September - skirt!® Magazine - 2009

September

09

Charlotte, NC

free!

skirt!is

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Let each finish line be a fresh start.

Let there always be one more race to be run...one more rung to reach...the novel waiting to be written...a

career change

to be dared...a higher mountain to climb... unexpected love waiting to walk into your life...dance steps to be learned...the most daring adventure

still to plan...

another painting waiting on the palette. Let every safe harbor be a place to rest up, not rest on your laurels, before you

set off

again for unknown jeopardy and joy.

Broken heart? Turn it into a happy beginning. Layoffs looming? Start working your resumé. Empty nest? Try your own wings. Sign up for on to yesterday.

Yes! instead of hanging

Yes! to the blind date,

the scary new job in another city, the next level of yoga.

Ready, Set, Yes! Cover art by Sophie Blackall

“There will come a time when you believe everything is finished.

That will be the beginning.”

Louis L’Amour

September the Finish Line

09

The Finish Line

we’re always just One

more

run

One higher degree

one fancier title One bigger house

One better romance

» From a Happy Endin� « stop in your tracks and love where you are

September the Finish Line

st

ar

t

a

ba

09

ize s t e ab helve h p al ks oo b my

by

start a journal

Take your place in the winner’s circle this month!

September the Finish Line

Give yourself a high five when you reach your goal!

09

Photograph by Madelyn Mulvaney, British Columbia (persistingstars.com)

ask yourself How long has it been since you’ve taken a vacation from your vocation and become a wild child again?

Go barefoot or braless, wear a flower in your hair, eat ice cream straight from the carton.

conf ident feel

Turning Into a Wallflower?

‥

Cross the street like a movie star.

Enter a room like you’re holding auditions.

PRETEND an entourage has your back.

feelflexible

No Time for Yoga?

‥

Simple poses throughout the day can keep you limber.

TRY

Downward Dog in the morning, Tree pose at lunch time and Goddess pose at dinner time.

feelfriendly

Put Down Your Cell Phone,

‥

and talk to the people who wait on your table, deliver your mail, ring up your groceries,

Give you a pedicure.

feelhopeful

i

i w S Down in the Dumps?

‡

Write your wishes down on scraps of paper and

TIE

THem to a tree in your yard—a homemade wishing tree.

H

feellucky

c Roll the Dice Again

‥

on love even if you just lost your King or Queen of Hearts.

What do you have to

h A

Gain?

n c

e

lt elheinad ffeeelm fhuyl

Turn a Bookshelf

‥

into a mini altar and fill it Buddhas, photos, shells, flowers— the things you hunt and gather.

Change them out to keep your senses

ALIVE and kicking.

feelmusical

Waking Up on the Wrong Side of the Bed?

‡

Sing something every day, even if it’s only “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” Singing releases endorphins and strengthens the immune system. Do it in the shower or in the car, and you’ll soon be

addicted to the good vibrations.

feelperky

✗

Day Starting to Drag?

‥

Drink a latte and then immediately take a 20 minute nap.

By the time you wake up, the caffeine will have kicked in, and you'll

FEEL refreshed.

lp fee

rotected

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an s

Writer Ellen Meloy

‡

calls turquoise “the color of yearning.”

It’s also the color of creativity, healing and transformation.

Make it your touchstone this month.

f

m

at i o n

o

r

ensual feels

Have Sex in the Morning

‥ and

start the day with a smile all over.

s

i m

L

e

9

-RKX

I was one of the lucky ten who had made the squad...I had no idea how this could be so. Who had helped me?

I

Stacy Appel

n the fall of eighth grade, I wanted a great many impossible things. I wanted my older brother to like me, or at least to talk to me without rolling his eyes, and to invite me along to the movies on Saturday nights with his friends. I wanted a closet full of the raspberry or moss-green Villager sweaters, skirts and blouses which all the most popular girls wore to school, instead of a couple of pairs of Villager-brand knee socks, the only items my mother felt we could afford. I wanted a pair of white Courreges boots, a kidney-shaped swimming pool in the backyard like my friend Lois and pierced ears with tiny pearl studs. I wanted permission to wear makeup. “Fire and Ice” lipstick was the frosty pinnacle of glamour that year, applied casually while standing in front of one’s locker between classes with friends, watching for this boy or that to saunter by and wave on his way to basketball practice. I wanted Steve Gunther to pass notes to me instead of to Sally Wells in French class, and I wanted to stop getting the hiccups when I laughed too hard.

Most of all, I longed to be able to do a cartwheel. Without a cartwheel, I might as well throw in the towel on my eighth grade year in general and in specific, cheerleading tryouts. I’d probably have to give up on Steve Gunther, too.

Mastering this one elegant maneuver, a non-negotiable requirement for every would-be cheerleader on the squad, was the raffle ticket necessary for a chance at instant junior high glory. I watched most of the other girls execute cartwheels effortlessly in gym class or at after-school practice—why hadn’t I learned over the summer, instead of hanging around at the pool with a bunch of magazines? I didn’t dare ask for help.

Some consolation was afforded by realizing that I had the yells and songs and dance routines memorized nicely, or so it seemed when I performed them out of sight of my brother’s withering looks. But as Tryout Day drew nearer, my anxiety soared out of bounds. My humiliating, aching secret was that I couldn’t manage a cartwheel in any recognizable form. Unlike the splits, which I’d first done badly and then very well by the end of seventh grade, this particular stunt was not the sort to be perfected while looking in the full-length hall mirror at home. As the key dramatic element of several rousing cheers, a cartwheel couldn’t be faked, forgotten or bungled. Somehow, I supposed, one had to sort of pitch one’s self toward the floor, take leave of gravity while standing on one’s hands, and trust that one was wheeling gracefully through the air, which I most definitely was not.

Despite my most earnest intentions, time after time I started out in an upright position only to end desolate, bent over on all fours, scrabbling around on the living room rug or the grass like a drunken bear.

“Are you trying to do a somersault?” asked my mother, when she saw me scowling, having landed on my hands and knees one afternoon as always. “Why, that’s not so hard! Let me show you,” she said, starting to take off her suit coat.

“No, that’s all right, Mom,” I said in a hurry, before she could get down on the floor beside me. “I was looking for a bead that fell off my bracelet. Let me know if you see it, okay?” I ran to my room.

