The Empty Promises of Patrick Swayze's Hips

NOTE: The following is a piece I wrote for class, but in the spirit of posting something to the ol' blog during this frenzied finals week I thought I'd share it now. My professor told me to address love and relationships from my position as a woman scorned. (Where he got the "scorned woman" thing I HAVE NO IDEA, as I'm very much a hopeless romantic and am not the least bit cynical. ...oh bugger off, what do you know?) Kristina should be especially happy to see this, as she's been wanting to read it for quite some time. I hope the rest of you enjoy it too, and much love.

When I was 11 years old and Sister 13, we were finally, finally allowed to watch Dirty Dancing (which in retrospect is still dreadfully young. Abortion? Teen sex? The side of Patrick Swayze’s naked ass? It’s a miracle Sister and I turned out as morally sound as we did). We were overjoyed to the point of giddiness for two reasons:

1. Everyone else our age had already seen it and, as we were both socially…challenged, we felt being up on Baby and Johnny’s torrid love affair would help our cool-factor (it did not).
2. We were young and naïve, and therefore still completely enamored with the ideals of movie love.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, this second point would prove to create an earth-shattering crossroad in my life.

I remember sitting Indian-style in front of the TV (in the‘90s “sitting Indian style” wasn’t so un-PC), totally engrossed in Johnny’s chin-dimple and the way his hips moved when he danced. Sister sat beside me, no closer than 3 feet to the screen as that was the rule, and together we settled in for 100 minutes of mild raunchiness never before experienced by our virginal eyes.

Without realizing it, we were building our expectations of our existences to come; we were on the verge of transitioning into teenagers (a conversion that would result in our hating each other for 3 to 5 years), and we were thus on the cusp of boys and relationships and first romances. And as the opening credits rolled and sweaty miscreants grinded in slow-mo to “Be My, Be My Baby,” a societal fairy-tale began seeping into our impressionable minds.

Then, somewhere between “I carried a watermelon” and “nobody puts Baby in a corner,” my all-business, proud-feminist mother marched into the room. Standing defiantly in front of the screen, she put her hands on her hips and in her sternest, do-not-question-what-I’m-about-to-tell-you voice said, “This is not how it happens in real life.” Then she turned on her heels and was gone.

This is not how it happens in real life.

Sister and I were frozen in place, not knowing what to do but being entirely aware that, on some fundamental level, our views of the world had been forever changed. After several moments of stunned silence, we turned back to the TV and pretended not to be scarred for life. We still enjoyed the movie; we booed when Johnny got fired and we cheered when Baby did the lift, but underneath our exaggerated reactions, we knew a part of our souls had died.

At least, that’s what I thought at the time.

For many years following that memorable incident I held a tiny grudge against my mother. I thought her words were completely unwarranted, and I attributed them to some sinister desire to hurt my feelings/be a mean-spirited-dream-crusher (keep in mind that at this point I was the epitome of a foul-tempered teenager, and I was pretty much in a mood 24 hours a day). More than anything in the world I wanted to believe my mother was wrong, and I’d therefore be damned before I’d heed her warning.

Then real life happened to me.

At 17 years old my first love was what you might expect; I fell fast and hard, named both of our future children (Robert and Amber), let him sloppy-French-kiss me even though I hated it, and began preparations for our long, happy life together. And then, just as I was becoming convinced that there was no truth to the saying “love hurts” or to my mother’s words, he dropped by my house one night and lowered the boom: he didn’t love me anymore. Suddenly I knew what it was to have a broken heart.

At that point in my naïveté I still wanted to believe the fairy-tale, so when he called two months (and 12 pounds of woe-is-me-weight-loss) later, I joyously accepted his proposal to get back together. Maybe this was my dream come true! In every life some rain must fall, right? But now things would work out and be perfect…the break-up would become a distant memory, and now I’d have my Prince Charming.

I don’t have to tell you what happened next.

So after heartbreak #2 and 8 more pounds lost, I finally decided to branch out to new specimens. I started dating other guys…some secret pot-heads who used me for free meals, others manipulative womanizers who pitted me against their exes. There were those who called me a “princess” and then hit on my friends, and some who told me they loved me (but could I just dress differently and be less opinionated?).

With every new date seemed to come a new disappointment, and I quickly lost faith in relationships altogether. If true love existed, then where was my perfect romance? Where was my slow dance ‘neath the moon? Where the hell was my Johnny?!

And then my mother’s words played quietly through my head.

This is not how it happens in real life.

Our society sets us up to believe in love at first sight and happy endings and Johnny Castles. We’re raised in a culture where reality is considered over-rated; people would rather seek movie-perfection and fail trying than settle for the world as it actually is. I don’t claim this as an original thought; we all know romances like that between Johnny and Baby are oversimplified and idealistic. We’ve all heard “only in the movies,” and few of us would admit to believing a Cinderella story could happen for us.

And yet, we do believe it….or at least, we’re keen enough on the idea to feel slightly cheated when our relationships don’t turn out that way. That’s not to say my past beaus were actually upstanding gentlemen, because they weren’t. I had remarkably poor taste in the past, and I’m hoping to God that I’ve since learned from my mistakes. But there is merit in expecting something human from your relationships- and by “human” I mean complicated, often frustrating, awkward at times, and most of all…real.

