A few months ago I wrote about my red dress…that shockingly inappropriate or overindulgent thing that we long for all of our lives but deny ourselves because it’s not “sensible”. For me it was wearing a red silk dress barefoot through a cemetery. For you it might be learning how to canoe or owning a pair of white ice skates. That post quickly picked up steam and soon women were wearing the dress as a symbol of conquering their fears, their limitations and sometimes even themselves, and I vowed to bring the red dress to the Blogher conference so it could be worn by anyone who wanted. The comments shared on that post were extraordinary but my favorite was one so poignant that I ended up including it in the post:
I can only hope like the “Traveling Pants”, the “Traveling Red Dress” is magic enough to make it fit my size 18 self by mere magic. Honestly, being able to see it.. to touch it and be near it will be enough to prove I will be living my own Red Dress moment. I’m going to Blogher! I’m going to fly (!!!) to New York in 70 days and I’m completely and utterly terrified. But I’m doing it anyway dammit! This is a nerve-racking trip for most people, but for me? It’s so much more than that. For me, this trip will be a catalyst to take my life back from the ruthless clutches of agoraphobia. Sort of extreme exposure therapy. Today I can’t drive to the next town on my own, I can’t be alone at home, I can’t even take my daughter to the beach. I’m so much better than the housebound puddle I was 10 years ago, but I’m stuck. I’m so tired of CAN’T. In 70 days though (god help me), I CAN and I WILL.
That red dress? Home plate. The finish line. And also new beginning.
And we sat in my hotel room with her two friends and she slipped on the traveling red dress.
And it was amazing.
That’s what blogging is about for me. The shared journeys. The people. The hope. The little victories that aren’t really so little at all. The stories of our lives that entangle and cause strangers to suddenly become a community and a lifeline.
And as Karen stared out the window onto the teeming New York sidewalk below she took a deep, ragged breath and held her head a little higher and then she cried. Not the cry of someone crippled by fear but the cry of someone seeing the sun for the first time in far too long.
And we cried along with her. And it was good.
Karen
Thank you for inviting me into your stories. And for listening to mine.
Comment of the day: Jenny, thank you so much for sharing such a beautiful moment. And Karen, thank you so much for reminding me that we all can find the courage to confront our fears. You’ve inspired me to tackle a lingering one of my own head-on, starting now. And you should know that that red dress looked like it was designed with you in mind. You were, and are, gorgeous. For what it’s worth, a stranger half way around the world is very proud of you. ~ Alpha Wumpus
I should be writing my weekly shit-I-was-doing-when-I-wasn’t-here post but instead we took Hailey hiking in New Mexico just to get away and see Victor’s family. I listened to the thunder, walked through the forest, watched a snail make his way down a moss-covered tree and took a bit of time to get to know my daughter a little more than I did before. So now I don’t have time to write about what I was doing when I wasn’t here. Because I was too busy doing it.
I’ll be back to my normal, irresponsible self tomorrow. Probably. Or possibly I’ll get into the car and drive Hailey to West Texas so her grandfather can teach her how to work his moonshine stills and I can keep working on ignoring important emails and finding me again. I’ll be back with me when I find myself. I’m sure it won’t be long. I usually turn up the last place I left me. I just can’t remember where that was…
My friend (Sunny) is an artist. She writes and paints and makes beautiful, whimsical dresses out of found objects and magic. One of my favorite dresses of hers is the red poppy dress and I wanted it the first time I saw it but I knew I’d never get it. For one thing, it’s not sensible. It’s impractical. It’s bright red and vibrant and shocking and “inappropriate for a woman my age”. And I have no shoes to go with it. And I have no place to wear it.
And I want it.
I want, just once, to wear a bright red, strapless ball gown with no apologies. I want to be shocking, and vivid and wear a dress as intensely amazing as the person I so want to be. And the more I thought about it the more I realized how often we deny ourselves that red dress and all the other capricious, ridiculous, overindulgent and silly things that we desperately want but never let ourselves have because they are simply “not sensible”. Things like flying lessons, and ballet shoes, and breaking into spontaneous song, and building a train set, and crawling onto the roof just to see the stars better. Things like cartwheels and learning how to box and painting encouraging words on your body to remind yourself that you’re worth it.