Tryouts were held in the vast school gym on a Saturday morning. We all huddled together in little clusters, giggling and then falling silent as a row of teachers and gym coaches took their places in the bleachers, faces somber above their clipboards. Ten at a time, rows of hopeful girls took their places, tossed their hair back, and bravely navigated the three complex routines before the next group was called. My assigned number put me in one of the last groups to perform, and by then I was so terrified at my fatal flaw being exposed that my knees were shaking. The music began. Somehow everyone’s arms and legs moved just as we had supposed they would, in the ways we had all practiced for weeks. The last cheer ended with a cartwheel and then a plunge to one knee before standing up, hands on hips, with a final war cry. And then, incredibly, it was over, the moment receding behind me. My hands were on my hips, cheeks flaming, throat raw with the echo of that last big yell.

I had no memory of the last cheer—it was as if I simply woke up out of a dream when it was over to find myself standing drenched in the middle of the gymnasium. And yet no one was laughing at me, no one shook her head in disbelief or watched me with pity. Hours later, my name was called out from the podium. I was one of the lucky ten who had made the squad. According to the judges and onlookers, I had done a nearly perfect cartwheel. I had no idea how this could be so. Who had helped me?

Tangled at the bottom of my jewelry box is a miniature silver megaphone on a slender chain, a tarnished emblem of those two long-ago years on the cheerleading squad. Talisman of two anxiety-filled tryouts with happy endings, two years of feeling noticed and admired after eight of feeling invisible. I felt grateful for almost every bit of it, and perplexed by the mystery—not just my continued ability to perform cartwheels at every game, but the way my life had seemed to change overnight.

Suddenly the mailbox filled with party invitations from this classmate or that, the phone rang for me in the evenings and I was so involved with the Friday night games and team practice and get-togethers that I found I didn’t mind so much about my brother’s friends, who had nevertheless begun to recognize me in the hallway at school and even smiled at me. I got my ears pierced, and Lois even gave me a Villager sweater for my birthday. I convinced my mother that all the cheerleaders were supposed to wear lipstick on game days, a broad fib she kindly managed to overlook. Steve Gunther never abandoned Sally Wells on my behalf, but I didn’t hold it against him or whoever had made the magic begin in the first place.

Later, it seemed to me that much of my joy might actually hinge on being willing to be turned upside down for a moment or two, and that some important things have a way of turning right side up again all by themselves. Though I can’t, for the life of me, tell you how it’s done.

Stacy Appel is a writer in California whose work has been featured in the Chicago Tribune and other publications. She has also written for National Public Radio.

She is a contributor to the book You Know You’re a Writer When… by Adair Lara. Contact Stacy at WordWork101@aol.com.

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W [ The F-Word | Feminists Speak Out ]

What Kinds of Women Daughters?

Jennifer Scanlon

hen I was writing Bad Girls Go Everywhere: The Life of Helen Gurley Brown, I became intrigued with one of the similarities between Brown and Betty Friedan, another leader of the second wave: They both became feminists in part because their mothers were miserable in their limited, domestic roles. That formula, of women becoming empowered by the promise that they would live lives decidedly unlike their mothers, was common for women for several generations. What has changed as we enter the new century?

Just what is it in mothers that encourages strength, independence and self-assuredness in their daughters? What does it take to raise a feminist? Are feminists born primarily of struggle and strife?

Betty Friedan’s mother, Miriam Goldstein, had a career as a newspaper editor before she married. Following customary (and often legally mandated!) practice in the 1920s, she quit her job after marriage to raise a family. She did work—at home, in the community, and in her husband’s jewelry store—but Miriam Goldstein never again worked independently for pay. Even in the depths of the Great Depression, when the family could have used the additional income, the college-educated Goldstein gave in to her husband’s wish that she stay in the family circle. Betty Friedan later wrote that her mother’s discontent over having given up her career prompted Friedan’s own feminism.

Similarly, Helen Gurley Brown’s mother, Cleo Gurley, gave up her position as a schoolteacher at her husband’s urging. She raised her two daughters, but Helen and her sister Mary always felt that their mother resented having had little to no choice in her own life path. When the Great Depression hit and Cleo became widowed, too many years had passed for her to take up what once had been her career. During her childhood, Helen (like Betty) preferred her father’s company to her mother’s, feeling he was lighthearted and easy while her mother was sad and complicated. Only later did Helen put her mother’s life in a larger context and appreciate the sacrifices she made for her family. She considered her mother a feminist and thanked her for having provided her daughter with a sense that, above all, women need both a variety of possible life paths and the power to choose among them.

Like Helen and Betty, many girls today become feminists because they see, in their own lives or in the lives of their mothers—limitations, restrictions, prohibitions. But we all know feminists who became strong by wanting to replicate their mothers’ passion, initiative and sense of self. In these cases, feminism comes from the understanding that the same dynamic that keeps some women down—family—provides others with equal measures of support and understanding. The mothers in these cases show their daughters that through work (paid and unpaid), parenthood and partnering and a myriad of other experiences, the ability to make decisions about one’s life is critical.

Unfortunately, this discussion gets sidetracked into the argument about stay-at-home mothers versus work-for-pay mothers. We need to continue to move away from that dead end. Women, diverse as they are, cannot be captured within one frame of the lens. Work does provide many people, women included, with important elements of identity, so the notion that all women should do…well, anything—including giving up work for family—is problematic and invites dissatisfaction with the very thing feminists hope to shore up: families.

Who raises feminist daughters? Women who model, in positive (and, sadly, negative) ways, the need for options and freedom of choice.

Jennifer Scanlon is the Director of the Gender and Women’s Studies Program at Bowdoin College.

Her most recent book, Bad Girls Go Everywhere: The Life of Helen Gurley Brown, has been named one of the “Books of the Times” by the New York Times and reviewed also in the New York Times Book Review, New Yorker, Washington Post, Seattle Times, Wall Street Journal and Salon.com, and featured in newspapers, magazines, and radio in England, Australia, Turkey, Italy, Spain and Germany.

“We need to continue to move away from that dead end.

Women,

As diverse as they are, cannot be captured within one frame of the lens.

girls1st 5 Ways Moms Can Help Girls Be Themselves

me i love

Get in Touch with your Inner Goof Girls of all ages say they’re most in touch with their true selves when they’re being silly, crazy, loud or goofy. By late elementary school, your daughter is likely to hear peers deem silliness “immature;” these girls perceive that acting older will make them cooler. When girls shut down silliness, they restrain themselves physically. They begin disconnecting from who they are in order to try to be something they’re not. Step in to fill the void and keep silliness alive. Whether it’s singing in the car at the top of your lungs, dancing like no one’s watching in the kitchen, or making ridiculous faces and noises, just do it: let go of the “be perfect” rules and dork out together. There is no more powerful antidote to the pressure to be perfect than a mom who can burp the alphabet.

