Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

     I offer this latest in my stories of weird interactions or lack thereof with my co-workers. Last weekend I went to a very nice salon and had my hair cut and highlighted by the owner. She has done my hair before and she is very good at what she does. I trust her completely with my errant tresses. When she suggested a shorter cut to flatter my face shape and rid my hair of damaged ends, I agreed it was time for a change. I went from hair down to the tops of my shoulders, to a cute chin length style with layers. I was very pleased with the results.

      I have had the same basic hairstyle for the last several years, so this was a significant change for me. I was proud of my new look and anxious to show it off to my workmates. At the risk of sounding needy, I admit I was kind of disappointed that surprisingly, none, and I mean zero, zilch, nada, not one person from my team said a word to me about my hair. I could see them notice it. I watched them look me over and gaze around my head, but none of them verbally acknowledged it. I wondered, if I had come to work with an eye patch, would they have asked about it or just ignored it?  

     When I interacted with other co-workers that I see daily, few mentioned it, and those that did had the same odd reaction. Over and over again I heard, "You cut your hair." That declarative statement was the extent of the conversation. I had the same four words uttered at me again and again throughout the day from random co-workers. There was no positive feedback, nor further commentary, just the one observational sentence. "You cut your hair." It implies that I grabbed some shears and started hacking away at my own hair. The worst though, was when a co-worker actually asked me, "Did you dye your hair yourself?" I clearly have highlights. There is a variation in the color; it is not a flat all over $6.99 Miss Clairol do it yourself job. All the pride I had just dissolved, and I was left feeling like the delusional title character in the Emperor's New Clothes. Maybe my hair was brassy and awful and looked uneven? 

     I felt a little embarrassed going to work on Tuesday, because I was sure at this point that my hair was quite ugly.  It had to be. This would explain why my teammates did not acknowledge the change, and why everyone else just remarked that I had cut it. However, on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, I had six different co-workers approach me and tell me how cute my new style was. In my experience, all of them are extremely kind and positive people. They could possibly have complimented me just because they are nice, but I am going to take it as genuine. I believe my hair is cute and that it suits me.  I do not know why everyone else either chose to ignore it, or just merely acknowledged that my hair was in fact shorter, but I know I like it. That is all that matters. 

      

     

    

Pet Peeves of a Square Peg

     Although I do not consider myself a particularly persnickety person, I do believe I could create an entire blog on all of my pet peeves that have arisen in the ten years since I have moved to Texas. Most of these relate to common good manners. Southerners may be known for their hospitality, but I posit that the Texans in my area are a different animal altogether. 

     Take for instance the practice of the common greeting to people whom you know or live in your neighborhood. From my experience growing up in Michigan, annual visits to Tennessee, and living in Seattle, I can tell you that it was the norm in those places to greet people in some fashion when they passed near you. It did not matter whether you knew them or not. You might smile, nod, raise a hand in a wave of acknowledgement, or say hello. That is common courtesy. It is not considered good manners to not acknowledge someone in close proximity to you who has made eye contact with you and greeted you. That is called being standoffish or even rude. It is especially considered rude if your facial expression betrays your annoyance at being greeted. No one is asking you for a conversation, trying to convert you, nor are they trying to sell you something. They are merely being nice by acknowledging your existence. You can tell the non-Texans. They will often initiate the greeting. 

     Related to the lack of greeting quid pro quo, is the odd looks I get when I strike up a conversation with a stranger. People act surprised and eye me suspiciously when I make a comment to them over a shared experience. I had an early meeting one day this week, and afterwards I decided to go to Hallmark to pick up a card. I arrived at the same time as another woman. The store did not open until 10:00, and it was presently only 9:30. I remarked to the woman in a friendly tone, "Oh no! They don't open for another 30 minutes! I guess I think just because I am up, I think everyone else should be too! Looks like I've got some time to kill." She looked at me like I was absolutely insane and walked away. This is not an uncommon occurrence. Without thinking, I might make a friendly remark to someone in the grocery store, and most will look at me like I have two heads. Just to be clear, I am usually dressed relatively nicely, with hair somewhat neat, and usually wearing some light make up. I do not present as a vagrant, prostitute, nor do I look inebriated, or like a mental patient. If a stranger makes a light comment over a shared experience, the common practice outside of this part of Texas is to either make a comment back in the same vein, or merely smile. Being friendly is not weird. Acting like a person who speaks to you is about to push you into a van and force you to join their cult is weird.  

