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August 29th, 2010
 Photo from David Zeiger’s film ”Displaced in the New South”
First Published on Owning Pink 8/19/2010
While traveling through southern Arizona on Interstate 10 did not provide me an overheated mirage of a tropical spa, I did experience delusions of a 100 MPH speed limit. Why not, since there’s a sandbar every ten feet to slow my runaway minivan? Among the yucca plants and dust devils I noticed the regular presence of border patrol, even 200 miles from the Mexican border in a wide sand bowl where lizards fear to cross.
“Really?” I asked my Samsonite luggage stacked in the passenger seat. “Are illegal immigrants really sneaking into our country through this misery? Anyone who survives a trek like that is a soul we may want on American soil — because that, my trusty traveling companion, is determination with a capital D.”
Drawing Lines
There’s no question Arizona has become overwhelmed by illegal immigrants desperate for a shot at the American dream: a decent living, a good education, medical care. These are the very systems that are being overrun. I understand that the demand made by those who are not contributing taxes is overwhelming those who do. It wasn’t surprising that the Arizona State Government felt the need to draw a line allowing local police, who have made a “lawful stop, detention or arrest” of an individual, to determine that person’s immigration status if there is a “reasonable suspicion” that they may be an illegal alien.
Of course this law carries the taint of racial profiling, which has made it controversial with the rest of the country. My hometown of Austin, 800 miles to the east, responded by drawing a line of their own: they banned travel and all business ties with Arizona. All of this political maneuvering reminded me of Europe — a place that has drawn more lines than a child’s Spirograph.
A History of Borders
My husband and I were very fortunate to live in Germany for three years in the late 90’s. He was in the Air Force, working four days on – four days off, with an outstanding vacation package. We decided to spend as much time and money as two DINKs could traveling the continent. In the end we had visited 26 countries. We loved seeing the red barns in the Swedish country side, the gothic architecture in Prague, the history in Cairo… and then there was Italy. There is very little to dislike about Italy.
But no matter where we visited, from Israel to Ireland, Spain to Russia, the locals always had a negative opinion to share with us about one of their neighbors. Unfortunately, a good deal of it was still being directed toward Germany. WWII may have ended 65 years ago, but the emotional turmoil lingers still. “Oh how sorry we are for you to be in Germany,” said a young Russian man on the Moscow underground. “Germans? We hate the Germans!” shared a French couple in a Strasburg restaurant. “Germany! Why it is no wonder you have come to Brussels to escape,” boasted a Belgium waffle vender. It became depressing for us to listen to these harbored feelings.
If only I could say it were the remnants of the World Wars, but Europe’s history is long and pock-marked with conflict. A Turk bragged that if we were Greek, he would kill us on the spot — while a Greek explained how they are striving to erase Turkey from the world map. The Poles want nothing to do with the Russians, do not insult an Englishman by referring to him as Welsh, and the Swiss — well, how can you hold a grudge against the world’s banker?
The Gift of Living in an Intermeshed Culture
Whenever we ran into this cultural discrimination, we would try to explain how odd it was to grasp the depth of this discrimination as Americans. We are still dealing with race issues and the inequality of the sexes, but you never find hate on the other side of a geographical line in the United States. “I am from the State of Wyoming,” I would explain. “Wyominites do not hate New Yorkers, or Californians, or Vermonters.” We love to ski and camp in Canada and take spring breaks in Mexico. They would wave me away, shaking their head, “Bah! You Americans, your country is still a baby.”
The truth is that our short history has saved us from this cultural discrimination. Why theGerman/French border alone has been moved and fought over for centuries. If the Canadians were constantly invading Minnesota, do you think we’d be nearly as enthusiastic today about their crude oil, low-cost prescriptions and bacon?
One of the greatest gifts we possess in this country is our lack of violent history with our neighbors. And our intermeshed cultural inheritance is a fantastic buffer to discriminate against any single group. Arizona checking the citizenship of its Hispanic population is like California checking the authenticity of its blondes. Look around… then tell me where they plan to begin?
When our country has drawn cultural lines in the past (racial segregation, the Japanese Internment Camps) it has proven to be an embarrassing regret. How many lines marked by massive walls topped with razor wire will it take for humanity to realize these physical divisions only make it more difficult to listen and work out solutions with one another?
