lunch time should just be a time for lunch

well... unfortunately, it's my lunch break, and I'll be damned because I just decided against going home to make a sandwich because I have about six lettuce leaves and a bag of cherries in my lunch bag at the office.

This is why I loved the relationship between the star of "The Gilmore Girls" and her prim parents-- it helps me keep score accordingly with my family. Lorelai: 0 ; Richard and Emily: 27,000

My mom started in with the questions at the end of June-- "another wedding?" "yes, mom." "What are you wearing?" (her only question. she asks every time.) "well mom, whenever there's a wedding, I have two options. They're black and they're pretty and they're all I have. Although I might venture to try a 3rd black dress for this one." "how big are the straps? how low is the cut? how high is the hem?"

this is how it will go for the next 20 minutes.
How wide are the straps?
How low is the cut?
How short is it?
Then, she'll always say, "the straps-- I just can't picture the neckline that you're describing. Hmm."

What she wants to know every time is simply how much I'll be busting out of the thing. Now, I don't like seeing females dressed in way too low / way too tight clothing either. Just because the cut of the dress is sexy never guarantees that it will illuminate the true beauty and character of the woman wearing it. But my mother has been battling me over this since I literally developed anything to fight over... and I have never, not ever, worn anything that I would describe as provocative, save for the pink tank top and robe I wore in a comedy skit about a prostitute named Annie Sprinkle. The skit lasted 3 minutes and hell, I looked cute. I don't wear most of what my friends wear-- spaghetti straps, sheer fabrics, shelf bras, low-scooping necks or backs, halter tops that plunge. I dress pretty damn conservatively, for the most part.

This week, when my mom called, her tone was more authoritative-- she was finally taking action. We're going to a wedding together at the end of the week, and she told me that she was taking me shopping. "Why?" "To buy something to wear." "I have something to wear." "I'm not sure it's going to be flattering. Let's go shopping, I'll buy." "I'm not wearing anything that will embarrass you" "Yes, sometimes you DO embarrass me. You just don't always understand how things look on you" "oh, really?" "Yes. You really need to wear a skirt and a nice cotton blend shirt with a jacket." "...a BLAZER? You want me to wear a blazer to a wedding?" "Yes. I'm coming over."

This is where the fighting began. Not just a fight over shopping, but a fight over the fact that my mother has been trying to dress me like a 60 year old Emily Gilmore in a Chanel suit with pumps since I was in 6th grade. And to really add salt to the wound, I not only go far out of my way to try to avoid unflattering cuts, but I feel damn uncomfortable in a vast majority of what I wear (and like) to begin with.

I'm 27, and I'm in a sea of other 20-something women in g-strings, backless halter dresses that are secured with double-sided tape to the breasts, and Manolo Blahniks that boost you 4" off the ground. At a little over 5'7", I have to hunch over when I wear the one (modest) pair of heels that I own, and the first thing I pick out before thinking about a dress is what wrap I can sling around my shoulders so I don't feel self-conscious about my chest by the end of the night. Girls are supposed to have fun getting dressed for nice events-- but I bet I'm not alone that getting ready involves a decent number of bobby pins and a few stolen moments worrying about looking chubby in photos.

I'm far from having an eating disorder, and I'm far from being obese. But women typically are angsty about their self-image, and as much as I've been working hard on my own self-image and my own definition of confidence and beauty this year, I still wince for a minute when I'm tagged in people's faceboook photos, and I still cringe-- hard-- when I try on clothes in stores, with women standing outside my dressing room commenting loudly on each other's "perky breasts" and "wow, your ass looks so TINY in those shorts". For the rest of us, we're trying to get dressed as fast as possible and doing our best just to find something that fits right. Forget "fits... sexy".

I am still finding my own ways to improve my physical fitness, and doing the best I can to look in the mirror and find beauty in my imperfectly human form. I'm training my mind to appreciate the beautiful curves in women who are splashed in ads and on tv, even though we've been trained to appreciate their tiny, narrow, and flattest parts.

I understand my mom's embarrassment and her twin-set standards... but I don't agree with them. I just hope that if I ever have a daughter, I can teach her to celebrate her form in beautiful clothes instead of drill it into her that so many clothes can make her look less beautiful.

facebook updates make me cringe

I really resent the ADD-immediacy of facebook updates / twitter / blah blah blah.

Honestly, I feel like this current internet-update mindset really mocks me at times.

I've been lying in bed since 10:15, and with the insomnia and chaotic thinking comes a series of unwanted 3rd person-ings.

Jane Simmons can't ******* sleep
Jane Simmons: disappointed
Jane Simmons seems to be regretting her choice of college. and career.


I took a badly needed 'personal day' on a whim and it only made the gnawing anxiety worse.
Weirdly enough, it jolted me out of the weekly slog just long enough to realize: I made lists about what I wanted to do this summer. They were incredibly easy and manageable, and at this point, halfway through July, they have not and still may not happen. Walk to Dairy Queen on a hot night; go for a hike ; go camping once ; make a s'more ; TAKE A SUMMER VACATION SO YOU DON'T GO NUTS; paddle around in the canoe ; go to the pool ; have a glass of wine on the patio at the med; BBQ a lot.

1 for 9.

The only thing that will get my tired ass out of bed at 6:30 is going to be a deeply ingrained sense of responsibility mixed with a dash of guilt and a pinch of 'oh fuck it, grit your teeth and it will be over by 6'. This is exactly the kind of grumpy, boring, old lady behavior that makes my skin crawl, but this week, this is a huge part of how I feel.

This is not me. This is not who I want to be. Where's Jane Simmons?

She's been replaced by her own name with a demonic cursor blinking next to it...

Jane Simmons is an anxious mess.