     Next on my list of offenses is invasive questions to determine your household income. Everyone knows it is not good manners to flat out ask someone how much they make. Several people I have encountered have found a backdoor to obtain that nugget of information. They will ask, "What does your husband do?" That question may seem innocuous enough, and it would be if I had opened the door to that line of questioning by mentioning my husband or his work, but in the absence of related conversation, it is an irrelevant question with the intent of data mining for one's own curiosity. Asking a woman what her husband does for a living diminishes her contributions to the household. It reeks of an archaic patriarchal ideal of the man being the head of the household. Most people are not trying to make such an old fashioned statement though; the person really only wants to find out your social class and annual income. It is nosy, and it is bad manners. Do not ask a woman what her husband does. She will tell you if she wants you to know. 

     A few months ago, I experienced the ultimate example of this very thing while I was helping a co-worker. We have never worked closely together, nor have we ever had a conversation beyond basic pleasantries until that day. She soon began to not only question me about what my husband did for a living, but also preceded to inquire where he worked, how long had been there, where did he go to college, what degree did he pursue, and did he graduate. This co-worker has never met nor even seen my husband. I had not mentioned him previously either, other than to say where he was from, which I believe was in answer to an earlier question she posed. When she found out that my husband had stopped short of earning his degree, (I should not have answered that one, but her grilling caught me off guard) she began to cross-examine me about whether or not he has tried to convince my daughter that she does not need college. She has never met my daughter, and I have no idea why she would ask such a question. What parent does not want their child to go to college? He isn't a neanderthal! I felt like I had been thoroughly interrogated by this woman for no apparent reason other than to satisfy her burning curiosity. I barely know her. The strange thing was, she did not ask me where I went to college, my degree, and where I worked previously. Obviously, working with me, she knows how much I earn, I suppose she was only interested in ascertaining my husband's qualifications to get the full picture of our income. That encounter has left me soured on sharing anything of my personal life with my co-workers if I can help it. I can't imagine even family or close friends delving that deep into my business. 

      Prying into the personal lives of others is not worst misdemeanor I have experienced from my years in Texas. That honor goes to fake niceness. I find it so confusing to listen to people make horrible snarky comments about someone, then turn to the person and be cloyingly and simperingly sweet to the their face. I have never really encountered that before. If you do not like someone, then you are merely polite to them. You do not go out of your way to convince them you are friends. I've noticed that with fake niceness, the southern accent gets more pronounced, the laughter a little louder, and inside jokes with the person are tossed about. Once the unsuspecting person walks away, the tear down begins. Everything from their clothes, their mannerisms, to past indiscretions is fodder for ridicule. Honestly, you do not know where you stand with people once you see how they treat their seemingly close friends. 

     Since moving Texas, I have felt like an outsider as I do not understand the people here. I do not want to conform and be an unfriendly person, nor do I want to give someone the third degree under the guise of getting to know them better. I can't imagine I would be very good at pretending to like someone that I not so secretly despised. I felt like I fit in Michigan and in Seattle, but I fear I will always be a square peg in Texas. I am still lost in Texas. 

     

     

       

There's Hope For Me

     In my last entry, I lamented my lack of friends since moving to Texas nearly ten years ago. I own up to the lion's share of the blame for this. I believe that if you think everyone around is the problem, then chances are, the problem is you. So when I failed to make connections with people here, I was convinced that the problem could not be everyone else; it had to be me. It could not be anyone else's fault but my own. 
  