Exporting the Dream
These are humans we are trying to keep on the other side of that line; people with the same dreams as our forefathers, people who hold a dream for their parents, spouses and children. They are not entitled to reap from our systems, but does that make it impossible for us to discover safer routes for them to access the human dream thriving in America? Do you think there may be a way to export The Dream across the border into their homeland? Can you envision a future Mexico that we would consider moving into?
Tags: Arizona Immigration Law, border control, Femme Tales, illegal immigrants, Mexican border, Monica Wilcox, Owning Pink
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August 16th, 2010
For the first time in Femme Tales history we are hosting a guest blogger. Please join us in welcoming the fabulous Dr. Lissa Rankin, a woman who is truly made of awesome: Dr. Lissa Rankin is an OB/GYN physician, an author, a nationally-represented professional artist, and the founder of Owning Pink, an online community committed to building authentic community and empowering women to get – and keep – their “mojo”. Owning Pink is all about owning all the facets of what makes you whole – your health, your sexuality, your spirituality, your creativity, your career, your relationships, the planet, and YOU. Dr. Rankin is currently redefining women’s health at the Owning Pink Center, her practice in Mill Valley, California. She is the author of the forthcoming What’s Up Down There? Questions You’d Only Ask Your Gynecologist If She Was Your Best Friend (St. Martin’s Press, September 2010)
First Published on Owning Pink 7/20/2010
The other day, I was hiking with Owning Pink blogger Shana James and we started talking about the purple kangaroo. Say what, you might ask? A purple kangaroo? Let me fill you in first.
A while back, former Editor-in-Pink Joy Mazzola and I were having our weekly meeting, during which we identified what it is we needed and spoke it out loud, serving as witnesses for each other. We try to do this often — getting clear on exactly what we need and setting the intention that the Universe will meet our needs in a timely fashion, if our need aligns with the Master Plan.
I said, “Owning Pink needs a graphic designer.” And a graphic designer showed up.
I said, “I need someone to sponsor my book tour,” and I got an e-mail about becoming a spokesperson for a company.
I said, “I need Dr. Christiane Northrup to write the foreword for my book.” And @DanielleVieth on Twitter tweeted, “I’ve got to introduce you to Dr. Christiane Northrup. You’re two peas in a pod!”
Joy said over the phone, “Damn, girl. You’re this close to saying something out loud and having it just magically appear right in front of you. Say Purple Kangaroo!”
So I said it. “Purple kangaroo.”
Joy said, “Did it work? Is there a purple kangaroo standing in front of you?”
I said, “No, but there’s a deer staring at me from the other side of my window!”
Joy said, “But he’s eating purple flowers! He’s wearing a purple bow around his neck. He’s got purple eyes. Right?”
I giggled.
I shared this story with Pink Goddess Dana, and she said, “You’re not going to believe what I just got as a gag gift. It’s a calendar of toilets. And guess what September is?”
Yup. You guessed it. September 2010 is a Purple Kangaroo toilet. We named him Sebastian Murphy. (And incidentally, September 2010 is when my book What’s Up Down There comes out. Hmmm….sneaky, Universe!)
What do I need?
So Shana and I were talking about Sebastian Murphy, the Purple Kangaroo, and I asked her to speak out loud what she needed. She told me. And then she returned the question. What do I need? Now that I had a sponsor paying a boatload of money to send me on a 30-college book tour, I need someone who can actually book me to do speaking engagements at 30 colleges. I don’t know how to do this! And my publicist, editor, and agent have no clue how to make this happen. Am I just supposed to start calling colleges? Is anyone even there over the summer? If I get someone, will they just say, “Sure! Here’s a lecture hall – go to it.” Or will they need to send it through committee?
I have no idea, and it’s freaking me out. I’ve promised to get 200 butts in seats at 30 events, and time is running out. I’m supposed to do my first event at the end of September.
So when Shana asked me what I needed from the Universe, I said, “Help booking my college tour.” That was 12:32pm.
When Shana and I got back to my house at 2:00pm after our hike, the phone rang just as I opened the door. It was Owning Pink blogger Lakenda Wallace.
