Not very often, mind you, but just once in awhile, you get a chance to be the person that you want to be, or the person you could be, rather than the person you currently think yourself to be.
June 26, 6:00 AM, I wake to the sound of a blasting whistle, coming in groups of three. Within seconds, I'm fully alert and out of bed. Within another ten seconds my feet are shoved into my flip-flops and a hoodie is in my hands, along with my employee ID lanyard. While running faster than I've ever run in my life, I slip on the hoodie and hold onto the lanyard as if it's my life force. I sprint the distance that would seem short to any half-decent runner and make it to the stairs. I hate stairs--hate them--they trip me every damn time--but in this moment I don't think about how much I hate the stairs. I just run down the stairs. Yes, run. I never run down stairs. Right now, though, I'm not even looking where I'm going. I'm just moving.
I make it to the sand and see that some people, including my co-counselor, are already in the water. I sprint the last few yards--and then face-plant into the sand, less than two feet from my destination. Hil is laughing, reminding me that this is not, in fact, the real deal. This is just a drill. Ordinarily I would be feeling like an idiot right about now. This time, I just pop back to my feet, assuring Hil that I'm fine (really, compared to my usual klutz-a-thon, falling into the sand is quite pleasant), and throw my ID into the bucket. I kick off my shoes and run down the dock to the line of counselors and campers that has begun to form, led by a lifeguard.
There, I am faced with another problem: getting into the water. I never jump in. I walk, wade, or slide down a ladder. This time, I have to jump...so I do. I do know that this is just a drill, but as always, I treat it as if it's the real deal. I fall into waist-deep water (keep in mind, I'm 5'1) and link arms with my co-counselor. The rest of the line forms. There are maybe twenty of us. This is the rule: first 20 to the water form the line.
We alternate leg sweeps, imagining that we are looking for an unconscious swimmer floating on the bottom of the lake. Three years ago, the very concept of this was enough to turn my stomach. I'm not thinking about that now. I know we won't find anything, but the idea is to be ready for when we might find something, so I actually look and almost shout out when my foot hits a moss-covered rock. Again, I look back to the shoreline, where Hil is watching, but still smiling a little. I remind myself that this is just a drill and that one of my campers is not unconscious at the bottom of the lake, and continue.
We reach the dock and I think the lifeguard is going to tell us to turn around. Not even close. "Under the dock!" she orders us. Oh my God, duck under the water? Without goggles, so I can't keep my eyes open? With my severe lack of coordination, this has disaster written all over it. What if I come back up too early and hit my head on the dock? Then they'll be looking for me at the bottom of Green Lake. I tell myself that won't happen, shut my eyes, and dive under the dock. I overshoot and end up a little past my destination, but it's okay--that's what the "back up to the dock" command is for. We continue leg sweeps until the all-clear signal is given.
By that point, I am so exhausted that I don't know how I'm going to pull myself out of the water and onto the dock, but I do manage it through sheer force of will. This is when I remember, as if it happened ten years ago, that I felt sick when I woke up this morning, probably a combination of nerves at the thought of the drill and not drinking enough water the night before (this has happened before). So I jumped out of bed, ran across the HSG division, jumped into a lake, and dove under a dock, at six in the morning, while feeling sick. And it's only after the fact that I realize I felt sick in the first place.
All of this, and it was just a drill.
Last Saturday, a man passed out in the cafeteria, literally right in front of me (I'm not kidding, he was maybe two yards away, if that) and I completely froze up. No, for anyone who's wondering, I'm not professionally trained; not Red Cross certified or anything like that. But, thanks to a combination of growing up with a nurse for a mother, taking baby-sitting classes that included CPR training, and reading just about everything I could get my hands on, I do happen to know a fair bit about first-aid. So when I completely, totally forgot every single thing I ever knew about how to react in an emergency situation the very first time an emergency actually happened in front of me, you can imagine how utterly useless I felt after the fact.
