of beauty? Why do we even want to? We all have different hair color, eye color, skin color. We come in different shapes and sizes, so why are we trying to force ourselves to change? Of course, I am not saying to accept being overweight, or people shouldn’t get cosmetic surgery if that is what they really want, but I am saying that striving to look like a celebrity is ridiculous. Those women are paid to be beautiful whereas the rest of us are paid to show up to work every day and perform our job duties. Sure, being pretty helps me in my profession of slinging margaritas, but my job is not to be pretty.

Comparing ourselves to knockouts such as Jennifer Lawrence is like comparing ourselves to aliens. We seem to forget that we do not live in the same world as these beauties. Sure, we might inhabit the same planet, but we are not actually competing with them. I wake up every day having no fear that my boyfriend might one day leave me for Angelina Jolie, partly because he has never done a movie with her, but also because it is never going to happen. We spend so much time worrying about how we look and wondering why the girls that grace the covers of gossip rags have these perfect bodies while we slave away trying to maintain a reasonable BMI that we forget these starlets are freaks of nature. We forget to look around the grocery store and see the women we are actually competing with, and usually against those women, we are safe.

But the bigger problem is that we seem to forget we are more than just our outside appearance. For all of my physical flaws, I am pretty fucking awesome. I am smart and creative, I dance and laugh at myself, I make my friends and family laugh (usually at my own expense), and generally I am a pretty cool chick. So, while being pretty might be what gets me free drinks, being rad is what makes guys, friends, family, strangers, whoever want to continue a conversation with me. That has to count for something, and honestly I think that has to count for a lot more. I was born with this body type. I came out of my mother’s womb destined to have a pear shaped body and be mistaken for a lesbian throughout my formative years, I cannot change that. Being awesome is something I had to groom, not a lot because I was also born pretty freaking awesome, but it has been honed, slightly. That is what I think we should be focusing on. Not who looks the most like some famous actor or singer, but who can hold a conversation and have an original thought and make a joke and laugh at themselves. Maybe if we started focusing more on those things we would be jealous of how funny or smart a celebrity is instead of how thin or large breasted. And maybe it is just me, but I would rather look up to a smart person than a pretty person. 

Epiphany

Some days it just hits me. Most days I float through life, I worry about the future in the same way most people do, but I rarely do anything to change my future. But sometimes it all hits me like a ton of bricks. I have these epiphanies that are so strong is seems at is if the world stops. My breath catches and I am paralyzed by my realization that I am too scared to really live.

I was at a show last night, a show that I have been looking forward to for months. One of the opening bands was playing. Their music wasn’t overly good, but it was decent. I could tell that beneath the synth and the loops and stupid stage theatrics that these artists were really talented singers. And I liked the music, but I liked it in the same way I like other bad music, it is entertaining to listen to, but it isn’t really thought provoking or soulful in the way Taylor Swift sings about every single guy that has ever broken up with her, which is apparently a lot. Regardless, I was at this show and I was watching these performers and it hit me. These people are not doing what I want to do, what I am passionate about, but they are putting themselves out there! I want to write and the best part about writing is that I can lay my heart and soul for the world, but I am doing it with the written word and have the privilege of anonymity. But these people that were on stage, doing that exact same thing, opening themselves and their lives out for criticism and they were rocking it. They were good, the crowd loved them. And if they could put themselves out there without the benefit of being anonymous, why can I not put myself out there behind my blog?

Watching others be fearless made me want to be just as fearless. I have always hated myself for being crippled by my own fear. It is very sick and very cyclical. I hate that I am afraid, but I am too afraid to change it. With each passing piece I write, I am feel I am one step closer to someone realizing that I have no idea what I am doing. That me putting words on to paper is nothing more than that, simply words on paper. I am terrified that one day someone is going to realize I am hack and they are not going to hold back in telling me so. One day some is going to tell me everything I already fear and know. But, I also realize that letting this fear hold me back is cheating myself and the person that will mostly likely one day force me to come to the harsh realization that I am possibly not as talented as I think I am, or my friends tell me I am.

