Drop Kick Me Brickie Through the Goal Posts of Life: Ask Polly Edition

My 8 year old male cat Brickle Marie Lockman sometimes dabbles in writing an advice column. He'd sworn that he'd never do it again, but after reading Ask Polly, the Awl's advice column, he decided that he'd have to spring into action. To read the original version of the column, visit: http://www.theawl.com/2013/07/ask-polly-im-almost-30-and-im-terrified-of-losing-my-looks .


 Dear Brickie,

 I’m a woman who will soon be 30. I am terrified of watching my physical beauty deteriorate over the next decade. I’m conventionally attractive. I don’t believe that being pretty translates to any tangible social power, but I do get positive attention from people, which I enjoy. I love being gazed at. I don’t mean street harassment or anything like that, but the way that people (of all genders) get these dreamy, enraptured looks on their faces when they see me. I think beauty has some magical quality to it, and it makes me feel alive. When I look at myself, too, I sometimes get the same sensation as when I behold an emotionally stirring work of art—shimmering, crackling, breathless. There truly is nothing like a beautiful face. And so, the prospect of losing this—and I know I will lose it, everyone does—fills me with such crushing dread.

I take care of myself as best I can in terms of a healthy lifestyle and sunscreen, but I know that every day that goes by, I am aging, and ultimately powerless to stop it. (I don’t have much faith in the ability of cosmetic procedures to keep my face looking exactly the way it does now, so that “option” is of little comfort). It’s like I’ve been given this precious gift with the stipulation that it will be yanked away from me before my life is even halfway over.

I don’t know how to cope with this. I have these horrible moments now in which I see older women around me and feel a visceral sense of disgust and pity—obviously a projection of my own fears. The prospect of looking older is sometimes so intolerable that I sometimes plan ways to commit suicide in the future. Because I realize this sounds/is crazy, I looked into a treatment program for Body Dysmorphic Disorder. I was told, however, that I don’t qualify because I don’t currently hate my appearance. I started seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist, but neither diagnosed me with anything, they essentially said that “most women have these concerns” and I’ll probably “age well anyway.” The psychiatrist offered to prescribe a sleeping pill if the thoughts kept me awake at night. The therapist suggested that I read feminist literature. My mother told me I must have things pretty good if I can spend so much time fixating on my future face.

 Do you have any advice?

 Dorian


Dorian, 

 Do I have any advice? Am I fat? 

Of course I have advice. My first piece of advice is to find better therapists. My second piece of advice is to get a cat. We aren't the best at perceiving faces, so as you age, we don't care as long as you're still able to open a can of cat food (I prefer Friskies pate, not the Meaty Bits BS). Having a cat will distract you from your navel gazing and force to think about things like "How many ounces of catnip is it legal to grow in my state?" "How can my cat help me fold laundry, cook dinner or do my taxes?" and "Why was my cat benevolent enough to wait until now to scratch me for my insolence, instead of doing it five minutes ago?" Soon you'll be so busy loving your life of servitude that you'll forget what you even look like! <3 data-blogger-escaped-brickle="" data-blogger-escaped-i=""> 


 Dear Brickle, 

 I'm in my early 40s; an aspiring writer and graphic designer; have been in a relationship for over ten years with my 'fiance'; desperately desiring a child and feeling like I've run out of time. I put the word fiance in quotes because we've been affianced for almost ten years now, with no prospect of actually getting married because he's been there twice and is 'done with that shit.' I've been married once before too, and while I respect his decision, I kind of feel unhappy that it's his decision and not ours. I've waited all this time for him to come around to having a child with me, but he's always put it off (he already has one [with a previous partner] and he's not ready for that responsibility again; one of us was in the middle of jobs; we were renting; we owned a place of our own but it was an apartment, not a house), and now it feels like my biological clock struck midnight a long time ago and neither of us noticed. 