All I could think was, what if that had been one of my girls? At the time I'd only met, I think, four of my girls, none of whom had any medical conditions that would cause them to collapse in the middle of a crowded cafeteria, but things happen. People get dehydrated, especially in ninety-degree heat, which we'd been blessed with that week. People fall off bunks, run into walls, get hit in the head with flying rec equipment, forget their medications...and as counselors we're expected to know, on some basic level, how to deal with it. So I couldn't stop asking myself, what if that happened to one of the girls in my cabin? What if someone fell off a bunk and got knocked out, and all I could do was stand there like a statue (which, for the record, is what happened in the cafeteria)?
Also, guess what? Emergencies require speed. I am not a speedy person by nature. The fastest I ever move is when I shoot up my hand to answer a question in class. I don't run. I dropped out of the cross-country skiing club in high school because I didn't want to practice cross-country running during the non-snowy months. I can't run for more than a few yards before my body decides, okay, time to stop this. Race-walking? I can do that. Biking? Meh, not my favorite, but I can do it. Put me on rollerblades or a scooter, and I'll whiz by like The Flash. But running? Forget it.
And yet when I just thought that something was wrong, even though my rational mind knew it was just a drill, I jumped into action. I didn't know I could move that. For a girl who spends maybe five minutes every month--if that--doing any kind of running, being the fourth or fifth person in the water is a pretty big deal. Normally if I do have to run, for any reason, even if it's just running to class, I'll whine about it and complain about being hot and sweaty and thirsty. Add in feeling sick to that equation, and forget it, I'd rather be late to class. But the minute I heard that whistle, I didn't think about anything other than, They need me at the waterfront. Someone is lost. Someone could be drowning. I'm not certified in CPR, I'm not a lifeguard, all I can do is help them find that person, so that's what I'm going to do.
When I got that letter telling me, "Congratulations, you made it! You're a counselor!" I was happy, but I was also scared. One of my greatest fears was the LSP. Every year at the arts camp, we have to do a LSP drill. Translation: Lost Swimmer Procedure. Basically, the lifeguards do buddy checks, and if anyone can't find their buddy, the LSP begins IMMEDIATELY. The LSP is what we did this morning: everyone, no matter where they are on campus, runs to the waterfront and makes a human chain in shallow water, then searches for the lost swimmer by doing leg sweeps. Usually, only the first twenty or thirty to make it to the water have to go in. As a searcher, your job is to keep your mouth shut and follow directions (two things I am generally not so great at doing).
When I was a camper here, I failed the LSP. Like, really failed. I was in cabin 16, a straight shot from the Sundecker, which is literally right next to the stairs leading down to the waterfront. I was one of the last people there. I never even made it to the waterfront--I just stood on the Sundecker with a handful of other stragglers. I didn't even run. I just kind of meandered to the deck, bleary-eyed and confused, having totally forgotten what to do in this situation. At the time it didn't matter much to me anyway; I'd accepted that the most terrifying thing I could deal with would be a sprained ankle (but since I had no plans to be a camp counselor, that didn't even really apply to me yet).
This year, I was determined for my girls to be the first cabin to the waterfront. I told them last night, "We ARE going to be there first." Initially there was some protest, but when I assured them they wouldn't have to go underwater and promised the coveted first showers to any girls who came into the water, they reluctantly agreed to take the drill seriously. It took me forever to fall asleep, partly because my cabin was freezing, but partly because I was nervous as all get-out. I was afraid that come morning, my resolve to prove my worth as a counselor by booking it to the waterfront at the first whistle would have melted into my usual staggering, bumbling, polar-bear-like attempts at running, which would result in the same situation as my LSP drill as a camper.
I repeat, ladies and gentlemen of the blogiverse: I did not know I could move that fast.