And as if the universe were pushing me in this direction, you know, in case my Earth shattering epiphany wasn’t sign enough I opened a fortune cookie that told me “Keep in touch with some form of the arts”. Even the damn Chinamen is all up in my business, pushing me to do the only thing that I am good at doing.

So, I have to say “Thank you” to Flavr Blue, Watsky, and the Chinamen down the road, Grand Peking, for putting that damn cookie in my take-out. Now, I just need to hold myself accountable and follow through on my most important promises, the ones I make to myself, and maybe one day when my dreams come true, I can thank myself for ignoring that damn voice in the back of my head that will not shut up about how hard I am going to fail and how terrible I really am. If I can quiet that bully that lives inside me and I can overcome my fears, I think I stand a real chance of making something of myself. 

Solo Paradise

Preface
I am far too lazy to proof read this. Sorry and enjoy...
And for the person that said I wouldn't write this, it might be a week or so late, but it is written. Boom!


When movies show a pretty girl, assigned to a plane seat next to an attractive boy, they hit it off and spend a whole vacation together, they fall in love and something dramatic happens, then they find their way back to each other and live happily ever after, know that is all a complete lie. Trust me. Sure I didn’t really want to spend my entire vacation with a complete stranger, or anyone, nor did I want to fall in love, have something dramatic happen, find my way back to him, and spend the rest of my life happily ever after with him, but maybe having a conversation for part of the entire six hour plane ride would have been nice. Instead I got on the plane, was sat next to an attractive boy, and that boy kept his hood up, pulled the window shades down, and slept. Occasionally he would wake up, tear open a snack, and hungrily shove it in his mouth before inevitably falling back asleep, hood up, nursing what I imagine to be a killer hangover.


Eventually the plane landed. It took me a while to navigate the Honolulu airport, but eventually I found my way outside to a taxi. The taxis in Oahu are not yellow and uniform like they are on the mainland, they are a normal Ford Focus, Honda CR-V, Chevy Suburban like you would see a person driving down the road, but these have a cab sign on top, the only thing that sets them apart from the rest of the cars driving down the road.  I think I pulled in to a Ford Expedition. We drove around the island and the driver tried to make some small talk for a little bit, about the weather, but he had such a thick Japanese accent I could only understand about a third of what he was saying. It was a relief to finally pull up to my hotel, $50 after pickup.

I checked-in, was told about all the extra fees for the amenities in the hotel which include DVD rental but not a pool or bar, and left my bags in the lobby while I went to explore the beach because my room would not be ready for a few more hours.

My first stop was a bar called Margaritaville, a Jimmy Buffett owned restaurant with a beautiful view of the strip and beach. The hostess at the lobby told me they bring my food to me instead of me having to go looking for it, apparently this is uncommon in restaurants. I let her continue with her spiel, smiling and nodding, before I pressed the button to take me to the bar. For a place called Margaritaville you would think they might have a decent selection of margaritas and tequila and you would be wrong, my friend. But the view is nice and the bartender was friendly enough, so the place sufficed.

A few hours later, I decided to leave the bar and head to my hotel to check-in. My plan was to shower up, put on a bathing suit and head to the beach. I walked in, got my key, headed to my room. The room was small, but in a perfect way. The whole room was white washed with the exception of a single bright blue wall and an orange throw on the bed. The lights, rug, curtains, bedding, tile, everything was bright, clean white. It was beautiful. Unfortunately my view was mostly of other apartments, hotels, and office buildings. The bathroom was completely different from the room. It was as if I was stepping in to a different hotel when I entered the bathroom. I could tell the hotel must have been remodeled recently. The tile along the shower was a strange shade of yellow, one that might have been popular in the ’70’s. The bathroom was trying to really hard to match the bedroom, but it was failing miserably. But, the water worked, even if it was hard to regulate shower temperature, so I didn’t care too much. However my plan of exploring at night fell through because my bed was so comfortable and I was so tired from closing the night before my flight, waking up early to fly, and then flying. Something about travel makes me sleepy, so I slept.