She said, “You’re not going to believe this, but I just spoke to a woman who works forBacchus Network, a nonprofit that’s all about educating college students about health and safety. They have a network of 900 campuses and would love to try to help you book your college tour.”
My heart was beating fast when I asked, “What time did you speak to her?”
Lakenda said, “12:45pm. Why?”
I just had to laugh. Damn, Universe. You’re getting speedy. It was a classic Purple Kangaroo moment.
What do YOU need?
What about you? What do you need? Have you gotten very clear on how the Universe can serve you? Have you asked for exactly what you need? Have you said it out loud in front of a witness?
Don’t just say “I need money.” Say, “I need $430 so I can go to this retreat that will help me grow my business.” Or say, “I need help paying the rent” or “I need help paying tuition so I can go back to school.” Get ridiculously specific about exactly what you need and how the Universe can help. Then put it out there. Tell people. Employ disciplined action if you need to. Then BELIEVE. Trust. Have faith. Let go. Surrender. Set goals, but release attachment to outcomes. Remember that the Universe knows better than you what will best serve you.
Tell the Universe what you need. Let us be your witnesses! Share what you need in the comments, and let’s all collectively lift up your request, with Sebastian Murphy as our guide. Now sit back, let go, pay attention to signs, and watch the magic happen. Make sure to report back! Did The Universe provide for you?
Trusting the Universe- and YOU,
Lissa
© Copyright Lissa Rankin 2010
Tags: asking for what you need, Femme Tales, Lissa Rankin MD, Owning Pink, Universe
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July 26th, 2010
First Published on Owning Pink 7/13/2010
Have you ever noticed how a high level of gratitude reinforces the very thing you are thankful for? In this shifting economy it is easy to be thankful for an income, the roof over your four supportive walls, a job that feeds AND inspires you, happy children, and good health. This alone can fill your meditative moments with buckets of gratitude. But what happens when you find heartfelt gratitude for something immeasurable? If a strong dose of inspiration springs into your life, and your consciousness of it triggers gratitude, will this spiral into greater amounts of inspiration?
Finding synchronicity on Craigslist
I’ve been slammed this year by a waterfall of synchronicity. It has become so common that I wake each day expecting to find a “coincidence of events that seem to be meaningfully related.” Expecting may be a big piece in this mysterious cycle. Now I’ve found it in the most unlikely of spots; synchronicity is pulling some serious strings on Craigslist, particularly within the free section. You assume you’ve signed onto the site in an effort of ditching your “unwanted” items in the easiest fashion known to man. What you’re really doing it putting in a calling card to fill another’s need. Tell me if it’s not so…
The first time I noticed it was two years ago when we were giving away an antique kids kitchen. It had been in my mother’s kindergarten classroom for eighteen years before she gifted it to my daughter. But my daughter (and son) had outgrown it and now it was time to find another child who would find charm in its wooden pulls and red painted burners. A child who would not feel jipped out of the modern, plastic, ringing contraption they sell at Costco.
If you’ve never sold anything on Craigslist you’re missing out on a social phenomenon. There’s an acceptable behavior surrounding this site that you will not find anywhere else. The motto of the free section is “Your Trash, My Treasure.” It doesn’t matter what you are discarding: a kid’s bike, a broken mower, a pile of sand — there are people driving small pickups waiting for it. It’s perfectly legit for these buyers to promise you that they are in their car, driving, on their way to pick up this thing they can no longer live without… and then never show. It is also perfectly acceptable for the seller to give their item to the first person who pulls into their driveway, even if they promised it to you yesterday. It’s free, so the expectations on both parties are low; kind of like a blind date at a food bank. It may take six or seven people “promising to come” before someone actually knocks on your door, but it’s the person who knocks you want to open your mind to.
And so arrives the day care owner
Leslie finally knocked on my door to relieve us of our 1970’s play kitchen. As we stuffed the thing into the back seat of her Corolla, she mentioned how much her “kids” are going to love it. Apparently her daughter has medical problems that prevent her from being accepted into a day care, so Leslie decided to start her own day care. She can’t afford to fill her living room with toys, so she’s living off of the “kindness” of Craigslist. We were so touched, a year later we brought her the matching table and chairs to the kitchen when our kids outgrew them.