Everyone says that in emergencies, your instincts take over. Until very recently, I thought those instincts in me were to freeze up and let someone qualified take over. But you know what? You don't have to have a certificate to help. And I know now that I won't freeze up when my girls need me the most. I found that out today. Even though I knew all my girls were safe in the cabin, and I knew that it wasn't a real LSP, I ran to that waterfront like the lost swimmer was the most important person in the world to me. Even though I knew that there was no real danger, I acted as if there were.
If this is how I react when it's just practice, I think I've just received confirmation that I can do this in a legitimate emergency.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Becoming the Guardian of a New Generation
Right now, scattered across the historic Interlochen campus, are fourteen girls to whom I have become a combination of big sister and authority figure. These girls are not extensions of me. They are not my ducklings. They are fourteen individuals, all of whom have their own talents, their own stories, their own troubles and triumphs. And this summer, they are in my care. For the next six weeks they will be under the protection of myself and my co-counselor. Neither one of us knew we'd be working together until two days before the campers arrived. We didn't know each other at all a week ago. And now we're taking care of fourteen 16-year-old girls together.
On Friday night I was too excited to sleep. Our cabin was decorated, cleaned, organized, and totally ready to go. In less than eight hours' time, I would meet the girls with whom I would spend my summer. I was more excited for them than nervous for myself--I still remember the feeling of pure anticipation the night before my very first day of Interlochen. Three years ago, I was lying in McWhorter listening to a thunderstorm and unable to think of anything except just how lucky I was to spend my summer in a place like this. Now, one summer, two school years, and a year of college later, I still feel incredibly blessed to be here, this time as the magician rather than the audience member. (That metaphor, by the way, was stolen directly from my boss--thank you, Madam Director.)
Walking into my cabin three years ago, all I could think was, Will they like me? I didn't know if there would be any other filmmakers in my cabin. I prayed there would be. I didn't yet realize that the eighteen young women in that cabin with me would become some of the most influential people in my life. I didn't know that my counselor would become a role model for me, not only during camp but during my time here as an employee, or that my bunkmate would teach me a valuable lesson in how to protect my things, or that the two dance majors who slept on the opposite side of the cabin would be my inspiration to get a job here in the first place. I didn't know that that single, beautiful summer would set the tone for the remainder of my high-school experience. I didn't know that after one concert by the breathtakingly talented World Youth Symphony Orchestra, I would feel a deep conviction that I had to go to this school. I remember, after hearing that concert, I came running to the pay phones behind the cabins and punched in my parents' number. "I have to go here," I told them as I alternated between laughing and holding back tears of pure excitement. "I belong here. This is where I need to be."
That summer I learned more about myself than I could possibly imagine. I learned my strengths and weaknesses, some of which I am now only just learning to cultivate and manage. I learned how to form lifelong friendships, and how not to handle a relationship with a boy. I learned to write a screenplay. I learned to operate a boom. I learned about the wonderful concept of Stolen Dialogue, and I still use it today. I met people I never thought could possibly exist. I found out so much about who I was, and realized that as much as I'd grown, I still had so far to go. Three years later, a little farther down the awkward, terrifying, exhilarating path that leads to adulthood, I'm still not fully aware of just how much this place has changed me, both for the good and for the not-so-great. Every now and then I will experience a moment of shock when I realize something else that Interlochen taught me. I still cry at concerts. I still remember the sound of the Interlochen Theme. I still flash back to happy hours spent with Hannah and Nina every time I taste ice-cream from the Melody Freeze. I still laugh at the memory of the fake wedding on Main Camp, and watch Connorchap's videos every now and then just for a taste of nostalgia. True, the Academy later overshadowed my experiences at camp. But I never, ever forget that summertime at Interlochen is where it all started.
Now, this summer, it is their turn. The girls in my cabin are a mix of actresses and musicians, returners and first-timers, and they all look to us--me and my co-counselor--for guidance. Some of them are old pros, but they are not the kind who think themselves above speaking to us. Some of them are heartbreakingly vulnerable, and I know that it will be truly beautiful to watch them grow and change as they adjust to camp life and explore their talents in music and theater. Some of them are happy and outgoing; others are serious and introverted. But they are already becoming a family. I witnessed this last night.