One of my favorite things about Hawaii is the time difference. When it is noon in Seattle it is only 10 in Hawaii. I am able to wake up early and I have the rest of my day to do whatever I want. So, I woke up early, grabbed some brunch, and went back to my room to change into my bathing suit, grab my book and I headed to the beach where a very attractive surf instructor stopped me to offer lessons. I declined and kept walking until I found a nice spot of lay out and read while working on my tan. As a female, I am obviously really good at multitasking. When the sun started going down, I decided to head back. The same attractive surf instructor stopped me again, asking how long I planned on staying in Waikiki. I told him when I got in and when I leave and he asked if I would like to grab a beer. I was thrown off by his bluntness and asked if it was getting weird. He assured me nothing was weird and gave me his number in case I wanted to meet up later. I seriously considered calling him later that night, then I decided the potential for date rape was too high and stayed in yet again, finished my book and slept.

I finally went out my last night. Waikiki at night is a completely different place! I saw the city transform. Instead of people with strange accents pandering with metal laser cut wind chimes and silk skirts that can apparently be worn 100 ways, the street are filled with street performers and artists. There was the Santa violinist, the two silver robot men that move and dance when you give them money, the break dancing crew, the astronomist with a giant telescope pointed at one of the planets, a caricature cartoonist, scenery artist, and of course the couple of prostitutes, drug dealers, and homeless people. Still, at night it seemed magical, full of energy and life. All of the tiki torches are lit, the open air bars all seem to have live music, the beach had a luau going on, people were still walking around the streets but instead of looking for a place to eat or shop or taking pictures people are out looking for a good bar or club. Lost is the laidback attitude of the morning.

So, I went through the heavily populated streets looking for food. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and the options seemed overwhelming. I knew I wanted to avoid a place like MargeritaVille and Cheeseburger in Paradise, but that still left hundreds of options. Eventually I ended up in a gay bar, the only gay in Waikiki. It seemed to be a slow night, the disco ball wasn’t spinning and no one was on the dance floor, so I was a little disappointed, but their TVs did say they have viewing parties of RuPaul’s Drag Race and the live musician was very talented and attractive, so benefit of the doubt was given. The nice thing about being a straight female in a gay bar is not worrying about getting hit on, because I did get hit on in the only Irish bar I could find by a much much older man the previous day. Although, it was hard for me to turn down his offer for a nice steak dinner, it was nice to not feel the need to reject anything more than another drink from the bartender.

Anyway, the food was great along with the music, but I decided to go find some food that was slightly more filling in a place that was slightly less gay. Back into the hopping streets I went to find myself in a hotel bar. The bar overlooked the beach and had local singers playing relaxing music while their friends’ hula danced for the small crowd. After sitting there for a few minutes trying to decide what to eat and drink a gentleman sat next to me carrying a bag from a jewelry store. He was probably in my father’s peer group and looked like my childhood Ken dolls. Tall, slightly too tan, tight skin, blonde hair that was blow dried and coiffed. But, he was nice and married so he made a great drinking partner. We ordered our food and drinks, ate and talked then decided to head downstairs to the bar on the beach. We were able to sit outside under the tiki torches and drink blended tropical concoctions listening to a different live musician. Strangely, our waitress is from an area of Washington not too far from me. The older gentleman and I talked long into the night before paying our tab and heading our separate ways.

As I was walking back to my hotel on the mostly empty streets, past the couple of prostitutes standing outside of a clothing shop, I reflected on my stay. I can honestly say it was the best and most relaxing vacation I have ever had. Sure, I wish I had done more, maybe not spent so much time in my clean cozy hotel room, I wish I had taken more pictures and maybe joined that beach luau, but in general I learned about myself and I learned how much I love to explore and travel alone. It was worth the sideways glances to being a single female in a paradise usually frequented by couples. The culture shock was immense but at the end, it was completely worth it. I came home recommending that every person I know take at least one vacation in their lifetime by themself.

But, I do also have to recommend extra sunscreen if you go to Hawaii. If you think you have enough on, you don’t, I promise. If you don’t believe me have a conversation with my burnt butt cheeks! 

