The No Judgement Zone

“I was pretty irresponsible back in the early MySpace days. I’m pretty sure that there are semi-nude pictures of me floating around somewhere out in cyberspace.”

“So, what was your MySpace profile name again?”

-A recent conversation with a friend
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MySpace was a pretty weird place for me. I met some interesting, normal people; some regular normal people; and some interesting abby-normal people. This blog will be about someone from the latter category.

One of the many groups I belonged to was a group for Chicagoans to talk about, well, Chicago...stuff. It really had no rhyme or reason except to serve as a platform for Chicagoans (and our suburban counterparts) to argue all day, everyday. Of the people I’ve connected with from the group, I’d only physically met two. One invited Halbastram & I to his birthday party on the northside; the other was interested in my friendship because we both shared an interest in being peculiar. And he knew that I operated under a “No Judgement” rule when we hung out, so he was more than welcome to be himself 100% around me.

Paul* was a tall drink of goofy-yet handsome- nerd with adorable quirks. He was a few years older than me- maybe 10- and worked as a reporter for a local Chicago news radio station (intentionally vague as fuck, as to protect his identity). I’m going to be honest: our correspondence started out of mutual attraction. But as I had just started dating Halbastram and was still gathering the feels for him, I didn’t want to mess things up by trying to pursue something with Paul. So we just settled into a comfortable e-friendship.

A month into our virtual friendship we finally made the decision to grab dinner together. After the success of that first dinner, Paul would regularly make the drive to Naperville following his radio shift (he worked overnights, so it was always pretty early in the morning) to have breakfast with me at Denny’s. Sometimes after breakfast we’d sit in my dorm while my roommate was out and discuss the Simpsons; other times he would ask me to paint his toenails (also while my roommate was out; he wasn’t exactly comfortable with her knowing his secrets). He didn’t mind driving out to see me and then ferrying me back to the city so that I could see Halbastram. He’d share gossip with me about Chicago media figures he’d met and worked with; I’d complain about how my college experience was largely unfulfilling. When I could manage it, I’d stay up and chat with him on Yahoo Instant Messenger during his shift and listen to his reports on the radio.

He basically came as close to my ideal male best friend as I would ever get.

I wish I could remember how or why exactly our friendship ended. We spent so much time talking and hanging out that it’s hard to believe that it only lasted a few months. Somewhere along the way, as I started to get more serious about Halbastram and more involved with school groups and my coursework, we just started losing touch. He stopped coming out to visit and we stopped chatting on the interwebs. I could go the conceited route and say that perhaps he wanted more out of the friendship than I was willing to give and so he backed off. Except he knew all about Halbastram and even talked about meeting him someday. He genuinely seemed okay about our relationship and gave no indication otherwise.

Last I checked (back in 2005...yikes), he still worked for the radio station. Maybe he met a girl (or guy) who lived closer and was cooler than me? Maybe I said or did something that offended him in some way? Who knows. But it’s become clear to me that our friendship, as short lived as it was, had a profound effect on me, as the general idea became the basis of the one and only novel I have ever completed.

Wherever you are, Paul, Tiny Elvis is thinking about you & those purple toes. And there’s always a spot for you in the No Judgement Zone.

*name as been changed because obviously.

Yeah, words do hurt.

In the 7th grade I used to do a lot of charity work as part of my Catholic school’s after school club. One particular Tuesday (always on Tuesdays), we went to a church across town to help out in a soup kitchen. It was something I had done many times before with my friends and had either positive or neutral experiences with. Sometimes the people we fed were very gracious and talkative; other times they just took their food and went on their way, which was also fine. We were there to provide a humble service, not receive praise. However, this one particular Tuesday stuck out as the most negative experience I’ve ever had in my charity work, and it has followed me to this day…

So it’s after school and my friends (all girls) and I are serving food. We’re halfway done with our two-hour shift and for the most part it’s been fairly normal: some conversation, middle school girl laugh sessions, serious reflection during prayer...the usual. I’m serving food to this one guy in particular and, before he walks away, I smile at him and he responds, “wow, you’ve got terrible skin! You’re gonna hafta wear a lot of makeup when you get older!”

Two things: first, yes, I come from a family where bad skin is hereditary. My father struggled with acne, his sister (my aunt) struggled, and so on. It’s a part of my life that I was more or less blessed with. So I was well aware of my skin issues. Second, did I mention I was a middle school girl at this point? Could there be anything more damaging to a middle school girl struggling with puberty run rampant than having a grown man tell her how hideous she looks? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My friends, of course, told me to ignore him and somehow I managed to get through the rest of the service, while silently cursing him (inside the church no less).

If my luck with dating and my 12 year relationship with Halbastram is any indication, I’ve done fairly well in the face department (not a supermodel but not whatever gross abomination that dude thought I was going to turn into). However, like most people, I do have my self-conscious moments. Even though it took me a long time to (sort of) force that guy’s hateful assessment out of my mind, I still found myself remembering his words whenever I was having particularly bad breakouts or scarring. But I was never big on going the full-face makeup route, so I just learned to deal with it. A little mascara here, a touch of lipstick there & I’m out the door. When I’m away from a mirror, I can forget him.