Yesterday I woke up a half-hour before my alarm and knew it'd be useless to even try to snatch those last thirty minutes of sleep. I dressed in one of my "secret weapons"--a long, flowing skirt. This, and lipstick, has always been a confidence-booster for me; if I'm wearing something pretty, I'm a little more self-assured than when I'm wearing those heaven-forsaken shorts that Interlochen campers are subjected to every summer. Lipstick just didn't seem professional, so long skirt it was. I'm sure most of the parents wondered what kind of hippie-chick was going to be watching over their precious children all summer...but I only embarrassed myself in front of one parent, which I considered an accomplishment, given my track record. (I put my foot in my mouth so often I'm surprised the circus hasn't commissioned me as a verbal contortionist.)
Breakfast was a struggle. I was so nervous it was actually hard to swallow. My anticipation over the campers was long gone; I was a giant ball of nerves. Every possible disaster was running through my mind in full-scale detail. I was terrified. But I put on the smiles when welcoming campers and parents and, as I said, managed only one incident of embarrassment, during which I somehow mixed up the two types of diabetes, forgot the first step of CPR, and completely forgot not only a parent's name, but his daughter's name as well, less than two minutes after he said it (believe me, you don't want to know the look that was on this man's face when he was done quizzing me about my first-aid experience). Working my shift at the registration table was a picnic compared to that.
One by one, my girls filtered in. Each one had different parents, different talents, different ideas of "bare essentials," different laughs, different amounts of Interlochen experience, different levels of need concerning assistance with unpacking, and very, very different personalities. But they all had one thing in common: They were here for their art, be it instrumental music, vocal music, or theater. And that night, we bonded over name games, celebrity crushes, chocolate-covered cherries, and awkward jokes. It felt so much like my first night here that a couple of times I forgot that I was not just another girl in the cabin--I am now a counselor, a caretaker, a role model, someone they look up to and expect to look after them.
I almost expected no one to listen to me--in fact, that was my biggest fear in the days leading up to camp. But they listened, and asked questions, and got into bed when we told them to, and introduced themselves as asked, and put their things in the right places and didn't try to steal each other's storage space. They asked for permission and looked to me for the answer. I didn't feel like a counselor. I felt like a big sister.
One of the girls has similar parents to mine--very loving, but also very protective--and can't wait to go off to college. We bonded over that. Another girl loves musical theater and, like me, likes the male roles in most musical better than the female roles. We bonded over that. Another plays piano, not for her major but just for fun. We bonded over that. Another loves Brahm's Requiem every bit as much as I do. Can you guess what happened? Yep--we bonded over that.
I spent just a few minutes talking to each girl, and learned so much about who they are and who they want to be. These girls are just entering their junior year of high school but are already thinking about colleges, and they asked us for suggestions. I told them stories about Interlochen Arts Academy, and one of them told me she was thinking of applying. My awkward, Hagrid-approved sense of humor made them laugh. Some jokes fell flat, but that's to be expected. Bunk talk went fairly smoothly, even through the more awkward topics. By the time we were all off to bed, I was already thinking of them as my girls, my campers, not just a bunch of random girls I'd just happened to move in with.
But I do have to be careful, because they aren't "mine." They are "theirs." They are themselves, and this is their summer. And my job is to be there for them, no matter what. To pray for them, look out for them, provide hugs when necessary, offer advice when it's requested, comfort them when they don't get the chair or part they want and celebrate with them when they do. In short: I have to be for them what my counselor was for me. And I have to treat them as the precious individuals that they are--help them learn and grow into the artists of tomorrow, while letting them be the young girls that they are today.
Challenge accepted.