The college roommates
The next item we posted on the site was an old desk that had lived long past its life expectancy, plus four years. I happen to spot Committed Buyer Twelve pulling into my driveway from my den window. She walked toward my open garage, saw the desk, than promptly turned to run, and I mean sprint, back to her car, threw it into gear and tore down the street. I guess she had higher expectations of FREE. But then Committed Caller Thirteen pulls up: three roommates who are starting their first year at UT. You know the gig — empty apartment, nothing but a card table, a mattress, a laptop and a crate of Ramon noodles. They couldn’t have been happier to have an oak desk, with a chair on rollers. So Synchro-intuitous Dude!
The Vietnamese interpreter
Now that I’m moving, I can really dedicate some time to Craigslist. Yesterday I gave away our pile of scraps: mismatched wood, leftover fencing, dowels, some PVC pipe. A family shows up with a pickup full of carpet pieces and other “goodies.” They’ve brought their nine year old son to interpret English to his Vietnamese parents. As they joyfully load the stuff we’ve been piling in the corner of our garage for seven years, I offer them the craft table I’m trying to sell, some pots I don’t want anymore, and two chairs I won’t need in the new place. I figure anyone who will drive across town for wood scraps will put a nice country table and chairs to use.
The foster parent verses the good Samaritan
Today I’m driving my heavy park bench to the corner of Shoal Creek and Hancock St. My first committed caller, Don, wanted to come get it but couldn’t make it (he’s adopting his two foster kids) while the second caller, Henry, is doing a “beautifying Austin” project for the city on his dollar and thought my park bench would be a great addition. So a foster parent and a good Samaritan are juggling to put my junk to a higher purpose. Luckily, I happen to be in a predicament where I have more than enough to give away. So now I’m taking — and this is not the way this is supposed to work, by the way — a box of outgrown toys to Don’s house and my old bench will become a seat for those who have biked one too many blocks. Synchronicity, how beautiful is thy name!
Gratitude for the mighty string pullers
I can’t help giggling as the events play out. Would it be fortuitous of me to post that love seat I’m tired of, the filing cabinet I’m too lazy to empty, my child’s hamster? I could wait to see who will end up knocking at my door needing something I no longer care for, with their perfect story and a car that is impossibly too small.
As I send my gratitude to the mighty string pullers above I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I became conscious of the beauty in my life, or kindness, or truth. What would I like to draw more of into my day? Do you think the Universe is much like mankind in that it appreciates being appreciated? That it will preen for those who have the eyes to take it in? What immeasurable quality are you drawing into your day? Would you mind if you had even more of it?
Tags: Craigslist, Femme Tales, gratitude, Monica Wilcox, Owning Pink
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July 19th, 2010
First Published on Owning Pink 7/15/2010
I would not call myself a sports enthusiast. My limited participation involves cold Sunday afternoons when I turn on a football game so that I can take a nap. It’s a comfort thing. There’s usually roast beast simmering in a fruity Pinot Noir in the oven, flakes of snow tumbling down outside the window, and me curled up on the couch. I turn the volume down low and doze to the sounds of whistles and that same cadence of the commentator’s voice that I’ve been hearing for the past thirty-some years (with the exception of Howard Cosell, of course).
“The Decision”
However, Thursday night I consciously tuned into ESPN (with the volume up) to watch (and hear) LeBron James make “The Decision.” You see, I’m from Cleveland, which is a city that has been on more Forbes.com “Worst Cities” lists than you can fathom: America’s Fastest-Dying City, America’s Most Miserable City, America’s Worst Winter Weather City… While I may not watch LeBron break records or win games each time he plays, I do have a vested interest in what he means to our city. Well, apparently… what he meant to our city.
For the first time, despite the opinions of Forbes.com, despite the biting chill of Lake Erie in winter time, I’m not happy to call Cleveland my home. Thursday night, as King James announced he would be heading to Miami, many Clevelanders sunk to an all-time low. Groups of “fans” burned his jersey, sent him messages on Facebook wishing for him to tear his ACL, break his legs, never win a championship — even (do I dare utter it) to die.
Fans?