Rachel Simmons

Say No and Speak Up Your daughter lives in a world that tells her Good Girls are nice 24/7, no exceptions. In a peer culture that avoids conflict, girls don’t get permission or learn skills to say no.

These are crucial muscles you want your daughter to have: the ability not just to know what she’s feeling, but to act on it.

Think about the last time your daughter heard you speak up and challenge something or someone.

Show her how it’s done, assertively and with respect. Warning: Expect embarrassment. I used to want to throw myself under a bus when my mom sent cold French fries back to a restaurant kitchen for re-heating.

Fifteen years later, I sent them back myself—and thanked Mom for the permission she gave me.

Rachel Simmons is the author of The Curse of the Good Girl: Raising Authentic Girls with Courage and Confidence.

For more tips for parents and girls, visit her website at rachelsimmons.com.

“There is no more powerful antidote to the pressure to be perfect than a mom who can burp the alphabet.

Get Comfortable with your Limits Good Girls are expected to be flawless—not a hair out of place or math problem wrong. All that pressure can make a girl terrified of mistakes. The next time you screw up, gauge your reaction and consider the example it sets. Find your sense of humor if you can.

Barring that, avoid labeling yourself in front of her (“I’m such an idiot”) or making sweeping predictive statements (“I’ll never get this right”).

Point out the silver lining of your mistakes (there’s always at least one). Show her errors aren’t the end of the world. Bonus point: Take healthy risks with or in front of her. Anxious about that first spinning class? Worried about that next leap at work? Take it, and tell her about your nerves. Even if it doesn’t pan out, she is watching a mother who’s willing to fail. No one makes it big by playing it safe, and your example will give her permission to take the risks that yield the most exhilarating rewards.

Be a Little Selfish The Perfect Mom culture is suffocating. It suggests truly good mothers put everyone’s needs before their own. But the rules of being a Perfect Mom are directly at odds with the example most women want to set for their daughters. Laurie’s 12-year-old confronted her.

“Mom,” she said, “Why don’t you go to that dance class you want to take?

All you do is take care of us.” Laurie was horrified.

She made it a point to take the class—even if it meant not being there to drive every carpool shift or help with homework. Letting your children down isn’t easy, but the long-term, big picture message they get is: I’ve got a mother who takes care of herself and leads a balanced life.

In other words, one of the best gifts you can give your daughter is to take something for yourself.

Share Your Feelings Myth: Because girls have lots of feelings, means they’re good at recognizing and expressing them. Truth: Not only do girls often struggle to understand what they’re feeling, many describe feelings as nuisances that make them look weak.

Girls who communicate their feelings let others know what they need and are less likely to lose control over their behavior.

What you can do: Use emotion words in front of your daughter to model your comfort and build her own emotional vocabulary.

Say how you’re feeling (remembering to leave out the stuff daughters shouldn’t hear, like “I am feeling really angry at your father”). Ask her how she’s feeling. Instead of asking, “How was your day?” try “How are you feeling?” If she says “Fine,” say, “Finehappy? Fine-worried?

Fine-excited?” Knowing and saying how you feel is a powerful channel to our true selves, not to mention successful relationships.

Next month’s writer is Jessica Weiner, author of Life Doesn’t Begin 5 Pounds from Now.

>]T BcT_ This wasn’t a hike; it was suicide.

S

Jill Heisler

taring up Camelback Mountain’s 70 degree incline in 100 degree heat, I shake my head “no� and gingerly edge myself left toward the metal safety railing. “I tried,� I pant to no one and begin walking sideways up the mountain, gripping the metal railing attached to the wire fence. The ground is just beyond the fence, a mile below. “No, Jill!� our guide, Tanya the triathlete, yells from far ahead. “Stay to the right!� Ahead of me, a father and young son are jogging down on their descent.

Even their golden retriever is running.

I freeze. Would it be worse to have a head-on collision or return to the right, where there is nothing to hold onto except jagged rocks? The five other women in my group have long since passed me and are almost out of sight. “The most common mistake is to stop and think,� screams Tanya. “Don’t do it!�

I’m a veteran at this sort of mental combat—trying to prove I’m fearless through physical acts of daredevilism. Thrown off-balance by some emotional life event like getting fired or a break-up, I commemorate the occasion by taking up kickboxing, the flying trapeze and now bouldering. As if beating up on my body proves I’m impenetrable to anguish or disappointment (or distracts me from feeling it altogether). Of course, no sooner do I approach the punching bag/ net/mountain than I freeze in fear and beat up on myself mentally instead.

But I wasn’t in combat mode when I started this hike.

Three months ago I booked the solo trip (my first post-break-up vacation) out west to Sanctuary Resort & Spa in Paradise Valley, Arizona, anxious to trade in my high-heels, subway card and treadmill for a bikini, morning sun salutations and butt-grinding workouts. Slumped over my computer at work, I scoured the website’s fitness and recreation menu.

Bike & Hike, it read. Set your own pace while an expert guides you up Camelback. Learn about desert flora, fauna and geology. Athletic shoes recommended.

This refreshing hike would be a nice counterbalance to my sweaty morning workouts. I’d power up the mountain, then stand with my arms raised like Rocky at the top of Camelback—break-up behind me. Cleansed, restored, renewed.

Instead, I was getting my butt kicked—by a dog, a kid and five women 12 years older than me. We were also moving too fast to stop and smell the flora.

The bike part had been a five-minute ride from the resort to Camelback’s base. Not much of a biker, I pedaled like a frantic school kid trying to catch up with my hike mates—a group of southern women on vacation celebrating someone’s 40th birthday. The same women I dined across from the night before and hoped to never see again. Their raucous laughter and repeated clinking of wine glasses had overpowered the quiet restaurant where I dined solo.

They’d laughed about boyfriends, husbands, ex-husbands, body image and eating disorders, and cheered when the young waiter brought them a flaming molten chocolate cake.