On Friday night I was too excited to sleep. Our cabin was decorated, cleaned, organized, and totally ready to go. In less than eight hours' time, I would meet the girls with whom I would spend my summer. I was more excited for them than nervous for myself--I still remember the feeling of pure anticipation the night before my very first day of Interlochen. Three years ago, I was lying in McWhorter listening to a thunderstorm and unable to think of anything except just how lucky I was to spend my summer in a place like this. Now, one summer, two school years, and a year of college later, I still feel incredibly blessed to be here, this time as the magician rather than the audience member. (That metaphor, by the way, was stolen directly from my boss--thank you, Madam Director.)
Walking into my cabin three years ago, all I could think was, Will they like me? I didn't know if there would be any other filmmakers in my cabin. I prayed there would be. I didn't yet realize that the eighteen young women in that cabin with me would become some of the most influential people in my life. I didn't know that my counselor would become a role model for me, not only during camp but during my time here as an employee, or that my bunkmate would teach me a valuable lesson in how to protect my things, or that the two dance majors who slept on the opposite side of the cabin would be my inspiration to get a job here in the first place. I didn't know that that single, beautiful summer would set the tone for the remainder of my high-school experience. I didn't know that after one concert by the breathtakingly talented World Youth Symphony Orchestra, I would feel a deep conviction that I had to go to this school. I remember, after hearing that concert, I came running to the pay phones behind the cabins and punched in my parents' number. "I have to go here," I told them as I alternated between laughing and holding back tears of pure excitement. "I belong here. This is where I need to be."
That summer I learned more about myself than I could possibly imagine. I learned my strengths and weaknesses, some of which I am now only just learning to cultivate and manage. I learned how to form lifelong friendships, and how not to handle a relationship with a boy. I learned to write a screenplay. I learned to operate a boom. I learned about the wonderful concept of Stolen Dialogue, and I still use it today. I met people I never thought could possibly exist. I found out so much about who I was, and realized that as much as I'd grown, I still had so far to go. Three years later, a little farther down the awkward, terrifying, exhilarating path that leads to adulthood, I'm still not fully aware of just how much this place has changed me, both for the good and for the not-so-great. Every now and then I will experience a moment of shock when I realize something else that Interlochen taught me. I still cry at concerts. I still remember the sound of the Interlochen Theme. I still flash back to happy hours spent with Hannah and Nina every time I taste ice-cream from the Melody Freeze. I still laugh at the memory of the fake wedding on Main Camp, and watch Connorchap's videos every now and then just for a taste of nostalgia. True, the Academy later overshadowed my experiences at camp. But I never, ever forget that summertime at Interlochen is where it all started.
Now, this summer, it is their turn. The girls in my cabin are a mix of actresses and musicians, returners and first-timers, and they all look to us--me and my co-counselor--for guidance. Some of them are old pros, but they are not the kind who think themselves above speaking to us. Some of them are heartbreakingly vulnerable, and I know that it will be truly beautiful to watch them grow and change as they adjust to camp life and explore their talents in music and theater. Some of them are happy and outgoing; others are serious and introverted. But they are already becoming a family. I witnessed this last night.
Yesterday I woke up a half-hour before my alarm and knew it'd be useless to even try to snatch those last thirty minutes of sleep. I dressed in one of my "secret weapons"--a long, flowing skirt. This, and lipstick, has always been a confidence-booster for me; if I'm wearing something pretty, I'm a little more self-assured than when I'm wearing those heaven-forsaken shorts that Interlochen campers are subjected to every summer. Lipstick just didn't seem professional, so long skirt it was. I'm sure most of the parents wondered what kind of hippie-chick was going to be watching over their precious children all summer...but I only embarrassed myself in front of one parent, which I considered an accomplishment, given my track record. (I put my foot in my mouth so often I'm surprised the circus hasn't commissioned me as a verbal contortionist.)