Because now he says he's ready to think of having another kid. Yet many times these past years, whenever I've brought up my wanting a baby, he's pointed at my cat and my parrot and made Old Crazy Cat Lady jokes. I never found them funny.

 I left my steady job last year to go back to graduate school—I'm pursuing a degree in graphic design. We talked about this before I made the move because it was a drastic career change for me (I was middle manager in a major retail chain); he had promised to support me/us while I did this. It seemed only fair to me since he had quit his job four years ago while he tried to 'find' himself. During those two years, I bore the brunt of our household expenses, insurance, etc. (The little savings income he had went to child support.) 

Even after two years of soul searching, it doesn't look like he has any idea of what his driving passion is. I, however, know what I want to do, finally, and wanted to go for it. We moved to a cheaper city near my university last year. He had told me he had interviews lined up; when we got here, I found out two of those interviews were for part time jobs (and things he was vastly overqualified for) because, 'I figured I'd need some time to get used to corporate slavery again, babe.' In the meantime, our bills weren't getting paid. So I begged and pleaded with my old boss to let me back as a part-time remote worker to supplement what he was making. I had to give away my bird because she had a fungal condition and I couldn't afford the vet anymore. And this means that on top of being a graduate student, I'm working practically full-time because I constantly take on freelance gigs.

 He's extremely handsome and well-built. Women swarm him wherever we go (he used to be offered modeling gigs when we were younger). I'm kind of average-looking-okay, and I have put on some weight in the past years. Also I was a blonde when we met, but I've gone back to my natural deep brown hair now. Which means he frequently makes —even in public—jokes about me pulling a 'switcheroo.' He has no faith in my creative aspirations. I try to remind myself that he uprooted and moved to a new place for me. Which is totally a big deal. However, he keeps harping on the fact that he did this (which diminishes the sacrifice, am I wrong in thinking this?); but also he will make disparaging remarks about my projects and compare my achievements with others ("so-and-so won this award, how come you didn't? aren't you good enough?"). 

 I know I've made him sound like a nightmare. But we have many sweet moments too. My last birthday he organized a surprise trip to Peru as I've always wanted to visit there (my favorite grandmother came from Lima). And I have to admit we have the best sex ever. Really. And after all this time we're both super attracted to each other. There's no denying that. 

 My friends and family almost universally hate him. One of my sisters cancelled her Christmas trip to see our parents at the last minute because she found out he was going too (he usually doesn't attend any family events). Two of my closest grad school friends are constantly pressuring me to leave. So much so that I've distanced myself from both. I love them dearly and I understand they want what's good for me, but it also feels patronizing that they're professing to know better than I do what's the right thing for me. I feel the same way about my sisters. 

 This is the longest relationship I've ever had. I feel like he's a good person, but maybe not good for me at this point in my life. But at the same time, maybe that moment, where our lives click together is just around the corner. I've invested so much here, given up so much of what I wanted to be with him, that I can't help but wait for that mutual moment to arrive. 

 Am I being impatient? Am I being wrongheaded? What can I do? 
 Maybe Knows What to Do But Not How to Do It 

Dear MKWTDBNHTDI, 

 It sounds like you need to get rid of this dude. If he's decided he wants a child now, maybe he should spend more time with the child he already has, since so much of the money that he could have been spending on buying treats for your cat goes to pay child support. That's not fair to his child, your cat, or you. The guy sounds awful. I mean, it was nice of him to move with you while you follow your dreams and take you to Peru, but it would have been even nicer if he hadn't made fun of you when you expressed your interest in having kids. Dude's not gonna marry you, and you shouldn't want to marry him. He sounds like a loser. Now that we've taken care of you, let's talk about your cat. It is clearly living in an environment where it is under-appreciated and over-stressed. You must move with it to a place that has lots of house plants, shelves to hide in, and some kind of pestilence problem so it will be properly stimulated while you follow your graphic design dreams. Once you've graduated and hung up your shingle, your cat will be waiting patiently for you, belly in the air. Kids are a mere distraction from cat worship, and they tend to do things like chew on our tails and scream loudly while we're trying to sleep. For your cat's sake, I hope your biological clock isn't still ticking. Good luck kicking that jerk out. Let me know if you want me to poop in his slippers or annoy him into leaving for you. Best, Brickle