A random smattering on LeBron’s Facebook page includes stuff like this:
“Burn in hell Lebron..hope your plane crashes…”
“lebron is a punk ass faggot good luck ever coming home you piece of shit…”
“HEIL HITLER.”
Awful, horrible stuff. And what could be worse than the words of hate? For me, it’s the misspelled words of hate. Apparently he’s a “trader” rather than a “traitor.” Or there’s this little gem:
“Wtf His Name Aint Lebron its LeBum Lmao & Yo Momma Only Wantedd To Go To Miami So Wade Kan Hit Dumb Ass JUs Like Delonte !! and Yall Dumb Wade Aint Bouta Let Dis Poop Ass Niqqa Take Ova His City Kum on now Be Forreal Dhat Shidd Krazyy !! no Lonqerr a Fan! f-ck yuh lol.”
English and grammar aside, even Dan Gilbert (owner of the Cavs) is shaming our city:
“The self-declared former ‘King’ will be taking the ‘curse’ with him down south. And until he does ‘right’ by Cleveland and Ohio, James (and the town where he plays) will unfortunately own this dreaded spell and bad karma.”
What is this an off-off-off Broadway version of The Color Purple? I can picture Dan Gilbert in the back of a yellow 1935 Studebaker with his fingers raised in a sort of curse toward the King.
I’ve been there
The thing is, I relate to LeBron. Not because I can play basketball (though I played a mean game of H-O-R-S-E in the hot summer sun with my step-father when I was twelve), but because on a very minuscule level I’ve experienced this same thing; I once left my home, my family, and my “fans” to follow my dream. While there wasn’t a picture of me the size of a large building in my hometown, I experienced a couple of folks wishing me well but the majority of my “fans” were hurt, and some even hated my guts. Most just couldn’t understand why I would leave a good marriage, my family, them.
I wholeheartedly admit I did have a good life there. I was married to a wonderful guy for ten years. I was surrounded by family and we spent most holidays and weekends playing cards, barbequing, and enjoying each other. I had finally positioned myself so that I could work on my novel full time and not have to work. I had friends, some of whom I’d stayed in contact with since high school. The rub: I was completely unhappy and unfulfilled.
Cleveland rocks
I belonged to an online book club community and we set up a reunion in Ohio. I had been to Cleveland in 1997 to meet these lovely ladies but for some reason I hadn’t fallen in love with the city. In 2002 I did. I felt so alive here, like all signs were pointing me to this place. Never before had I met a city so full of life, so full of fun, and so full of friendly people. I remember the exact moment that this love overtook me. I was in the bathroom at a bar, “Hang on Sloopy” blaring from the speakers, and three girls were standing in front of the mirror primping and having a typical girl’s bathroom conversation. I chimed in at some point and was instantly embraced into their chat. We exchanged phone numbers and I left the bathroom dazed. Growing up in the Western United States this sort of thing just didn’t happen, or at least not to me. Western girls are more reserved, and frankly not very friendly, and if I had piped up to a group of girls in a bar restroom in Utah (assuming there are girls in the bars in Utah) I would have been met with glaring stares. But it wasn’t just this one incident. I felt alive in this city, I felt a pull that I’d never felt before.
In listening to my heart, and my gut, I devastated a lot of people. I hurt my husband (though he is happy and understands now how he never would have met his current wife and had two beautiful children had he stayed with me). I hurt my family. I hurt my friends. But had I chosen to ignore the signs and stay in my unhappy existence, I imagine a part of me would have died. I don’t mean that in the melodramatic way, like I would have lost a limb to gangrene. What I mean is that to give up the calling which I had felt so strongly, to give up my dreams, a piece of my insides would have had to languish and I would have chosen a life of merely existing, rather than fully living.
Mirror, Mirror
This city’s anger toward LeBron causes me to wonder if all of these fans are really just angry with themselves. Pissed because they’ve never had the courage to do whatever it takes to follow their dreams. They’ve never had to disappoint someone in order to be true to themselves. In an interview with Kate Northrup, Owning Pink’s very own Lissa Rankin said something that really struck a chord in me: whether folks like you or hate you, it doesn’t matter — you’re holding up a mirror to them in which they see their own reflection. If someone doesn’t like you or your decisions then what’s really going on is they don’t like what they see in themselves when they look in your mirror.