“Y’all, I wouldn’t go back to my 20s if you paid me,� said the birthday girl, Nancy. “Back then, I couldn’t do anything without worrying what others would think.� “Amen to that,� they clinked. “Waiter,� I snapped my book shut. “Check, please.�

I knew a solo spa trip meant I’d be surrounded by couples and groups of girlfriends. And while I’m okay at a table for one, who was I kidding? Of course I’d rather have been there with a boyfriend or a best friend. These women were everything I didn’t know I wanted to be—at peace with myself and unafraid to eat chocolate.

They were also where I wanted to be, too. Further along in the journey. “Woohoo,� hollered Michele, a blond with big breasts and perfect legs, from high above the mountain. “We’re so far up!�

She and I had kept pace at the beginning, when we started climbing the wide gravel staircase at the base of Camelback. As usual, I assumed that because I was the youngest, and in the best shape, I’d naturally lead the pack.

Then we reached this part—the black diamond of hills. This wasn’t a hike; it was suicide. “It will be fun,� Michele winked before sprinting off like a jackrabbit.

Now their hoots and hollers bounced off the rocks down toward me.

They’re probably snapping pics and trading high-fives, I think. I’m here alone, scared, angry and attached to a railing.

The trio of father, son and dog are fast approaching. “C’mon, Jill,� I say out loud, imagining the impending confrontation. “Hey, Jill,� says Nancy coming from behind on the right side, as she balances herself against a rock. “Just walk toward me and grab my hand. Scream if you have to.�

Apparently I’m not the slowest climber.

I think about how good it feels to punch my ex’s imaginary reflection in the mirror, the thrill of jumping off of the trapeze platform and the relief that will come from finishing the hardest climb of my life. “Thank you!� I sigh.

Then I close my eyes, raise my right leg over the abyss to reach her outstretched hand and scream. “Awesome,� cheers Nancy when I arrive at her side. “This is some hike, right? I’m getting passed by toddlers!� “Yeah,� I say, rubbing my sweaty hands on my knees. “I’m taking my time too.�

I refocus and decide to drown out my surroundings—the puppies, the pregnant women, even Nancy. I settle my gaze on the rock I’m on, not ahead at how far I have to go, or behind at how far I’ve come. One boulder at a time.

It’s the same way I’ve survived every stressful life event—break-ups, moving out of a shared apartment, getting fired, changing careers.

And that’s how I reach the top, smack in the middle of the group, not first, but not last. It made my Rocky moment, and a group photo with the girls, taste even sweeter.

Jill Heisler is the Lifestyle Marketing Director at Forbes Media, a life coach, and a freelance writer for Array, Bed Bath & Beyond, Penwomanship, and Sirens Mag. She lives in New York City.

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i n te r va l t ra i n i n g Ask any experienced runner and they’ll say that speed work and interval training are the keys to getting faster, to finally breaking out of my nine-minute mile holding pattern.

Given that I’ve got 30 years and 40 pounds on my lithe and loping daughter, I’m not sure I’ll ever get up to her speed, but I’m working these intervals—these precious three to four mile increments in our relationship—for all they’re worth.

Stephanie Hunt

Interval Training

I’m dragging in after three miles, totally spent and drenched. The sun is feral and fierce, a caramelizing sizzle on top of the dense pudding of late summer humidity. This is not running weather, not for me, anyway. It barely qualifies as breathing weather.

I’m a reluctant and finicky runner. As my sport of last resort, running is all effort and grunt, my fallback when I don’t have time to bike or swim, which I actually enjoy. I can get mildly excited about going for a run if I’m well-rested and it’s cool and crisp outside, when my body’s cells get kinetic and zippy and my brain doesn’t immediately shift into heatstroke panic mode. But that translates to about a three-week running season down where I live, which may explain why, over the quarter of a century that I’ve been a runner, I’ve never improved much. My nine-minute mile may not be speedy, but it’s been remarkably consistent. Lately, however, I’ve been lacing up my Sauconys more frequently and pushing my ingrained pace, despite the blazing heat.

“Mom, you want to run in the morning?” my teenage daughter asks. I’d been looking forward to sleeping in, but without hesitation I say, “Sure.” And in the morning I am creaky and groggy and thickly encased in the night’s inertia, but I head out with her, before coffee, before I’m alert enough to register that this is not a wise move. Because it is a wise move. In fact, it’s one of the wisest training moves I’ve made: my daughter as unwitting coach; Mom following in her footsteps. Or trying to.

Summer before last, I was the one encouraging her, a rookie freshman on the high school cross country team, hoping to add muscle and bulk to her self-confidence. I was the one headed out for a run and inviting her to join me, and about a mile and a half into it, nudging her to ramp up her pace.

“Focus on your breathing, find a rhythm. Relax,” I gently advised. But the tempo and course has changed. Now I’m the one working my ass off to keep up. Relax, I remind myself as I’m gasping and choking on my own advice.

Still, my coach is patient, to a point. I’m prone to stopping and catching my breath, catching her glare when I do. She gets exasperated when I quit a mere 50 yards from our designated finish line. For me it’s a matter of mind over muscle; my weakness is mental strength and focus. Because she’s my daughter, I want to model fortitude and determination, and I want her respect over and above a good workout, so it becomes Mom-over-mind-over-muscle.

When my kids were young, I ran for sanity. I ran to run away, to find the only time during the day when I could be alone, unencumbered, moving at my own pace and on my own whim, with no one grabbing at me or whining to be picked up. I ran because it felt good, because my senses perked up and I felt productive, not numbed by baby talk and household drivel. I ran to feel my blood pulsing and sweat dripping, for the brief pleasure of satisfying no one’s bodily needs but my own. When they were toddlers and preschoolers, I ran to entertain them, pointing out shrimp boats or blue jays as they bounced along in the jog-stroller or teetered beside me on wobbly training wheels.

Now I run not to escape or to entertain, or even really to exercise, but to connect. Running together puts my daughter and me in step in a way that otherwise eludes us—as teenager and mom we’re more inclined to stepping on each other’s toes. Matching her stride and syncing our breathing, I appreciate this brief physical intune-ness at a stage when our bodies are at opposing ends of womanhood and our moods and desires too often clash.

During our run, her unspoken disapprovals of me, her small disappointments and chaffing frustrations at my parenting lapses and general cluelessness (and vice-versa) get channeled into forward motion.