     About two weeks ago, something changed my perspective. I attended a wedding where I only knew about five people, and therefore found myself sitting next to a stranger. We began to engage in the the kind of small talk that people make at such events which later evolved into how we knew the bride. Before long, we were finding common interests and making jokes. It was a lovely evening, made even more so by the lively and engaging conversation. 

     On the ride home, I began to reflect on the night, and a sense of relief washed over me. For so long, I had thought that I was solely to blame for my inability to make connections with the people I have encountered here in my new home. I was convinced that it was true. The serendipitous seating chart gave me hope that while I may have faults and limitations when it comes to making friends, I am not a lost cause. 

     As we drove home, I confided all of this to my husband. There are times when he surprises me with an astute observation, and this was one of those nights. He said rather matter of factly, "Well, it's not surprising really. Historically, everyone you have ever connected with has had a story." He went on to explain that while everyone has a story, the people I am drawn to are the ones who have had if not unusual life experiences, then they have had at least really interesting ones. 

     My table mate at the wedding was quick to share her story with me. She had a compelling life story that was punctuated with warmth, laughter, and poignancy. She asked me about myself, and seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. I felt as if she and I could potentially become friends if the distance were not a factor. 

     Our interaction lasted for only about four short hours, but it gave me hope that somewhere out there, my tribe awaits. 

Lostintexas

          I am Lostintexasmama. That just is not a cute name, or a play on Austin, Texas. It is who I am, or rather who I became ten years ago when I moved from the beautiful and friendly Pacific Northwest to the land of cacti, longhorns, and barbecue. 

     I am lost, not literally of course. I know exactly where I am and through the magic of Google Maps, I can get to wherever I need to go. I am lost without my people. In ten years, I have not made any lasting connections with people here. I have work friends, but no one I see outside of work or even speak to about things not work related. I am not going to lie, it is hard not having a confidant near by. I can only share so much with my kids and husband. 

     This week, I had a long overdue and much needed chat with my best friend who lives in the aforementioned picturesque and welcoming fairyland of the Emerald City. She shared what was going right and going wrong in her life, and I confided my deep dark secret of being without my people, without a tribe of my own here deep in the heart of Texas. At first, I thought it would just take time to meet people and make those connections. I did meet a few people that I liked very much when we first moved here, but once we moved further north and the kids began public school, I was lost in the weeds friendship wise. 

     As a self diagnosed introvert, the initial step of making friends has never come easy to me. I am too in my own head most of the time to make the kind of overtures necessary. Once my comfort level increases though, I make friends and these are close and dear friends for life. As an adult, I have made connections through past employment that have stayed intact long after I left. I am still friends with the mothers I met years ago when our kids were in preschool. So I know that I can do this. I can be successful making friends. I have done it in the past. Why can't I do it now? 
  
     The only thing that is different, is my location. Is there that much of a difference between the people the people that reside in Michigan and Washington to the people who live in Texas? I know Texas is largely conservative, and I lean left of center, but I have friends and family from those other states that are conservative, and although I do not always understand their viewpoint, they are still my people. 

     I like a lot of things that are pretty popular, at least if the internet can be believed, but here, in my little part of Texas, I feel like I am a weird outsider. I feel like my people have forsaken this land. All I am looking for is some common ground; to be able to have a conversation about things that I am currently thinking about. I see people around me making those connections and I wonder why I cannot. Is it really location, location, location? 

     If you do not know me, you may wonder if there is something off putting about me. As far as I can tell, no. I practice good hygiene of showering daily, brushing my teeth twice daily. I dress in modest and clean clothes that fit me relatively well. I smile a lot. I try to have a positive attitude, but I can have a dark-ish sensibility at times. When I make jokes, I try to keep my audience in mind and try not to cross a line into inappropriateness. (Although that is a grey area for me, truth be told.) I actually teach social skills to elementary students, so I do know how to have an appropriate conversation, and I do have regular conversation with work peers. I just lack anything deeper. 