Johnny wasn’t real, and Baby wasn’t either. He wouldn’t have abandoned his playboy ways for the cute-ish girl named Frances, and she would never have been able to learn to dance like that (I mean, come on). But if you think about it, who would want that kind of relationship anyway? Real love can’t survive between wayward bad-boys and innocent do-gooder girls (and I should know, as that’s what caused heartbreak # 3).

So I guess what I’m trying to say is this: for anyone younger and thus less baggage-riddled than I, please heed the lesson my (come to find out, well-intentioned) mother once tried to teach me. Do not expect perfection. Do not expect swells of music when you kiss, or heartfelt I love yous on the second date, or hand-holding strolls on the beach that fade to black and end with the assumption of happily ever-after. Because as a wise woman once warned me, This is not how it happens in real life.

In real life there is heartache. There is arguing, and tension, and differing opinions and constant compromising. Sometimes your relationships won’t work out; you may be mistreated, and karma may never avenge you. You might be lonely for a little while. You might be lonely for a long while. And you may never have a blockbuster “love realized” moment to rival Johnny and Baby’s legendary last dance.

But if you’re very patient and just a bit lucky, you might find somebody who is pretty great - who cares about you and understands how you feel and wants to support you from day-to-day. You may meet someone who makes you laugh and holds you while you sleep, and you may just find someone who will love you for exactly who you are.

And if you do find that, don’t be deterred if there are bumps in the road or if his hips don’t move quite like Johnny’s. Trust me on this one, or at least trust my mother; your romance won’t be like Johnny and Baby’s, and that’s okay. Because real life love isn’t like movie love. It’s something a little bit different. It’s something a little more complicated. It’s something a little more real.

And real is always better in the long run…even if you never go dirty dancing.



This is dedicated to the eternally dreamy Patrick Swayze, who put my middle name on the map and made me proud to be a Frances.

The Feds are going to confiscate my Bic

Today is a weird day. I've officially begun my new graduate assistantship (the reasons why I have a new one are both mysterious and ominous to me), and I'm therefore now sitting in the grand Gaylord library, gazing upon the football stadium across the street and wondering how in the blue blazes I ended up here. I mean, if a year ago you'd told me I'd soon become a librarian.........but then, my life has never had much organizational structure so I shouldn't be surprised. I will say that I've already been referred to as the "hot librarian," and this nickname has made me at least 30% happier about my new job. He who originated said title will not be named (as I have no desire to make him stop saying nice things about me), but let it be known that I give serious brownie points for clever nicknames that are also complimentary. Anonymous Man has already mastered the skill, but you should probably keep that in mind.

Today is also weird for a second reason: it's day 2 of the semester, and I've yet to decide what classes I'm taking. I mean, I know that I'm having coffee with Kris tomorrow and that I'm going shopping for vintage clothes on Saturday, but as for my graduate course schedule....yeah, that's pretty much up in the air. Sigh, I can no longer deny that I suck at being a grown-up. In my defense, however, I tried my damnedest to be responsible and pre-enroll over the holiday. Unfortunately that meant choosing classes all by me oncey - something a 24.93-year-old should theoretically be able to accomplish without much bloodshed or trauma. Not for me, however...I am the queen of getting myself into the wrong place at the wrong time (and of just generally making dumb decisions), and yesterday's class meeting was certainly no exception.

So, some background: I found this class via OU's enrollment website. It was outside of my department but similar enough to intrigue me, and the course description seemed both relevant and highly academic. Sure it was a doctoral level class, but I'm a smart girl, right? (I find that, while on holiday and therefore removed from reality, I am far too educationally ambitious for my own good). But I hadn't been to school in weeks, and I'd almost entirely forgotten how much of my self-professed "love of learning" is total BS. I don't love to learn; I love to think. And I love to choose what I think about, and I would never choose to think about the theoretical frameworks of multicultural communication studies....but I digress.

Point being I was stupid, and I picked a class so far out of my league that I blame OU for not saying "uhhh, no" and refusing to let me enroll in it. Approximately 3 days before the first class session I began to have that "hmmm, I think I may have really screwed myself" feeling. But to my cred I'm remarkably good at believing my own lies, so it wasn't until I actually attended the class that I realized exactly how much of a toolbag I am.

Just picture it: I walk into Territory Unknown, and the warm-welcome I receive from my professor includes the phrase "I think you're really courageous." Umm, never a good sign. Then, I come to notice the (5) other students in the class are staring at me with both awe and trepidation. A few blissfully clueless moments pass before I realize it's because they think I must be a genius...for what other person would strut, unaware and unphased, into a PhD-level course in a foreign department? (A genius or a fool, and they kindly (and incorrectly) gave me the benefit of the doubt.) So 5 minutes in and I'm already battling my fight or flight instincts.