Ask any experienced runner and they’ll say that speed work and interval training are the keys to getting faster, to finally breaking out of my nine-minute mile holding pattern. Given that I’ve got 30 years and 40 pounds on my lithe and loping daughter, I’m not sure I’ll ever get up to her speed, but I’m working these intervals—these precious three to four mile increments in our relationship—for all they’re worth. It’s not as if our runs offer time for heart-to-heart chats—I’m panting too much to speak—but we’re foot-to-foot, shoulder-toshoulder, working together toward a goal, sharing pain and self doubt, taking turns being patient and forgiving, sometimes more so than others. She sprints ahead at the end of our standard neighborhood loop—there’s an oak tree where I habitually poop out and she pushes on, then she walks back to catch me for a cool down. She offers a limp, damp palm to slap me five. I’ll take it.

The weather will soon turn cooler, thank God, and I’ll head out with U2 singing “Beautiful Day” on my MP3 player. My daughter will be training with her teammates and running in cross country meets, leaving me to fend for myself. But if and when she’s up for a jog and asks me to join her, I’ll be there. I’m in it for the long run.

Stephanie finished third in her age group in a recent Sprint Triathlon, proving one benefit to getting older—the competition dwindles. She has much better endurance at the keyboard, writing essays, features and profiles for a number of publications. stephaniehuntwrites.com.

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I’m in no mood for the “everyone’s a winner” mentality.

A

Jody Mace

s I approach the starting line for my first 5K, I scan the crowd for people who look less in shape than I am, but everyone looks pretty fit and I’m worried. All I want is not to finish last.

I’ve been taking a running class for three months. In that time I went from hardly being able to run for one minute to running for seven. With one-minute walking breaks, I’m able to do several intervals. I clock in at a steady four miles an hour.

The gun sounds. The adrenaline rush propels me for about 90 seconds. Plus, we’re running downhill. But by Minute 3, my husband is too far in the distance for me to see. At Minute 4, a woman pushing a stroller passes me.

By Minute 5, I’m all alone. I follow the orange cones into the woods. The weather is perfect: cool and clear. The sun is just starting its descent toward the treetops. I look at my watch. I’ve been running for 10 minutes, three minutes longer than I have ever done before. I keep going until I hit 12 minutes and then I take a walking break for exactly one minute.

When I start running again, the beginning of fatigue in my legs triggers a similar downturn in my attitude. I feel lonely. One of the benefits of an organized race is the camaraderie among the runners. There’s no camaraderie for me because everyone else is so far ahead.

It suddenly seems absurd, this running. I’m painfully slow, and yet I keep running. What a strange thing to do.

I’ve always been an achiever. I had high grades at school and was first-chair violin in the orchestra. I went to a very good college and got an enviable job upon graduating. I’m at least okay at most things I try. But not running. I am really, really bad at running.

At 16 minutes, I decide that I hate running and after this race I’m never going to run again. If you’re that bad at something there’s no point in doing it. I took a pottery class once. My vases always ended up grossly misshapen. I stopped going to the class. If there’s one thing I know, it’s when I’m beat.

This race is embarrassing. When I finally finish, everyone will see that I’m last.

They’ll cheer, sure, but I know the difference between a cheer because someone did well and a pity cheer.

A couple sitting on a bench, official race support-team members, cheers for me.

“I’m the last one,” I apologize. I feel bad that they’ve been waiting on me.

“No, you’re not,” the woman says. I turn to look, and she’s right! There’s another runner behind me doing something between a jog and a walk. She looks stiff.

I look again. She’s at least 85 years old.

Now I have some motivation: I am not going to come in last! For 10 minutes we race, I doing my slow shuffle-run, and she leaning forward as if she’s climbing a hill even though the terrain is flat.

My calves ache. I approach a hydration station, and a girl hands me a paper cup of water. I pour a mouthful down my throat and look over my shoulder.

She’s gaining on me. I try to lengthen my stride, but my calves feel like rocks.

At Minute 30 we’re almost neck and neck. I glance back.

“It’s hard when you’re old,” she tells me.

I slow down, and we run together. Her name is Margaret. I want to tell her why it’s hard for me, too, but what’s my excuse?

Actually, it would be good if I had a story for when I cross the finish line. I come up with this fantasy about being in a terrible accident. They never thought I’d walk again. In fact, I’m wearing artificial legs. It’s amazing that I’m running a 5K at all. A miracle. Now when I imagine the cheers at the finish line, they don’t seem like pity or duty. They’re doing that slow clapping thing like they do in the movies. I’m an inspiration.

My fantasy gives me a surge of energy. I’m in front of her.

I’m still carrying the paper cup, but where do I put it? It seems wrong to just throw it down. At Minute 36 I see a trash can. I drop my cup into it, but it bounces off the lid. I bend to pick up the cup, and that’s when it happens.

Margaret overtakes me.

I watch the back of her gray head getting smaller and smaller, her stiff, determined stride taking her up the big hill. I take a deep breath and walk, resigned to my humiliation.

Finally I round a curve and there it is, the last stretch. I start running again. When the timekeeper sees me, he stands up from his folding chair. The scoreboard says 51:40. I feel sick. Not from the running, but because of the time, and the other runners, who finished 20 minutes ago and are lazing around on the grass. I sprint to the finish line. I will not let that clock get to 52 minutes.

As I cross, at 51:54, I make a joke, “Am I first?”

But the timekeeper feels sorry for me, “If you finished, you’re first!”

I’m in no mood for the “everyone’s a winner” mentality.

Margaret finds me, “We hung in there, didn’t we?”

“You were awesome,” I tell her. I wonder if I’ll be running when I’m 85.

Probably not.

That night, everything hurts and I don’t feel good about the race. I throw away my number. I do eat the candy that came in the goody bag.

Days pass. My legs don’t hurt anymore, and the twinge in my back is gone. I can’t believe it, but I feel like running. I lace up my running shoes and head to the trail. Every other runner in the 5K was faster than this, but I keep going. There’s something satisfying about the purposeful pumping of my arms, the rhythm of my pace.

Twenty minutes later, my calves give way and I walk. This is longer than I’ve ever run before. I feel winded but strong. I think of the pottery class, of my fallen vases, and I remember the way the wet clay felt between my hands, soft and pliable. I remember the hardened traces of clay on my hands after the class, how I liked the way it felt when I rubbed them together. And I wonder what I lost by caring only for the finished vases instead of for their lovely rising and falling.

Jody Mace lives in Charlotte, NC, with her husband, two kids, and her dog, Shaggy.

She writes for magazines and also stays busy finding great deals for her website, charlotteonthecheap.com.

We want it all, and we want it now.