Breakfast was a struggle. I was so nervous it was actually hard to swallow. My anticipation over the campers was long gone; I was a giant ball of nerves. Every possible disaster was running through my mind in full-scale detail. I was terrified. But I put on the smiles when welcoming campers and parents and, as I said, managed only one incident of embarrassment, during which I somehow mixed up the two types of diabetes, forgot the first step of CPR, and completely forgot not only a parent's name, but his daughter's name as well, less than two minutes after he said it (believe me, you don't want to know the look that was on this man's face when he was done quizzing me about my first-aid experience). Working my shift at the registration table was a picnic compared to that.
One by one, my girls filtered in. Each one had different parents, different talents, different ideas of "bare essentials," different laughs, different amounts of Interlochen experience, different levels of need concerning assistance with unpacking, and very, very different personalities. But they all had one thing in common: They were here for their art, be it instrumental music, vocal music, or theater. And that night, we bonded over name games, celebrity crushes, chocolate-covered cherries, and awkward jokes. It felt so much like my first night here that a couple of times I forgot that I was not just another girl in the cabin--I am now a counselor, a caretaker, a role model, someone they look up to and expect to look after them.
I almost expected no one to listen to me--in fact, that was my biggest fear in the days leading up to camp. But they listened, and asked questions, and got into bed when we told them to, and introduced themselves as asked, and put their things in the right places and didn't try to steal each other's storage space. They asked for permission and looked to me for the answer. I didn't feel like a counselor. I felt like a big sister.
One of the girls has similar parents to mine--very loving, but also very protective--and can't wait to go off to college. We bonded over that. Another girl loves musical theater and, like me, likes the male roles in most musical better than the female roles. We bonded over that. Another plays piano, not for her major but just for fun. We bonded over that. Another loves Brahm's Requiem every bit as much as I do. Can you guess what happened? Yep--we bonded over that.
I spent just a few minutes talking to each girl, and learned so much about who they are and who they want to be. These girls are just entering their junior year of high school but are already thinking about colleges, and they asked us for suggestions. I told them stories about Interlochen Arts Academy, and one of them told me she was thinking of applying. My awkward, Hagrid-approved sense of humor made them laugh. Some jokes fell flat, but that's to be expected. Bunk talk went fairly smoothly, even through the more awkward topics. By the time we were all off to bed, I was already thinking of them as my girls, my campers, not just a bunch of random girls I'd just happened to move in with.
But I do have to be careful, because they aren't "mine." They are "theirs." They are themselves, and this is their summer. And my job is to be there for them, no matter what. To pray for them, look out for them, provide hugs when necessary, offer advice when it's requested, comfort them when they don't get the chair or part they want and celebrate with them when they do. In short: I have to be for them what my counselor was for me. And I have to treat them as the precious individuals that they are--help them learn and grow into the artists of tomorrow, while letting them be the young girls that they are today.
Challenge accepted.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
A situation which I hope at least some of you can sympathize with
A warning: Yes, newcomers to Beatnikbelle's blogs, I do tend to disappear sometimes. I don't do it on purpose. I'll just get busy with school, or summer jobs, or dramallamaness, and then realize, damn it, I haven't blogged in forever. And then I'll come up with a post like this to make up for it. (This, my dear friends, is where you facepalm. Go on. I'll wait a moment for you to do that before I continue. Have we all expressed our exasperation? Good. Moving on then.)
The scenario: You are with a friend when one of two things happens. Either you start to refresh your lipstick or eyeliner for whatever reason, OR he/she says "Hey, let's go out," and you say, "Ok, just give me two minutes to do/fix my makeup." And this casual action or comment is immediately followed by THIS:
Your friend says: Oh, you don't need makeup, you're beautiful just the way you are!
What your friend means: Seriously, you look okay. You don't need it.
What you hear: You are lessening yourself by wearing excessive makeup.
What your friend expects you're thinking: Oh my gosh, he/she is SO TOTALLY RIGHT, I can't believe I never realized before how beautiful I actually am! I must go throw away my makeup straight away and let my stunning natural beauty shine through!