For all of the hundreds of people I know who have uttered the phrase to me, “I need to get the f-ck out of Cleveland” – I wonder if they are some of the folks hating on LeBron. I wonder if the reflection they see in King James’s mirror is one of themselves not following their own dreams and giving in to what everyone else demands from them.
The Break-Up
Or maybe it’s just simply that it feels like breaking up with your first true love. I relate to this too. I remember my first love. Shortly after we broke up he drove past my house over and over for days until finally he threw all of “our stuff” onto the side of the road. I was so much more mature than he was and went out to gather prom pictures, love notes, and all those little “first love” gifts which littered the road, crying so hard I could barely see… then promptly drove these cherished items two towns over to his house and littered his lawn with our sullied momentos. As they take down the larger-than-life sign of LeBron, that’s what I imagine — a city that has lost its first love.
Tags: Cleveland, Femme Tales, Following Dreams, LeBron James, Melanie Bates, Owning Pink
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April 25th, 2010
I recently lost my mojo. I don’t know what else to call it but, as I’ve been devouring the contents of the Owning Pink website recently, I’ve decided that they are on to something BIG. Mojo means different things to different people. According to Owning Pink, for some, mojo is sexual, for some, mojo is being present in the now. For me mojo is that inner glow, the one you often see on pregnant ladies. Mojo is that smile inside of you that shows on the outside. It’s that inner spark, that feeling of connection to everything and everyone around you. It’s feeling truly alive. When you’ve lost it, things feel gray and dingy and it’s as if that tinge of hope within has buried itself somewhere and is too busy licking its wounds to present itself.
After days of blah and meh, I wasn’t sure what to do and, damned if it isn’t superficial, I dashed to my black Beetle and raced to the salon. Once there I hobbled up to the counter, my pasty skin stretched into a grimace, with hair that looked like the end of a Q-tip that’s been hanging out in the bottom of my travel case since a European vacation in 2004. I asked for my stylist Nicolette. The receptionist’s pink and tan glow hid what I imagined was her own grimace at my pallid state and said, “Have a seat, she’ll be right with you.” As I looked around the salon I saw smiling faces, heard endless chatter, I saw hot pink highlights with streaks of robin egg blue, I saw people glowing, and not from some radioactive hair gel.
After a few minutes Nicolette came over and greeted me with a steady smile and just like that I breathed a deep sigh of relief. She took me to a seat and stood behind me lifting up piles of my frizzed hair asking what I might want to do with it. You have to understand. When you sit in that stylist chair something comes over you. A need to confess, an urge to spill pent up emotion. Stylists are the unrewarded psychologists of our society. So I said it, “I’ve lost my mojo. I’ve just had surgery and I need something. Anything!” My bloodshot eyes stared back at her through the mirror, made more red by the dark circles underneath them. I felt like a crack addict at an NA meeting, sitting there with my coffee cup shaking in my hand. Nicolette didn’t flinch, her tattoo muscled arm flexed as she pulled her fingers through the tangled mess of my hair. I gave it up to her at that point and told her that she could take creative license and do whatever she wanted as long as the colors were golden so that my face wouldn’t continue to look like Shamu’s inner belly.
We got to talking about the lengths women will go for something different, to feel better, to regain their mojo. I confessed that as a teenager I used to lie in the sun on top of our black trampoline with tinfoil pasted under my thighs, slathered in baby oil. At that age I thought I could force that inner glow by means of an outer glow when, in reality, I ended up looking like a raw piece of filet mignon marbled with fatty blisters. I shifted in my seat, trying to laugh, as I thought of my dear friend who was just diagnosed with skin cancer. I regaled Nicolette with stories of my love of Sun-In and fresh squeezed lemon juice when money was tight and I couldn’t afford highlights and she whispered that she had once tried Clorox Bleach in an attempt to eke out just a touch more blond.