With The End

I

Emily Miller

used to be a big John Mayer fan. Singing along to Room for Squares with the windows down, a newly licensed driver at 16, I felt like John and I connected—his lyrics were “deep,” and so was I. It was on track two that I first heard the term “quarterlife crisis,” another clever lyric from a profound young artist.

Fast forward a decade, and I’ve decided that both John Mayer and the quarterlife crisis suck. After Jessica Simpson, Jennifer Aniston, his cruise line performance partnership, and his egomaniacal Twittering—there are now actual products you can buy that say “John Mayer is a Douchebag.” And the quarterlife crisis doesn’t sound so romantic once you’re in one. Mine didn’t really hit home until I turned 25. I don’t know why 25 is the magic age. I have the same job, same relationship, same friends, same dog and same apartment that I had when I was 24. But somehow being 24 made it okay—I was in my “early 20s,” just out of college, living at the beach with plenty of time to figure out the rest of my life.

But as 25 approached, things changed. I looked for new challenges at work.

I started having “relationship talks.” Even my dog looks older. I took the LSAT the day after my 25th birthday, because in my panic, law school seemed like the perfect solution to my problem—a prestigious, socially acceptable place to hide for three more years. I would temporarily have an identity: a law student with no interest in or intention of becoming an actual lawyer. When I mention my restlessness and uncertainty to my friends, it mirrors their own. Crisis might be a strong word, but we are struggling. We are coming to terms with “the end”— the time when our adolescent identity expires and we are expected to become our adult selves.

I recently read an article by Kate Carraway entitled “Welcome to Your Quarterlife Crisis,” in which she characterizes twentysomethings as “benignly self-indulgent children who were sold on their own uniqueness, place in the world and right to fulfillment in a way no previous generation has felt entitled to.” Carraway, by the way, gives a shout-out to John Mayer as well. I agree with her assessment. My dad used to call my high school “Self-Esteem High.”A pretty large percentage of the student population was in the gifted program, and we had nine (yes, nine) valedictorians. Grade inflation, hyper-involved parents and an emphasis on what Carraway calls our “uniqueness” has created a population of twentysomethings with some very high, possibly even unrealistic, expectations. We want it all, and we want it now.

I’ve noticed that the quarterlife crisis tends to be more severe for women.

In college, a friend used to talk to me about the path she had laid out for her-

self, and she was very specific: land a fabulous job at 22; get engaged by 24; married by 26, kids by 29; six-figure salary by 30. When I pointed out that she was currently 22 and single, her response was “That’s why the next guy I date needs to be my future husband.”

At 22, we were starting to feel the pressure, but we hadn’t yet reached the end—college and those first few post-college years still felt a little like childhood, but with more booze. All of the big plans were still in the future. But at 25, my friend has already missed her first two deadlines.

I admit that I’m also guilty of setting deadlines, minus the numerical specifics. When I was 11 and imagined my 20ish self, I envisioned her walking across the campus of a prestigious university, carrying great literature and chatting with a group of friends on her way to class. My 30ish self was a high-powered business woman driving along the highway in her red Jeep Wrangler, chatting with her loving husband on her way to a fabulous restaurant.

I don’t think I ever imagined myself at 25. The transformation from funloving student to full-time adult would just magically happen. I didn’t realize that I would mourn the loss of my childhood, that I might not get married, that Jeep Wranglers are actually pretty impractical. At 25, I’ve reached my end: the end of my adolescence and the end of my ability to fantasize about the future without acknowledging its tie to my lackluster present.

Some days I feel totally lost, as if I’ve reached a dead end and can’t turn around. But I’m slowly realizing that the end might not be so bad. I can’t pin everything on the future, so I’m forced to confront the present. My rediscovered ambition motivated me to ask my boss for more responsibility. I’ve learned that relationships take work, but they should ultimately push both parties to become better, stronger people. I know that my dog won’t live forever, so I’ve stopped shooing her away when she licks my face. I’ve started writing again.

The end has forced me to confront my new adult beginning—even if the beginning isn’t what I planned, even if it leads me down an unimagined path. With a quarter of a century under my belt, I am only sure of three things: 1. I am a work in progress. The decisions that I make today are important, but I’m not stuck with them forever. I can and should change my mind, always looking out for my own best interests, because no one else (except maybe my mom) will do that for me. I am responsible for my own happiness.

2. Despite what my sister’s college roommates say, 25 is not old. At her recent graduation party, when I said I was 25, I got sympathetic looks and encouraging statements like “Don’t worry, you’re still fun!” Call me in four years, ladies.

3. He may have correctly labeled the quarterlife crisis, but John Mayer still sucks.

Emily Miller has traded John Mayer for NPR in her old age. A native of Pittsburgh, she moved south after graduating from Bucknell University. She currently lives in Charleston, SC.

The

Suitcase How could I be so stupid? What signs had I missed? Why would someone treat me this way?

L

Kim Salyer

ast year, I fell in love with a man I had known for two years, a dear friend who lived and worked in San Francisco. We had talked and written and become so close during those two years, that being together felt more like the next step than a risky venture. We met in person, were mad for each other from moment one, and after a few months we decided I would move to San Francisco. We looked for a place to live, made plans for a life together and were both giddy at the thought of it all. And then, in the most cruel way imaginable, I found out he had been living with another woman the entire time we made all these plans, the entire time we had written to each other as friends, the entire time we were seeing each other.

After I found out, he abruptly cut off all communication with me and never showed a flicker of remorse or sorrow. I fell apart in ways I am embarrassed to think of now, completely losing my footing and my confidence.

A great deal of my sorrow was just over the fact that one person could do such a thing to another. Especially to someone who had shown them only kindness and love. And why? Why had he drawn me into his life, made these plans while living with someone? How could I be so stupid? What signs had I missed?

Why would someone treat me this way?

I needed answers and never got them. I wanted to understand how this could happen, but there was no explanation.

When I came home from that trip—my last trip to see him—I put my suitcase in my extra bedroom and ignored it. I felt that if I opened it and saw the things I had packed for what I thought would be a wonderful, special trip, the pain would be too much to bear. And day after day, I let the suitcase sit there, haunting me.

I replaced all the toiletries, my curling iron, my electric toothbrush, just so I wouldn’t have to open it. Weeks went by and then months, until I was in another season and didn’t miss or need anything inside it.