Adventures in car buying pt 1

Today I cleaned out my car for what is possibly the last time ever. I expected to feel nothing, or if anything excitement, nervousness, maybe a little bit of anticipation. Instead, I became very emotional. Maybe it was the coffee mug or two full of wine, but I would like to think it is because that car holds so many memories for me.

My father one day told me we were going to go look at cars. He didn’t tell me to bring my checkbook, but I had an idea of what might happen. So, I grabbed my checkbook and followed him out the door. We drove about an hour to the car dealer he had picked out with the selection of new cars he thought would be good for me. I was 17 at the time, a few weeks shy of turning 18. The dealership had a decent selection of Focuses. Some were that ugly hatchback, some were sporty, some were manual transmission. But one had nearly everything I was looking for. A four door sedan with an automatic transmission, the only downfall being the color, “Inferred”. I hate red cars, sick. But, I couldn’t turn my back on a brand new car just because of the color.

So, I got out my father and I got out our checkbooks and left the dealer with a brand new car.

The law in Washington State says a new driver cannot have passengers (other than family) in the car for either six months, or until the driver turns 18, whichever comes first. I was about two week shy of being 18 when my parents and I purchased my car. Of course, my parents told me to wait to give rides to my friends and of course I did not listen. Immediately I was giving two girls that lived down the road (MD and EE) rides to school. EE was always super annoying because she was NEVER ready on time and she was always having some type of earth shattering, life ending drama with her much much older boyfriend. MD was usually funny and quiet and always down to skip first period for some Shari’s.

(For the sake a funny tidbit MD’s dad thought I was a cheerleader because I was a wearing a white pleated miniskirt when I needed him to change the tire on my car because a boulder jumped in front of me on the road)

Soon, I turned 18 and I was driving with passengers legally, shortly after EE stopped getting rides from me. I don’t remember why, but I was none too upset about it. Also soon, I was parking in the high school parking lot without a permit. I knew Coach Nick (our school coach, security guard, etc) was far too super obese (this is a real term and completely fitting) to fit between the cars in order to put a ticket on my front windshield, so I parked along the fence in the parking lot almost every single day. I never got a ticket.

I made plenty of completely stupid driving decisions in the car like racing on the streets and getting into the turn lane to pass my friends, taking turns at 45, doing 100+mph on the freeway, and other general young and reckless ideas. But, by the time I turned 21/22 I had calmed down a lot. For the most part I rarely sped more than with the speed of traffic, I stopped racing my friends, didn’t make stupid risky decisions like taking turns way too fast. Yet, my parents knew I was of legal drinking age and were convinced a DUI was on the horizon.

As of writing this I am DUI free and have every intention of remaining that way.

But as I cleaned out my car today, this flood of memories came back to me. I remember riding with my group of friends with nowhere in my mind, I remember picking up my high school boyfriend (BK) from the airport dressed like a sexy chauffer, I even found a box of his things in the trunk of my car. I saw the glittery heels in my car from long nights dancing and listening to great DJ’s. I found my salsa shoes in my car, reminding me of taking lessons and going out dancing with my Columbian friends. I found about 5 single socks without mates. I found paystubs and old bills, letters I never opened, accident report forms, receipts from a tow company to help me get in my car after one of the many times I locked my keys in my car. I found my permanent protection order that I am supposed to keep on me at all times.

I had make-ups in that car and break-ups in that car. I probably had a first kiss or two in that car. I have some really great memories in that car and some really terrible ones. And while most of those memories will still be with for a long time coming, it is still hard to know as I am cleaning my life out from this vehicle a piece of these memories is getting sold with the car.

It will be nice not to see where my crazy ex (MDW) keyed my car and scratched his initials in the gas cap. It will be nice to not look at the car and remember him sitting in it so I couldn’t leave, until I called the cops, or chased me down in my car on the infamous night to make sure I wasn’t going to tell anyone, to make sure I didn’t have a key to get back in to our place or the garage. I won’t sit in the car and remember how it would smell like booze and cigarettes for days after picking him up from a party.

