AWKWARD: Because Perfection is Boring

"Swifter, higher, stronger...flashier." Even Olympians have gimmicks

“Someone should get Anthony Famiglietti and Gabe Jennings together at a running clinic. You could call their presentation “Running as Performance Art.”

—via Runner’s World

Made up word of the day:

I own rights to my BOP: Birth order pay back

My name is Valerie, and I am a youngest child.

I like to wear my birth order proudly on my sleeve. After all, it proves to be rather convenient. I use it as an excuse. I don’t unload the dishwasher. I’m a youngest. Or perhaps Scrub the toilets? Who are you kidding? I’m a youngest! And yes, a majority of these excuses revolve around my disdain for cleaning.

But sometimes this youngest child badge of honor on my birth order sash is more of a burden than a blessing. Quite frankly, sometimes it sucks. And only a youngest would ever say being the youngest sucks because after all, we’re spoiled. We’re coddled. We’re openly the favorite. So now fetch our dinners with umbrella drinks.

Sure, we lastborns have it pretty easy. We don’t have to live as an example for our siblings. We don’t ever have to worry about MCS (Middle Child Syndrome). And, most of all, we’re loved. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents: they all love us.

But it’s not always the ideal lifestyle. We’re forced to wear hand-me-downs from birth until we move out and/or get a job that affords us to buy our own clothes. If we’re lucky, our siblings are of the same gender. My sister, lifelong sufferer of an extreme case of MCS, often jokes about having to wear hand-me-downs from our brother.

I definitely had secondhand clothes from the other side of the closet, but it never really worked to my parent’s money-saving advantage. My sister was born as a perfect size 2, remaining that way until college. I, however, was decidedly not, the only member of my family to be born with any sort of chunk on my body (and also a full head of hair – maybe my real father is the milkman?), making clothes-sharing with my sister rather difficult.

To make up for the fact that my parents actually had to buy me clothes, I was subjected to a number of hand-me-down toys. I received a few dolls from my sister, and they were even in one piece … except they were bald and naked. I really didn’t mind this, and luckily for everyone involved I’ve never really been the girly, plays-with-dolls type. So a few Barbies and Skippers sans clothing was never really an issue.

Despite being the youngest, I still had plenty of my own toys. I abused my ability to acquire everything I asked for by demanding more, which I most likely also received. But also, that happiness was empty. Looking back I realize: why did my parents buy me all of those things? Was it to unburden their guilt?

My mom went back to work part-time when I was in kindergarten. When not at school I was often placed in my grandma’s care. We got along famously, my grandma and I, and consequently my mom would ship me over there for weeks at a time in the summer, a feat less dramatic than it sounds because my grandma lives less than a mile away from my parents.

I was at my grandma’s when my first dog was put to sleep. I was completely oblivious. “Where’s Buster?” My mom burst into tears. Apparently he had some brain tumor I was unaware of.

So, carting me over to Grandma’s was the easy thing to do. It was just the two of us and Tommy, her cat. We’d ride the bus, eat unhealthy food, and alternate between watching the news, the Bible channel, PBS and soap operas.

Soon I became too old for Grandma’s, so I was carted off to band practice and church services. When entering band I wanted to play either the alto sax or French horn, but my mother made the decision that I would play trumpet. After all, we had an extra one lying around the house, my brother’s castoff.

My brother. My family’s own personal Miles Davis.

I was signed up for private lessons under the same teacher. Every week, he compared me unfavorably to the infinitely more talented of the Williams clan.

And then there were the performances.

My parents came to my performances. Except my dad, who at the time was traveling a lot with his job. They’d endure the subzero football games unhappily and whisk me away immediately after, despite invitations from friends to go to diners or bowling alleys. My dad missed my first big jazz band solo, an entire feature on the flugelhorn. My mom videotaped it, and when finally watching he appeared to be less than interested.

I think the best present I ever gave to my parents was the gift of a driver’s license. My dad was more gung-ho about me driving than I was. Finally: ee had a chauffer! He was so happy that I never even had to fight for the car.

I obviously didn’t get my own vehicle, but my dad, who never went anywhere after work unless it was with my mother, willingly sacrificed the keys. The only downside was that I still had to take the bus to school.

Once I was independently mobile, performance attendance became optional. That meant no more subzero football games. No more orchestra concerts. And if they attended at all, they could leave right after my portion.

For my last spring jazz band concert my senior year of high school, my friends received flowers, hugs and presents from their families on concert night. They stood around in the band room taking pictures and issuing congratulations. My parents were MIA backstage.

I walked to my car, trumpet case in hand. On my front seat was a bouquet of flowers. A nice gesture, but it seemed halfhearted.

I was grateful. I went home and thanked my parents for the thought. But it was that day that got me thinking that maybe I was only spoiled so my parents could make up for the fact that they were so burnt out on raising two children before me that they couldn’t afford to grant me the same amount of attention.

In some ways it’s worse now. My brother, now 30, is married with 1.5 kids. My sister is married. Then there’s me: I have a rental house, no job, a cat and no desire to mate.

Even my grandma has changed. The younger generation has swept her off her rocking recliner. When we speak, she has a tendency to exclusively discuss my cousin’s children, most times referring to me by their names, which is awkward considering the eldest one is named Evan.

Life could’ve been worse. I could’ve had no Barbies instead of bald ones. But as a youngest, it is my birthright to pity myself.

I do have one thing going for me: at least I don’t have MCS.

~Valerie Williams
valerieleewilliams@gmail.com
Philadelphia, PA

Operator, will you please connect my call?