And then, a few weeks ago, I moved to a new apartment. As I carried random boxes, lamps and other items out of the spare bedroom, the suitcase stood in the corner. I realized it had been almost a year since I left it in that same spot, in that same position. My heart hurt remembering how it felt coming home that night. I looked at this bag, and thought of just adding it to the trash pile outside. But I remembered a few things inside it that I had loved. The French shoes I had bought

in San Francisco that made me feel as though I was walking on cobblestones instead of concrete. The little black and white dress that made me feel beautiful, even sexy. The journal that I had kept for years before meeting him. I took the handle in my hand and loaded the suitcase in the back of my car.

A few nights later, I finally screwed up my courage and opened it. The first thing that greeted me was the scent of the perfume I had worn, that I loved, but hadn’t used since then. I was determined not to cry, but it happened before I could think. I wept. For a moment, I thought again of just closing the suitcase and trashing everything. But I made myself keep going.

I found the French shoes, the dress, my favorite bathing suit, my journal, jewelry I adore that I had almost forgotten about, clothing I feel my best in and some short stories I had written. I sat there with these things all around me, still in tears.

And slowly, I began to introduce the things from the suitcase back into my life. I wore the shoes to work, brought the perfume out of hibernation and washed all the clothes and returned them to my closet. My necklaces, bracelets and rings went back into my mirrored jewelry box and the writing into my desk with my other work. I performed the cleaning ritual I used to do after my business trips, vacuuming the whole suitcase, spritzing some Febreeze and returning it to my closet.

I was fine with the contents out, but the suitcase itself bothered me. I couldn’t look at it without thinking of the pain of that last trip, the pain that kept me from opening it for a year. I tossed the suitcase in the back of my car, figuring I would happen upon a dumpster while I was out.

One day, while driving around for work, I saw two women behind a table with containers and stacks of odd items surrounding them. A sign read “Donations” and listed the name of a women’s shelter. I returned to my car and pulled out the suitcase and quietly added it to the stacks of donations. As I walked away, I thought of some woman starting her life over, exiting from pain, heading somewhere new and safe. I thought of her packing things in this suitcase, beginning anew and associating the suitcase with happiness. At least that’s what I hoped, and it seemed to clear my head and my heart.

Keeping that suitcase in my house, however hidden, was almost like he was still around. Breaking it open, taking the parts that were the best of myself out of it and then doing something positive with it freed me. Maybe it sounds dramatic and maybe no one else can understand, but it makes perfect sense to me. It’s been almost a year since I could say that about anything.

In addition to working for skirt! Charlotte, Kim Salyer is a writer, wanna-be photographer and blogger at kdsthinkingoutloud.blogspot.com.

Young women don’t need phony assurances about how easy it is to be both a mother and an individual, to maintain both a family and a career, to win in both the office and the house. Such platitudes can only lead to disillusionment and anger— unless the next decade brings about sane maternity leaves, affordable childcare, universal health insurance and family-friendly work environments.

Va l e r i e We a v e r- Z e r c h e r

Since moving to within

a mile of the college where my husband teaches, I’ve met a lot of college students. Some are babysitters for our three young sons; others come to a Sundayevening house fellowship that we’ve been hosting in our basement. I’ve especially enjoyed getting to know the women; they’re smart, thoughtful, creative and confident. They are forever leaving to or returning from study abroad service terms in places like Costa Rica or Northern Ireland; they speak multiple languages; they go rock-climbing; they read books about postmodern theology just for fun. One of them is building her own straw-bale house. They have big plans and big questions and big hearts. In fact, they remind me a lot of myself when I was in college.

They also threaten the hell out of me.

“Threatened” isn’t actually the right word for the vague anxiety I have when I’m with them. It’s more like one part nostalgia (they remind me of my former, more radical self); one part shame (I didn’t change the world, and now I’m now a mostly-at-home mother of three); and one part jealousy (I can’t play Frisbee every Sunday afternoon anymore). Basically, it’s a competitive instinct that I just can’t seem to put to rest. Adventure, success, activism and travel win; motherhood loses.

Whatever the word is for my feeling when I’m with them, it’s certainly divine retribution. I spent much of my college career feeling pity and mild contempt for those sweet-natured education and nursing majors who wanted to have babies and live in split-levels—unlike me and my friends, the slightly transgressive and (we thought) brainy writers and activists. I’m not sure my friends and I ever imagined ourselves as mothers, or what we’d do about health insurance and childcare while we and our comrades-in-arms husbands continued with our slightly transgressive and brainy work. All I knew then was that women who were eager to stay home with children deserved pity for their vocational losses and anger for betraying the movement.

Mentor or Mom?

I’m proud of neither my former judgmentalism nor my current paranoia about being judged. Both my mommy-track classmates 15 years ago and my doppelgänger young friends at present have done nothing to earn my rancor. Plus, I’m schooled enough in feminism to know that animosity between women can be its undoing, and that the purported “mommy wars” are just one more way to pit women against each other in a game no one can win.

So while I can forgive my 20-something self for not having the wherewithal to befriend classmates I saw as threatening to women’s progress, you’d think I’d know by now that college students need 30-something women like me as mentors, not competitors.

You’d think. And I do so love to imagine myself in that mentor scenario: in it, I take the college women out for coffee at a café, listen to their dreams for the future and then gently impart my I’m-older-enough-than-you-to-bewiser-but-not-so-old-as-to-be-uncool advice. In my daydream, the young women always walk back to their dorm rooms feeling elated that such a successful and compassionate woman took an interest in them.

Maybe someday I’ll be mentor material. Right now, however, I’m still too worried that these young women are going to pass me in the next lane.

Right now, I’m too busy running kids to cello lessons and baseball practice, trying not to resent my husband for his professional successes and figuring out how I’m going to get a job someday with nine blank years in my resume.

Right now, I’m too tired to do much of anything.

But I still wonder if I should warn them. It’s not what mentors do—except perhaps deranged ones—but here’s my other daydream, sans hip café.

In this fantasy, we’re in my basement strewn with couch pillows and toys and peopled by screaming children. I pull the college women aside, fix them with a steady gaze and whisper in a conspiratorial voice: I was once like you. I baked bread in Germany and walked through streams in Nicaragua. I worked for a magazine and had a company credit card and wrote editorials that shocked people. I got married to a man willing to clean bathrooms, and we lived in a city and walked to market and protested the death penalty.

And then I had a baby. Here I pause, then raise my eyebrows.

And two years later another. Another significant pause.

And two years later, yet another.