And I am worth it.
And last week…?
…I got my red dress.
I didn’t have shoes, or a party to wear it to, or even a valid excuse to own it, but I had the dress.
And it was everything I thought it would be.
But here’s the thing…you are worth it too. Which is why this week the red dress will begin a journey, traveling from city to city so that other people can wear it and love it and feel as special and vivid and dynamic as they already are. Because sometimes we all need a little red dress to remind us of that. So today, think about what it is you need and were too embarrassed to ask for. And then go fucking do it. Wear a ball gown to the grocery store. Invite the neighbors to have a picnic on the front lawn. Get that novel out of your sock drawer and publish it yourself. Stand on a bus stop bench and belt out a song for the waiting strangers. Find a playground swing and remember how it felt to fly. Find your red dress. And wear the hell out of it.
The Devil-and-the-Details: This dress was custom-made by Sunny Haralson of Rubypearl and was specially made for this project. Photographs taken by the amazing Karen Walrond, a woman who knows me so well that she’s become unfazed when asked to meet me in a graveyard with her camera and bail money. (She *did* hesitate briefly when I mentioned that I’d be in my pajamas and that I’d have to get naked in the graveyard because I can’t actually put on the dress without someone cinching me up but then she just sighed and nodded and reminded herself to renew her license to practice law.) Click here for her whole set. Also, I’m bringing the traveling red dress to Blogher in August so if you’re going to be there and you want to get photographed in it then just come find me. It’s totally worth it. And so are you.
Comment of the day (although you should really read all of them because you people are fucking amazing):I can only hope like the “Traveling Pants”, the “Traveling Red Dress” is magic enough to make it fit my size 18 self by mere magic. Honestly, being able to see it.. to touch it and be near it will be enough to prove I will be living my own Red Dress moment. I’m going to Blogher! I’m going to fly (!!!) to New York in 70 days and I’m completely and utterly terrified. But I’m doing it anyway dammit! This is a nerve-racking trip for most people, but for me? It’s so much more than that. For me, this trip will be a catalyst to take my life back from the ruthless clutches of agoraphobia. Sort of extreme exposure therapy. Today I can’t drive to the next town on my own, I can’t be alone at home, I can’t even take my daughter to the beach. I’m so much better than the housebound puddle I was 10 years ago, but I’m stuck. I’m so tired of CAN’T. In 70 days though (god help me), I CAN and I WILL.
That red dress? Home plate. The finish line. And also new beginning.
So. I sold my book. ”What book?” you may be asking. You have not been paying attention. Or possibly I haven’t mentioned it. I’m bad with details. Short story? I started a book 10 years ago as a love letter to my completely fucked-up family. It’s a mostly-true memoir called “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened” and I’m already tired of reading about it. Aren’t you? Of course you are. Everyone is writing a book. Turn to the person on your left. They’re writing a book. The person on your right? Also writing a book. The person underneath your chair isn’t writing a book but only because they’re a dog but if they had opposable thumbs they would totally be writing a book too. In fact, your dog is probably thinking right now how much better their book would be than mine. Well, fucking try it then, asshole. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO POOP INSIDE THE HOUSE . Even the cat doesn’t understand what your fucking problem is. I don’t need your damn dog judging me, people.
I’m sorry. That was totally uncalled for. I’m just practicing being inappropriately bitchy for when I become famous. It is not coming naturally. Victor just snorted derisively. Victor can go fuck himself. Victor just said I’m making his argument for him. Victor may have a point.