I won’t have the memory of being sexually assaulted by random guys that I knew who were usually drunk. I would reach across them to open their door and push them out.

But, I also won’t have the memory of going to Jack in the Box instead of fourth period with MD, or making out like high school kids with MC, or talking and laughing for hours about nothing with KAM, or making out in front of MD’s parents with MJ. That Focus is more than just a car; it is an emotional scrap book of my early adulthood. It is a security blanket of memories and life events.

So, while I am excited to get a new car and move closer to real adulthood, it is sad to lose this part of my adolescence. And this is a feeling I did not expect. But, that car has gotten me through a lot. It has put up with its fair share of abuse and I am a little sad to see it leave. I hope it has a better future than just being scrapped for parts. 

Hunt for a real job pt 2

This week my hunt for a real job was more stressful than last week. It started like it always does, with my daily emails from Monster, CareerBuilder, and an assortment of insurance companies. As I was going through the different job opening and applying, I found a promising entry level position with decent pay, hours, and location. I figured it must be too good to be true, but it wouldn't hurt to apply. So I did.

Had I known the application processes would take me three hours and only lead me to a staffing agency I am not sure I would have done it. But, as I was applying, I figured I had to be getting close to the end of this application. I mean, even The Never Ending Story ends eventually! It made me miss the days of Comcast and applying for shitty retail jobs. I thought 45 minutes was a long time! Jeez.

But, I set up a meeting with a staffing agent and it went extremely well. However, before I could meet with the agent I had to fill out even more paper work, sign a bunch of documents and watch a safety video with a test afterward. The video covered everything from the appropriate way to use the stairs (apparently the rail along the side of stairs is not just for aesthetics), how high my heels should, or better yet should not be, the jewelry I can wear, how to properly type, how to properly use a filing cabinet, and that I should not let people at work touch me. The test was on safety materials covered in the video and the general policies of the staffing agency. I am not sure what my grade was, but I hope I did well.

Regardless, I left feeling upbeat. I was stoked to compile a list of 20 start-ups that I would be interested in working for, it seemed like the woman I met with was also pleased with the possibilities of placing me.

Then, the next day happened. I got an email from the staffing agent telling me of an opportunity to start immediately. I had to turn her down because the schedule at my current job is out and there is no way I could get ALL of my shifts covered in such a short amount of time. The rest of the day was basically terrible and ended with me going into my work to check if I had accidently left my keys. I hadn't  My manager invited me to sit down and have a drink, but I politely declined telling him drinking in my emotional state was not the best of ideas.

I came to work the next day ready to work. After about five minutes, I knew I had made a huge mistake by coming in. I walked into the office and started sobbing. I told my manager I couldn't do it, that I needed to go home. He awkwardly put his hand on my shoulder, told me to breathe, shifted around so I could take a seat, and left the office to figure out how to run the floor without me. A few minutes later he came back in, told me everything was figured out and that I should head home. I did.

By Sunday, all was well, and then I went to work. My shift was ridiculous! It was one weirdo after another. One crazy situation after another. When my shift was finally over I couldn't have been happier to get out of there.

Now, Monday is where things get tricky. Sometime earlier in the week I had agreed to trade shifts with a coworker. I was supposed to start work in the morning and be on a double. Of course, this completely slipped my mind. I didn't realize I had missed my shift until 2:30 in the afternoon, when I checked my phone. I was greeted with a voicemail from my manager asking me where I am and why I didn't show up at my scheduled time. Suddenly it all came back to me. I had downright forgotten and screwed over my coworkers in the process.

Now, I still have to go in to work my night shift. I am not looking forward to disappointed look I am bound to receive, nor am I looking forward to the “what the hell is wrong with you” questions I am going to have to answer. I feel obligated to go above and beyond at work today, but I know doing that does not change what happened this morning.

This has been an extremely unsuccessful work week and hunt-for-a-real-job week. 

My hunt for a job...pt 1

The quest for a real job has led me into some ridiculous emails, awkward conversations with HR and the longest three minute conversation of my life.