I stop for awhile, until they think I’ve made my point and begin to sidle away. Then I begin again: Each child is an earthquake that hurls your identity off the shelf, I say. You will spend years picking yourself off the floor, along with everyone else’s socks and Play-Doh. You will no longer know who really wins: the one who goes to the office all day, or the one who stays home with the kids. You will feel guilty about each choice that takes you away from your children, and resentful of each choice that takes you away from your calling. And here I grab them by their scrawny elbows and bring it home: And you will never, ever judge a housewife again!

Then I take a deep breath and walk away, perhaps tripping over a Lego but clothed with the strange dignity that comes with both speaking the truth and coming unhinged. The college women will stumble wide-eyed back to their psychology textbooks and smart roommates, trying to figure out a diagnosis.

Neither of my scenarios is accurate, I’m sure, despite how much I relish both of them. I doubt I’ll ever be self-actualized enough to truly mentor anyone, but I’ll never have the nerve to do the insane housewife routine either.

Come to think of it, neither scenario would do college women much good anyway. Young women don’t need phony assurances about how easy it is to be both a mother and an individual, to maintain both a family and a career, to win in both the office and the house. Such platitudes can only lead to disillusionment and anger—unless the next decade brings about sane maternity leaves, affordable childcare, universal health insurance and familyfriendly work environments. (I’m not holding my breath.) Or maybe, if they have children, they and their partners will find better ways to navigate these days of early parenthood—some way to change the world, change gendered patterns and still change diapers. I’ll be the first to cheer them on (provided I’m not too jealous).

On the other hand, maybe some college women will end up like me: bewildered, exhausted, not sure whether they’ve won or not or whether they even trust the society that’s keeping the score. Indeed, maybe college women need me a little bit like I need them: as a prompt to reexamine how we calibrate wins and losses, and as a reminder that when it comes to motherhood and work, winning and losing are categories that no longer make an iota of sense.

Valerie Weaver-Zercher is a writer and editor in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania. Her writing receives special mention in the 2009 Pushcart Prize anthology, and she is a 2009 recipient of a fellowship in creative nonfiction from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts.

let’slivelarge “...from style to passion, from money and success to femininity and living life on your own terms.

The Gospel According to Coco Chanel Life Lessons from the World’s Most Elegant Woman

by Karen Karbo; Illustrated by Chesley McLaren Delving into the extraordinary life of renowned French fashion designer Coco Chanel, Karen Karbo has written

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planetnikki a visual journal

I’ve been pining for this vintage Buddha statue in one of my favorite local shops for months. When it went on sale, I couldn’t hold out any longer. I love that there’s a slot in the back for prayers...

I’ll make good use of that.

“a moveable feast” I’m a Dusk person, not a Dawn person.

For an insomniac I’m Saturday Night Live versus CBS Sunday Morning. like me, this CD is I hate the Damocles sword of an alarm clock hanging over the equivalent of the celestial concept of my consciousness when I go to bed. I find it hard to make the music of it to early morning meetings. I almost have to sleep in my the spheres. workout clothes in order to get to an am spinning class.

I try to eat breakfast every day, but I don’t really love solid food before my soul has had time to resettle in my body after wandering all night God knows where. But when the day begins to wind down, I wake up. I look forward to leaving my shoes at the door, taking a shower, putting on PJs and sautéing onions in olive oil when I come home from I love Susanna’s work. If I go out, the conviviality of Happy Hour makes me Winged Messengers feel like I’m living in Hemingway’s Paris. I love the evening (susannassketchbook. typepad.com), meant news, technicolor sunsets in winter, dinner parties, gentle to be posted in public shadows that soothe the tired earth, reading until 2am, places to give people a lift and make them thunderstorms that wake me up in the dark stop and think. The and night-owl guardian angels who watch over me ones she sent me are already out in the when I finally turn out the lights. world.

I pasted tiny squares of images that I like in my journal and on the opposite page gave myself an assignment to write about the word “red.”

September

09

the Finish Line

You’ll reach the finish line faster this month without excess weight!

Feel Good, Do Good,

‡

LOVE life.

feelhealthy

“Life is a Bowl of Cherries” Smoothie

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1 cup of cherries 1 scoop of vanilla protein powder 2/3 cup skim milk

Blend with love.

o

“Age is something that doesn’t matter, unless you are a cheese.”

Billie Burke

“Old age is fifteen years older than I am.”

Oliver Wendell Holmes

shesaid hesaid

she’ssoskirt Interview by Nora Shoptaw, skirt!Greensboro

Kim Wayans | actress | writer | producer | director [because her words cross cultures] [because she gives a voice to young girls] [ b e c a u s e s h e ’s n o t a f r a i d t o b a r e h e r s o u l ] She’s best known for the

“...examines the source of Kim’s anxiety and her experiences as part of one of the funniest families in Hollywood.

outrageous characters she’s played on shows like In Living Color and in the recent movie Dance Flick.

But guests of the National

examines the source of

Black Theatre Festival saw a

Kim’s anxiety and her expe-

different side of Kim—

riences as part of one of the

“the real Kim, the woman

funniest families in Holly-

behind the wacky charac-

wood. Inspired by her many

ters,” she says. Based on

nieces and nephews, Kim

her journey of self-discovery

and her husband launched

after a spiritual retreat, A

the Amy Hodgepodge book

Handsome Woman Retreats

series (amyhodgepodge.

Photo by Kimberly Butler

com), exploring issues multiracial kids face in today’s culture. “They are the largest growing segment of the population, and we saw a void in children’s literature. We wanted to present characters our nieces and nephews could relate to,” Kim says. “All children need a positive role model.”

Though she’s now working on a musical about the lives of three middle school-aged girls, Kim hasn’t shut the door to more acting gigs.

“I’m one of these go-withthe-flow girls,” she says.

“I never imagined all the things I’ve been able to do.

I try to stay open to all the possibilities.”

VIEW POINTS

“What becomes of the broken-hearted?

They buy shoes.”

Mimi Pond

[ Put on a skirt! attitude. Small ways to make change. ]

“It’s a great prompt for talking about sex and reproduction...

Ask your gynecologist if your daughter can accompany you and observe your yearly exam. It’s a great prompt for talking about sex and reproduction; your daughter may even feel more comfortable asking your doctor questions.

Her first or future visits will

be much less intimidating, and she’ll be less likely to associate the gynecologist with sex only. The inquisitive and relaxed example that you set will show her that the visit is nothing to fear; instead, it’s an opportunity for her to take control of her body, her sexuality and her health.