While the red, honey, cinnamon, and warm browns processed in my hair I shuffled over to get a pedicure. I stood over hundreds of little bottles of nail polish wondering which one might transform my toenails from hardened yellow bits to bright, sunny digits. I chose Pamplona Purple, partly because I’m obsessed with purple, partly because purple is the color of spirituality, and since I had about an ounce of spirituality left within me I felt it couldn’t hurt. I dipped my feet in the tangerine colored bubbling water, turned on the massage chair, and chatted with the client next to me. While the pedicurist gently buffed away the past three months of a somewhat rough journey the woman next to me talked to her pedicurist about always choosing the same pink polish. I butted in, as I’m sometimes want to do, and told her she should try something new, something adventuresome. Her eyes lit up when she saw the Pamplona Purple being applied to my toes, she made the leap, and began to glow.
After my pedicure, pink separators stuffed between my toes, I was back in Nicolette’s styling chair where she took a few inches of baggage off the ends of my hair, gave me a set of bangs in a fresh new way, (I haven’t worn bangs since the eighties when I rather brilliantly combined them with a tight perm… ahem) and told me that I was right on schedule for my first-ever spray tan. I have to admit I was a bit leery. I’ve tried “fake” tanning methods before and every single time I’ve ended up looking like an Oompa Loompa.
I walked over to the tanning portion of the salon, my head three pounds lighter, my feet bouncing off the pavement, and was greeted by a gentle woman who told me to remove all my clothing and step into her tent. Normally this type of situation would have sent me running to my car but there’s an intimacy inherent in a salon that puts you at ease, (a good salon at least,) where you don’t mind looking like an aluminum foil Medusa with cushions between your toes baring your all and then some. I stripped down and for the first time in my life I wasn’t self-conscious. My new surgery scars were still scabby and combined with my old scars my belly resembled a chalk-white version of the smiley Wal-Mart logo. But I stood there in all my glory, embracing those new battle wounds, while this kind woman sprayed me with a mixture of coffee and aloe in a shade she called Winter Medium, and then she turned the fan on me, set the timer for five minutes and left me to dry. I stood there naked with my arms held up like a ninja, my legs slightly apart and felt the cold air hit my body and looked into the mirror. There I was, naked, freshly cut, colored, buffed, polished, and brown. I smiled just before my teeth began to chatter.
I left the salon feeling like a new me. I could feel my mojo ricocheting around inside of me like an errant pinball trying to get back on course. And while all of the ladies at Color Nation did a fabulous job I realized that it wasn’t about my outward appearance after all. It was in the caring for myself, and being present with myself for those five hours, that I had finally regained my mojo. Though my hair does look smashing.
Published as “Reclaiming Your Mojo from the Outside In” on Owning Pink 5/2/2010
Tags: Melanie Bates, mojo, Owning Pink, spa day
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Jeanne 
Jill 
Jeri 
Mick 
It will always be the person squatting down to draw a line in the sand who gets his hand stepped on hardest. The planet belongs to us all. My hope is in the next generation who sees themselves as citizens of the world. Thanks for the eloquent blog.
I hear horror stories from south of the border way too often. Even canceled a trip down there myself. The cartels are in an extreme power struggle, and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. The Mexico that Monica asked us to imagine probably existed 25 – 30 years ago, but those days are loooooong gone!
This photo rings with your response Michele. Between the drug traffic and human/sex traffic there are families desperate to find a better life. No one is going to cross a desert in July who isn’t reeking desperation. Instead of building a massive wall, I’d rather see our efforts going to improving the state of Mexico. Yes, it would not be quick, but progress on a massive scale rarely is.
Let’s hope that the tools of the Internet, free trade, and the ease of traveling the globe will enable our kids to find the borders have faded while the people behind them seem only one connection away.
Thanks for sharing you comment.
Hey Alex, Great to hear a perspective from someone who is near the border where this issue is much more heated and impactful. Do you think there would be any possibility of shooting for a Mexico, let’s say 20-30 years down the road, that would be safe and positive enough that we could open the border? The Mexico I like to imagine has never existed (to my knowledge) but I’m not sure anyone imagined China the way it is today either.
Here’s wishing that both of us will visit again someday soon!!!
20 – 30 years down the road would be a fantastic goal, but I don’t see much being done currently to achieve that. To open the border would mean the US would have to take on Mexico’s debt. Providing welfare, health care, etc. would cripple our economy. Not to mention the struggle of power over new turf for the cartels, and new problems at the South American border. Sadly, we need to think about making our border more secure rather than opening it.