Which brings me to today. I was tooling around on BuzzFeed and found an article about women who give tutorials on using makeup to cover-up bad acne and scarring. The women all suffered from bad skin problems like myself and had clearly found ways to make the best of it. I found one video in particular especially helpful, as the presenter had the same skin tone and scarring problem as myself and saved the link to watch the whole video later. And as I was writing down the products she uses and the cost (SO MUCH $$), I found myself stopping and realizing that I was wanting to do exactly what that jerkstore predicted all those years ago: I was planning on spending a mint to use no less than seven different products on my face to cover up a lifetime of acne scars. Then I started to feel self conscious again: did I really have that much of a problem with my face? No, it’s not even about that. As much as I want to try these new techniques, I am struggling with not wanting to play into his awful prediction. I could try to convince myself that I’m doing this for me and my happiness, but truthfully his words will always be in the back of my mind.

It’s upsetting that a stranger’s word have impacted my life this much, but you know what? I’ve had this face for twenty additional years since he came along. I can choose to go bare (as I’ve done for the better part of twenty years), or I can choose to go full-face glam. I’m not trying to win any beauty pageants and I’m sure as shit not trying to appease some dude from the soup kitchen. I’ll deal, whatever my choice may be. Because my life will go on, as it always has.

Bottom line: watch what the fuck you say to people, yeah? Even the most cynical of us have fucking feelings. I couldn’t say this in the 7th grade, but it feels good now: hey, fuck you guy.

(I know this probably goes against everything I ever learned about forgiveness and turn the other cheek and whatever, but, you know...hurt feelings.)

Adventures in pre-packaged underwear shopping

I get why people shop at Wal-Mart. Everyone likes to save a buck here and there and sometimes you just don’t give a shit that society mocks those who shop at certain establishments; when the money is tight, keeping up appearances is the least of your concerns. Even I used to frequent the Wal-Mart during my time in Grad School, when I was lucky if I could even afford a box of cheap pasta to feed my family. Over time, though, Target became my primary shopping destination because Target is just so wonderful. While it’s easy to point to the unfair and lackluster business practices of the Wal-Mart corporation, my beef is with a certain caliber of customer. It’s nothing to do with the way they dress or their income bracket. It’s more to do with the behavioral traits of certain shoppers. And while I get that this type of behavior isn’t limited to the Wal-Mart corporation, as I experienced it while working at Big Lots, I seem to encounter this every.freaking.time. I go into one of their stores.

Seriously, people, do you not know what size underwear you wear?

The great thing about brands such as Fruit of the Loom and Hanes is that they offer comfortable bulk undergarments on the cheap for those of us who aren’t in the market for V.S. or La Perla. The caveat to this saving is that the undergarments come pre-packaged in 3- or 5-packs, with the size indicated on the upper right hand corner. If a simple letter is too confusing for you, they also offer an explanation of the sizing on the back of the packaging. So if you know your waist size, you’re good to go. However, there is a percentage of the population out there for whom those two options are simply not enough and have worked it out in their brains that it is perfectly acceptable to just rip open an entire package of underpants, take one out, start pawing at it with their gross hands, decide that they aren't interested, stuff it back into the package they so nicely destroyed and then put it back on the shelves.

You know what? With the internet and the smart phones, there’s no excuse for anyone to not know what boyshorts, bikinis, high-waists, high-cuts or hiphuggers look like. And if you can’t decide whether Large is your size just from the wording on the packaging, taking the underwear out and holding it up to your FACE (where your ass is not located...I think…) certainly will not help. And what makes you think that ANYONE would want that pre-fondled package of underpants that you destroyed? You don’t think- and that’s the problem. And that makes it all the more difficult for people like myself, who aren't devoid of common sense, when I go shopping for underpants, because I have to carefully inspect each package to make sure it’s never been opened (because I know some of the better retailers roll them up all professional-like and stuff them back in and slap a piece of tape on the back flap and call it a day...you’re not tricking me).

Here’s a helpful tip: are you wearing underpants while shopping (PLEASE SAY YES)? Do you have the vaguest idea what size they are? Good, now GET THAT SIZE. If you’re unsure of the cut or style, they have INDIVIDUAL pairs of underpants hanging on racks less than 10 feet away. GO LOOK AT THOSE. Come on, man. I know that it’s easy to not care about something because it’s “not my store” or “they’ll make money anyway” or, the classic, “I don’t give a shit.” You know who does give a shit? Society. Don’t you want to be a member of society? Of course you do. By destroying the pre-packaged underpants and getting your cooties all over them, you’re playing right into the hands of the people who think that Wal-Mart is low rent and mock those who cross its path. Don’t be a stereotype. Cut that shit out.