What your friend worries you're thinking: Oh, God. He/she is wrong. They're just being nice. I look sooooo gross without makeup.
What you're actually thinking: I know I don't NEED makeup, you tool. I just happen to LIKE WEARING IT. So what are you saying, I'm less of a person for wearing makeup? Are you implying I'm shallow? Of course you are! Clearly, you think you are more evolved as a person than I am because you don't wear makeup! God, will you just shut up already?
What you want to say, in the most sarcastic tone possible: Oh, THANK YOU, O Holy Savior Of Mine Own Confidence! I had NO IDEA that I don't look ANY WORSE without makeup! I thought I looked like a TROLL without makeup! I can't believe it! You have opened my eyes to my own true beauty! I thought, all this time, that I was less of a person if I didn't wear makeup, but thanks to you I have seen the error of my face-painting ways!
What you should say: Thanks, you're sweet...I just like wearing it, that's all.
What you actually say: I KNOW, okay? Just leave me alone.
What your friend thinks: What the...? What did I say?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's the thing, well-meaning non-makeup wearers or well-meaning providers of intended confidence boosters. When you say "You don't NEED makeup," guess what us makeup-wearers are hearing? "You SHOULDN'T be wearing makeup." And that hurts. Like, a lot.
Maybe I'm the only one who's encountered this, but I don't think so. I think that in this day and age, makeup is regarded one of two ways: Either girls can't live without it, or girls who wear it are shallow and/or slutty. Simply put, as a girl, you can't wear makeup AND be tough. It's one or the other. My personal favorite comment on this was, "Katniss didn't wear makeup, and Peeta still fell in love with her...she was a kick-ass archer and he fell in love with her." We talked about this last year in my freshman seminar class, too--girls are regarded as "anti-feminist" for wearing makeup. To which I say, "WTF?"
Do you want to know a secret, males of the world? We girls do not wear makeup for you...most of the time. True, there are some girls who do. But most of the time, girls wear makeup for themselves. If I put on makeup, I'm not doing it because I honestly feel like I look better with it on. In fact, for special occasions, I tend to be more careful with makeup, because I know that few things are less attractive than over-done makeup. (Yes, Snooki, I am looking at you right now.) But you know what? Makeup can be classy, trashy, cute, fun, playful, weird, wild, dramatic, low-key--in short, it can be a reflection of you. That is why I like it so much. One day I can spend half an hour making myself up like the lead singer of Tokio Hotel; the next day I can slick on some chapstick and run out the door--and I know that it's totally okay to do that.
I know that there are some girls who do not share my mentality. There are girls who flip out if someone even suggests they consider leaving the house without makeup. I hate talking to people like that too, because not only do they act like the world would end if they didn't wear makeup, but they imply that you should share this mentality, which hurts every bit as much as the insinuation that you are less of a person for wearing makeup in the first place. And in the case of those girls, I'm not against a little reality check. But there's a right way to say it. Phrase it like, "What do you think you look like without make-up?" If the answer is "Godzilla," then okay, a more serious talk is required. (Or not, because if someone sarcastically replies that, you should give them a high-five.) But let it go if they don't want to talk about it; sooner or later, they'll figure it out. Back off. Let. It. Go. It's their business, not yours.
Now, if someone says it to you, and you want to punch them? Seriously. Don't make a big deal about it. However, if it's a regular occurrence, and someone you hang out with a lot and feel comfortable talking to, then I don't see why it's not okay to let them know that you know they mean well, but they're not helping.
And if you're one of those people who thinks they're ultra-kind by going around saying "You don't need makeup," please...stop.
The scenario: You are with a friend when one of two things happens. Either you start to refresh your lipstick or eyeliner for whatever reason, OR he/she says "Hey, let's go out," and you say, "Ok, just give me two minutes to do/fix my makeup." And this casual action or comment is immediately followed by THIS:
Your friend says: Oh, you don't need makeup, you're beautiful just the way you are!