An Insurance company has been trying to hire me for what feels like ages. They call and usually I let it go to voice-mail because I do not recognize the number. On this particular day I figured if I am looking for a job I should probably start answering phone calls from strange numbers. This was my first mistake.

The woman on the other end of the phone had an accent I can only describe as a cross between Chinese and Australian. It was obvious she was reading off a script and her words ran together in a fashion that madeitseemlikeshewasjusttryingtogeteverythingoutbeforeIcouldasktoomanyquestionsorhangup. Eventually she got to the point. Apparently, the point of this call is that my sales experience from six years ago is in line with the skills they are looking for, so I was cordially invited to attend a seminar. After all, who doesn't like seminars?!

So, I ask this woman what I would be doing specifically. She rambled on about something, but did not answer my question. I figured there must of have been a breakdown in communication, maybe a language barrier. So, I rephrased my question by asking her what my specific job title would be. Once again, she rambled on in a half coherent fashion and neglected to answer my question.

I knew I couldn't stay on the phone much longer as I had a meeting at my current job, which pays me in real money.  It was a slight relief when she finally invited me the seminar and gave me a date in time. I told her I didn't think I could make it, hoping she would get the hint and hoping I could finish getting ready for my day. Once again, the language barrier must have gotten in the way because she again invited me to the seminar with a different date, hoping to fit my schedule better. This time, I decided to be more blunt and tell her it wasn't about the date and time, it is the job offer that I am not at all interested in, and because I am not a heathen I thanked her and the company for their interest in me.

Before hanging up, she reiterated the growing market of much needed insurance in the Bellevue area and told me if I ever change my mind they would love to have me attend one of their seminars to discuss the growing Bellevue economy and opportunities to work with the elderly to negotiate with pharm companies and some other stuff I couldn't understand due to either a bad phone connection or the strangest accent known to man. 

Not really a blog...

What is it about growing older that makes us less likely to express our frustration with those people we see on a regular basis? Toddlers are more than willing to let everyone around become aware of their discomfort, whether they hurt themselves or simply do not like something another child is doing. We are told from a young age to be nice to others but it is also engrained from a young age to tell someone if we do not like something they are doing regardless of if that something is touching us, calling us a name, asking too many questions, not being helpful enough, whatever. At some point talking about what bothers us changes. It turns from telling the person we might have an issue with to talking to everyone except the person we have an issue with. These conversations are rarely out in the open, instead they are in hushed voices, in that hidden corner of work, behind closed doors, but never, never out in the open and to the person.

Full-Time students spend a huge chunk of their life at school, full-time employees spend a majority of their life at work, and usually roommates spend enough time together that any issues within these areas of our lives, logically, should be addressed. It would make sense to tell a coworker that you are tired of answering her phone, fixing his grammatical errors, booking her events, running his food, facing her product, et cetera. In school it would make sense to tell a classmate you are tired of taking his notes, doing her homework, picking up his slack in the group, maybe tired of trying to hear the teacher over her recounts of shopping and drinking mayhem over the weekend. At home it would make sense to tell your roommate you are tired of doing her dishes, washing his clothes, buying food so she can eat it. Yet, time after time I see adults not address these issues and instead let them fester.

Obviously, the annoyances from these problems can only be swallowed for so long until they come spilling out in a snappy, unnecessary comment, a brash insult, a crazy tirade, or possibly some combination of these things. And I am not saying I am innocent to this behavior, Lord (and my 7^th grade science class that witnessed my Britney-esque mental breakdown) can attest to that. But I can say that when asked directly what my issues are I am willing to discuss them. I cannot say that I am always politically or socially correct when bringing them to light, but I can say that I try and I can say that I least I am willing to voice them when prompted. However, I cannot say that for others.

Maybe our willingness to voice our issues is like a bell curve. When we are very young we are very open about the things that annoy us, make us uncomfortable, or dislike and I notice the same to be true of the elderly. I have rarely met an old person that is quiet about the things they disagree with or dislike. Yet somewhere between our toddler years and our Social Security Medicare years, we seem unwilling to clearly, simply, and plainly discuss what bothers us with the people it seems most valuable, even if confronted by said person.

Why is that?!