But here’s the thing…I just sold my book. The book I’ve been working on for 10 years. The book that I quit my job to write. The book that still isn’t finished but that has taken every spare moment that I had and that I never talk about because I’m so afraid of someone calling me a fraud because I can’t even use punctuation properly. And right now I should be happy. Vindicated, even. Right now I should be going down my list of all the people who ever doubted me, broke up with me, made me cry in my office or wouldn’t let me sit next to them at lunch so that I can tell them that when I get invited on the Ellen show I’m going to personally tell America what an asshole they are. But instead I feel…terrified. Partially because I can’t find my list of people to fuck with but more importantly, because things are going so well all at once that I can’t stop waiting for the roof to fall in. And since the roof hasn‘t fallen in yet, I immediately suspect that I am having some sort of nervous breakdown and that all of this is a hallucination. Because it is easier for me to believe that this is a delusional psychosis than it is for me to believe that I might actually be worthy of something good happening to me. Which is kind of funny. And also incredibly sad. Because it’s absolutely true.
And it’s also absolutely wrong.
I know I will never be Charles Dickens. I will never use a semi-colon correctly. Or know what a semi-colon is. I suspect it’s this thing : ; It looks like a sideways man who had half of his handlebar mustache shaved off when he passed out drunk at a frat house. But that’s not the point. The point is that I have story to tell and it’s filled with unpredictable raccoons and accidental stabbings and profanity and it is nothing like all the fancy books on my shelves…but maybe that’s what makes it special. And in all my talk about how strangely and beautifully unique each of you are, I never apply that same logic to myself which kind of makes me the biggest hypocrite ever. So starting today I’m going to start practicing not hating myself quite so much because then maybe when this book actually comes out I can say how proud I am of myself and it won’t be so much of a lie. Luckily for me, I have a long time to practice. Luckier for you, I’m about to shut up about my book and not mention it again until it comes out in 2012, which is coincidentally the same year that the Mayans predict that the world is going to end. I can’t help but suspect that these two things might be related.
I apologize in advance if my book inadvertently triggers the apocalypse. I assure you, that was totally not my intention.
I know you come here to laugh and if you need that right now just skip this and read the next post. But come back when you can so you can read this, because it’s important.
I believe that people have the right to say and do what they want. Even if what they say and do makes me sick to my stomach. I know people who are intolerant or homophobic or full of fear or hate. And some of them I love in spite of it. I can’t help it. But I still have to say something even if it hurts them to read it.
You are wrong.
Our differences are what make us strong, what makes us unique and special. Fighting intolerance about mental illness, or race, or lifestyle or whatever labeled “flaw” we are saddled with makes us strong. And today instead of using my strength to say how much I hate every single person that thought that this horrible act of cruelty was in any way acceptable to do to a human being I’m using it to do something so much harder. I’m using it to say that I still love you. And that I hope for change. And that I know that I am imperfect and I am changing and that I hope you can too. Because I don’t want to live in a world where so many people send me emails of desperation and despair because they think that a girl on the internet they’ve never met is the only one who could ever understand them. These people? The ones emailing me who feel that their life is worthless? They are your children. They are the people we see every day. They are the men and women who will one day care for us when we’re old and feeble and can’t stand up for ourselves anymore.
They. are. us.
Please, try a little harder. Because instead of screaming in fury I’m going to try to change my own behavior and instead just say what we’re all really saying underneath our angry shouts…I love you, and I want you to love me.
A special note to every single person reading this who thinks that they are alone or different or forever broken…you are not. You are part of a special tribe that you just haven’t found yet and we need you. All the best people are broken. Keep fighting until you find your place. It does exist. I promise.
Comment of the day: I love homophobic people too, and I always worry how they will react when I finally do come out to them. I don’t want my relationships with them to change just because they suddenly know something which has always been true. I am a loving, optimistic young man, who just so happens to be attracted to other men, and I have no problem with that. It’s the world that has the problem. I believe first and foremost in the power of love. People don’t show enough love for one another, and that is why we have so many problems. I like to think that I am part of the solution.
My ‘name’ is Phillip Wilde, and I love you. Yes, even you. ~ Phillip Wilde