What your friend means: Seriously, you look okay. You don't need it.
What you hear: You are lessening yourself by wearing excessive makeup.
What your friend expects you're thinking: Oh my gosh, he/she is SO TOTALLY RIGHT, I can't believe I never realized before how beautiful I actually am! I must go throw away my makeup straight away and let my stunning natural beauty shine through!
What your friend worries you're thinking: Oh, God. He/she is wrong. They're just being nice. I look sooooo gross without makeup.
What you're actually thinking: I know I don't NEED makeup, you tool. I just happen to LIKE WEARING IT. So what are you saying, I'm less of a person for wearing makeup? Are you implying I'm shallow? Of course you are! Clearly, you think you are more evolved as a person than I am because you don't wear makeup! God, will you just shut up already?
What you want to say, in the most sarcastic tone possible: Oh, THANK YOU, O Holy Savior Of Mine Own Confidence! I had NO IDEA that I don't look ANY WORSE without makeup! I thought I looked like a TROLL without makeup! I can't believe it! You have opened my eyes to my own true beauty! I thought, all this time, that I was less of a person if I didn't wear makeup, but thanks to you I have seen the error of my face-painting ways!
What you should say: Thanks, you're sweet...I just like wearing it, that's all.
What you actually say: I KNOW, okay? Just leave me alone.
What your friend thinks: What the...? What did I say?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's the thing, well-meaning non-makeup wearers or well-meaning providers of intended confidence boosters. When you say "You don't NEED makeup," guess what us makeup-wearers are hearing? "You SHOULDN'T be wearing makeup." And that hurts. Like, a lot.
Maybe I'm the only one who's encountered this, but I don't think so. I think that in this day and age, makeup is regarded one of two ways: Either girls can't live without it, or girls who wear it are shallow and/or slutty. Simply put, as a girl, you can't wear makeup AND be tough. It's one or the other. My personal favorite comment on this was, "Katniss didn't wear makeup, and Peeta still fell in love with her...she was a kick-ass archer and he fell in love with her." We talked about this last year in my freshman seminar class, too--girls are regarded as "anti-feminist" for wearing makeup. To which I say, "WTF?"
Do you want to know a secret, males of the world? We girls do not wear makeup for you...most of the time. True, there are some girls who do. But most of the time, girls wear makeup for themselves. If I put on makeup, I'm not doing it because I honestly feel like I look better with it on. In fact, for special occasions, I tend to be more careful with makeup, because I know that few things are less attractive than over-done makeup. (Yes, Snooki, I am looking at you right now.) But you know what? Makeup can be classy, trashy, cute, fun, playful, weird, wild, dramatic, low-key--in short, it can be a reflection of you. That is why I like it so much. One day I can spend half an hour making myself up like the lead singer of Tokio Hotel; the next day I can slick on some chapstick and run out the door--and I know that it's totally okay to do that.
I know that there are some girls who do not share my mentality. There are girls who flip out if someone even suggests they consider leaving the house without makeup. I hate talking to people like that too, because not only do they act like the world would end if they didn't wear makeup, but they imply that you should share this mentality, which hurts every bit as much as the insinuation that you are less of a person for wearing makeup in the first place. And in the case of those girls, I'm not against a little reality check. But there's a right way to say it. Phrase it like, "What do you think you look like without make-up?" If the answer is "Godzilla," then okay, a more serious talk is required. (Or not, because if someone sarcastically replies that, you should give them a high-five.) But let it go if they don't want to talk about it; sooner or later, they'll figure it out. Back off. Let. It. Go. It's their business, not yours.
Now, if someone says it to you, and you want to punch them? Seriously. Don't make a big deal about it. However, if it's a regular occurrence, and someone you hang out with a lot and feel comfortable talking to, then I don't see why it's not okay to let them know that you know they mean well, but they're not helping.
And if you're one of those people who thinks they're ultra-kind by going around saying "You don't need makeup," please...stop.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)