     I feel like the problem must be me though, because I can see other people cultivating friendships and making bonds. My dear friend reassured me that these are just not my people then. I need to expand my circle to find my tribe. She suggested taking a class or joining a book club, because that has worked for her and how she she has been able to meet new people who share her interests. Both ideas are kind of out of my comfort zone. To me, it would be easier to forge a friendship at work, because I already know those people, and that has always worked for me in the past. I mean, you are already in the same building for forty hours a week, so you have that in common. That just is not enough though, and it doesn't help that I am a decade or even (gulp) two older than most of the people I work with. 

     So here I am. It is a new year, and I am (considering) starting a new adventure to find my people. Hopefully, Lostintexasmama will become a cute name to commemorate my past as I move toward my future. 


     

To Write or Not to Write

   

"Don't judge me, you judgeroo. Go play your judgeridoo." 

- Linda Belcher

     Even though I write a memoir type blog rather than fiction, it is a creative outlet for me.  I write best when I write about my own thoughts and experiences. The problem is, that I have to be careful about what I write. People actually read my what I post. Perhaps I should clarify and state that people I know read my blog. (I'm not so sure random strangers do.) I would not want to cause anyone I know any embarrassment or discomfort over what I write. This is my conundrum. I want to write about my experiences and sometimes those are not all sunshine and lollipops.  If I write about my daily experiences, then I am going to write about the people in my life, but I feel like I can't because I might get into trouble.

     Let me give you and example.  A few years ago, a situation happened with my son where I felt as his mother I had to advocate for him because at nine years old, he was not being heard or taken seriously. I do not typically stand up to people. I hate conflict. I avoid it at all cost. I will let a situation go on and on before finally having my fill and speaking up for myself. When it came to my son though, who counts on me to protect him, I could not stand idle. He had fallen during gym class and told the coaches his leg was broken. The coaches did not buy it, and after repeatedly attempting to force him to get up and walk to no avail, they called me saying that he was just afraid to try to walk and that he was fine.  I literally ran down to the gym because this did not at all sound like my child. One look at his face told me he was in genuine pain.  Against the coaches' wishes, who continued to tell me, "He's fine," I carried him to the nurse while fighting back tears of anger. Later at the hospital, an x-ray confirmed a fracture of his tibia.

     I was mad before leaving the school. I was livid when I saw the x-ray.  It was not my finest hour when I then vented the situation on social media.  Now I should mention that the majority of my friends on social media are family members and long term friends who do not live near me. I had a few current work acquaintances, but no one else from my surrounding community as I was relatively new here at the time.  I did not name names, or even specifics. I just stated the situation as above and then included a line about how although I was saddened and angry for my son at the situation, I felt a bit proud that I had stood up and advocated for him.

      The problem was that I work at the school where that happened.  I soon learned that there is no such thing as freedom of speech when you work in a school. (I think there might even be a few passages in the employee handbook about it.)  Although the administration never spoke to me about the incident, a few co-workers did. In fact, the co-workers that were so upset about it were ones that I was not even friends with on social media, and had only heard about it second hand. I was ambushed in the hall one day by one such peer who angrily informed me that I needed to be careful of what I write and that I had embarrassed the school in the community. She rhetorically asked, "Did you even think of that?!!" (At least I am assuming it was rhetorical, as she then angrily stalked away from me.)
   
     It was never my intent to embarrass anyone. I wanted to share my heartache with my people; the people who love and care about my son. I regret that I was one of those people who share drama on Facebook, but I have no remorse over what I wrote. As you can imagine, this situation dampened my desire to publish what I write to the internet. Of course I want to write about my day to day life; it's all I know. It is my way to process what I have been through and as an introvert to reach out to those who may be in a similar place. From time to time, I still write, but I rarely publish out of fear of how the judgmentals will react. I am not writing for them though. I write for me and my people, whoever they may be.