If You Can Read This, You're Not Writing

I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be a writer lately. When I was in Berlin at the end of June, I was staying with my writer friend, and spending a lot of time with her and her writer ex-boyfriend. For them, the question was no longer "Do I want to attempt to support myself by writing?," but "What is the minimum number of hours I have to babysit so I can spend the rest of my life writing?" Naturally it was an incredibly inspiring environment. While I was in Berlin, I did things like wake up at 4 am to work on a story, journal about communism while riding the bus, and calculate the minimum number of hours I'd have to babysit to support myself as a writer.

Back in the States of course, reality set in. I'm not making my living as a writer and that goal feels very far away. I can barely commit to an outfit for an entire day, much less a career path that involves constant frustration and possibly having to move to New York.  But I come from stubborn people. So I'm not going to let the fact that I don't have an English degree or any idea how to actually use a semi-colon stop me.

A lot of people have a skewed perception of writing. The reality is though, if you think you want to write something, you should just do it.

Here are some things that some people think count as writing that actually don't.

1. Doing drugs because Hemingway/Sedaris/Dr. Suess (I'm just assuming) did it.
You are doing drugs. That's nice. Now write about it.

2. Having sex so they have something to write about.
Good for you! I wish I was having sex. Now write about how you felt afterward, what your characters would have done, how hot the room was, how you're pretty sure the character's roommates heard.

3. Reading
Reading is good. Really good. Now take what you were reading and write about it. Did the author say something that made you think? Did one of the characters remind you of a person you know? Was there a dead bug stuck between two of the pages? Write about those things.

Writing is like playing a musical instrument. If you want to get better than mediocre at it, you have to practice. If you don't have an idea or feel inspired, well tough shit. Write a letter to your grandma. Write a list of books you want to read, places you want to go. Edit a story you started two years ago about a Christmas Parade. String together words on your great American beach read. It doesn't have to be good, it just has to be.

While we're on the topic, it bothers me when someone says they can't write. Unless this person is genuinely illiterate or under the age of 7, this is like hearing a person who is physically able to move their body say that they can't dance. It's a weak excuse. If you don't want to write, say that. If you find it hard to focus while writing, it's okay. Everybody does. Just don't act like you physically can't write or that I have some sort of magical power because I can string words together and sometimes make people laugh or think.

I'm not good at writing because I was born knowing how to do it. I wasn't even one of those weird kids who could read when they were 4 or anything. I'm good at writing because when I was in 4th grade I filled cow spot notebooks with the beginnings of stories about Harry Potter and princesses and girls who were 14 and went on trips and kissed cute boys (maybe loosely inspired by Mary Kate & Ashley movies). I took 2 English classes in my senior year of high school, while ill-advisedly applying to 11 colleges, keeping two journals, and working as a sports writer for the Pocahontas Times. I wrote shitty poetry in my freshman year of college, and perfected my ability to create good Facebook statuses before starting this blog. In the past year I've finally gotten to the point where I can honestly say I write almost every day.

So that's why I'm good at writing. And the only way I'll continue to get better is to let myself behave a little like a crazy person. I need to leave friends' houses in the middle of the night because I just. need. to. write., to go running while thinking of the characters in my great American beach read, to volunteer to write glossaries of computer science terms, to spend 2 hours writing about birth control and carry around a purse big enough to hold my notebook.

You don't really need to know much about anything to write, but you do need to know how to swallow your pride, take emotional risks, learn from every situation and get things done. You have to learn to be okay with not hearing back from editors, with spending hours writing about ceiling fans or Microsoft Excel, and getting hand cramps and carpal tunnel. Because all of those things mean that at least you are writing. And if writing is truly what you want to do, then you will find a way to do it.