Romantic relationships are hard. A juggling act, with both people working to balance one another.

And when the juggling act falls, it can be a total disaster.

I met my boyfriend back in high school, in the middle of my junior year. We attended his senior prom as friends, and we both felt it had been one of the most romantic nights of our young lives. But we both felt our friendship was more important than a relationship.

Fast forward two years to college. The friendship had blossomed into a relationship and the beginning was sweet and tender. Three months into the relationship, we both turned to our separate colleges and started a long distance relationship. Phone calls lasted for hours, and it felt as though nothing had changed.

It isn’t always perfect.

I sat on a bus today and cried in front of 30 people. I had just gotten off the phone with my boyfriend, having informed him that instead of having a day for the two of us, I was going to be working on an article for the next several days. My boyfriend hadn’t been as understanding as I hoped. His soft voice was filled with sadness.

“I miss you. I never see you. You put everything else before me.”

I was stunned. Was it true? Had I put all of my other priorities before our relationship? I thought about all of my other obligations, ranging from classes, work and an internship. I had been putting my heart and soul into all three. Was I forgetting about him?

I tried to tell my boyfriend the truth. The words stuck in my throat.

“I’m trying the best I can.”

I heard his soft voice reply. “No, you’re not.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear. For weeks I had been feeling lonely and stressed. Nagging guilt was eating me alive, and I was going to break down.

“I need to tell you the truth,” I told him. “You’re making me feel so guilty for things that are out of my control. I can’t help when obligations take priority, and you have to understand, I’m trying my best,” I said, my voice cracking just a bit.

I had been trying to hold back tears but when the tears finally came, I was met with silence. I checked my phone, but heard nothing.

Our phones had disconnected.

~Stacy Lipson
Philadelphia, PA
stacy.lipson@temple.edu

I will look back at this Facebook message in a year, and have no idea what it met.

Ugh

Between Marelle and You

Today at 6:39am

If you could call me when you’re awake I’d appreciate it. I’ve just had the most ridiculous night of my life (I think this has topped the night my phone was microwaved, my money was stolen, and I hooked up with a guy with a girlfriend). I had probably 45 minutes of sleep and I don’t think I’ll be sleeping anytime soon.

Also it would help to know how to get [someone else’s] pee out of the back of my boyfriend pillow, and also how to disinfect an umbrella since I don’t really feel like asking my mom.

Thanks lover. I need help!

~Lauren Horn
lhorn0817@yahoo.com
Boston, MA

Happiness isn't a warm gun ... but it sure ain't no apple pie, either.

Erin E and Sammy D don’t front when they talk about their personal AWKWARD experiences.

Each day we struggle with comfortably being ourselves. At times, we can’t go with the flow because we are so caught up in defining a sense of [unattainable] perfection in the moment. We have AWKWARD encounters and situations, and we worry about our bodies, our friends, our family, our bank accounts and hell, even just our shitty shoe collection.

Like you may have found yourselves feeling before, we can be surrounded by so much goodness and positive energy, that we get lost in the overwhelming emotions and forget to revel in the moment of it all. Instead of finding joy in the now, we find stress in seeking joy of the future. We worry it will disappear, and we wonder if we could [and should] have more of it now.

You see the smiles, you hear the success and you admire the person – but you don’t know that below the front are the same insecurities, stress and faults that you too feel – you just don’t know it, because you don’t ask, and we, as the female gender, [unfortunately] don’t always tell.

What AWKWARD hopes to encourage is the “tell,” the share, the release of those emotions so that real girls like you can see that happiness and security aren’t always what they’re cracked up to be, that perfection isn’t what it seems and in many cases, not only boring – but soul battering, too.

Six weeks ago this Sunday, I moved to New York City. The day after graduation, I visited 5 sublets in one day, gave one of them a $500 down deposit and prayed on the bus ride home that all would be well and my check wouldn’t disappear in the oblivion of sublet scams.

All was well. I spent three glorious weeks at home in rural Pennsylvania, anxiously preparing for the job of a lifetime – a brand new position in social media at Hearst Digital Media, a top publishing company who had hired me a week before graduation. I was a success story – I was the over-accomplished college journalism star who everyone knew would get to New York immediately and go far in her career. I’d been hearing it from all around since I was a freshman, and I had spent four years reaching to fulfill everyone’s goals for me.

Except, that was the problem – I was fulfilling the expectations of everyone else, and not my own. Should I have avoided the job search? Taken that cross country road trip? Should I have spent time at home with my family, relishing in my “last summer” before countless years of summer vacation-less summers?

Three months ago, I sat crying in the living room of my Philadelphia apartment, sobbing to a friend that I just “couldn’t take it.” The success was great, but the pressure was God awful – it was only March, and I was already getting the “So where are you working” question. God damn people, can’t I just relax for like, a second in my life?

Happiness may be our envy in others, but it is also the envy in ourselves. It is that AWKWARD feeling of never feeling “good enough,” even though what we don’t [because we can’t] see is the full circle of it all – the fact that our envy in others is their envy is us. We want their lives, and they want ours. Neither admits their true emotions in the presence of the other, and this silence will pressure each to strive for perfection in a hell thinly veiled as a utopia. We believe our pursuit of perfection is our escape, but it only keeps us trapped in the hamster wheel of self-driven conflict.

Be AWKWARD today. Tell someone how you really feel – we can’t promise it won’t hurt, but we can promise it won’t be perfect. Because perfection is stagnant, perfection is the red tape to our inner peace, and most importantly, perfection is boring.

*Posted by Sammy D