Then I'm given a syllabus, and I have to call upon my pride to keep from running out the door at a breakneck speed. The reading list is, simply put, insanity incarnated. The assignments are utter madness, and the sheer volume of formal presentations strikes fear and horror to the depths of my soul. I keep my eyes trained on the paper and my head down (as I know the colorless nature of my face will give me away), and I begin reasoning with myself as to why I can't flee the scene.
"You got yourself into this, you moron. Be a woman and keep your butt in the chair."
"If you leave now and can't enroll in another class, you'll be even more effed than you are right now."
"Your schoolbag's too heavy for you to get far and the Prof will catch you before you're out of the building."
"Everyone here thinks you're brilliant, and if you run away they'll probably figure out that you're not."
That final argument gave me the strength to stay, because let's face it; it feels good to have people believe you're awesome...even when they're completely wrong. So, I stifled the scream rising in my throat and committed myself to 2 hours of torture.

And torture it was.

I won't burden you with all the details, but let me just say that after that class I will not live as long as God originally intended. For the first hour I fought the urge to cry out in terror, and for the second hour I fought the urge to cry out in soul-crushing boredom. I underestimated the course in more ways than one...not only was it waaay more of a Smart Kid Class than I could handle; it was also taught by one of the most monotonously droll people the Earth has ever known. (Lovely woman, remarkably intelligent, could kick my butt at just about any standardized IQ test. But oh my sweet baby Jesus - THE DROLLDOM.) I kid you not; the entire class period was dedicated to reading the syllabus. Reading it. You know, out loud. Then, if we weren't reciting verbatim that "articles A1, A2, and A3, and subarticles a1-17 are to be read for class on March 19th," we were pondering the cyclical and identical natures of research proposals and presentations. WHY GOD WHY. I mean this in all seriousness, a violent part of me that has been made dormant by millions of years of meticulous evolution began to resurface over the span of that class period. I actually imagined taking my Bic and stabbing her in the eyeball with it...and when I became disturbed by this sadistic desire to hurt a sweet little woman, I turned the daydream inward and thought about stabbing the Bic in my own eye. And then I began once again fantasizing about running away (in all honesty, that fancy never fully left my mind). By the end of the class my thoughts were roaming about somewhere in Nor-Eastern OK, but even my best attempts at imaginative escapism could not ease the misery of those two hours. I have been scarred by the events of yesterday, and I'm only partially kidding when I write that.

So, needless to say I dropped that course like a vicious snapping turtle (...what?). I implored my Academic Advisor to help my wayward, wandering soul, and she agreed to look into some classes that are less likely to make me want to hurt myself or others. But until then I'm sittin' pretty with not enough hours and no real idea what to do about it. So I guess it makes sense that I go vintage-clothes-shopping this weekend; because if I get kicked out of school for not being a full-time, responsible, grown-up grad student, I'm going down with fierceness and style. God have mercy on my soul.

Much love.

Bare Naked Lady

For those of you who’ve known me as a grad student, you’re familiar with my near obsessive dedication to The Huf (OU’s sweet action gym, for my wayward non-Sooner readers). I’m pretty sure Kristina worried I would exercise myself to death last semester, as I’d spend hours each day pedaling and stretching and lifting and running (boo, hiss). But fear not, World-with the alleviation of all things school I quickly abandoned my workout regime. My break has consisted of sleeping, peeling oranges, and checking Facebook every 4-8 minutes. I am lazy, I am a bum. I am watching my sexy biker muscles atrophy before my very eyes, and I’m loving every second of it.

But I did take one Huf-ism home with me for Christmas, and today I would like to share it with you. As I am technologically challenged and did not until recently own an iPod (and now I still can’t operate said iPod, so…fail), I made a beeline to the magazine stash at the start of every workout. Typically I opted for the latest InTouch Trashazine so as to keep up on the marital status of Heidi and Spencer, but one fateful day the tabloid supply was woefully depleted. Shooting eye-daggers at the Debutant Sorority Princess next to me (who had been on the stair-stepper far past the 30 minute mark and was hording all the good pop-culture literature), I drearily resigned to reading Self Magazine: a publication filled with pro-women, pro-health, pro-positive articles that I find boring and ridiculous. I don’t care how to sustain my bone density; I want to know why Whitney really left The Hills. But this day I had no choice, and I headed to the stationary bike with my Self in hand.

Trying not to be a cynic and knowing I had 45 laborious minutes of cycling to kill, I started with the uber flowery Love Yourself section (for you men out there, all chick magazines have this section. I completely hate it). But this one was different. This one suggested an activity so syrupy and absurd that it peeked my interest, and I did something I’ve never done before: I tried it. That night I went home, and preparing for my post-sweaty-grossness shower, I stripped. Then, remembering back to the aforementioned article, I took a deep breath…and stepped in front of the mirror.

Self Magazine claimed every female should spend 5 nek-ed minutes in front of the mirror each day. Apparently women are overly-critical of themselves and need to accept and love their bodies (what. an. epiphany). So, I was to look at my birthday suit and declare one fabulous thing about my body before every shower. Out loud. The article even had some suggestions, like “I love the graceful curvature of my lower back” or “the definition of my clavicle makes me feel feminine.” So incredibly stupid…am I right? And yet I was intrigued.

That was a month ago. Although I sometimes ditch the self-esteem exercise when I’m running late (which is most always), I’ve surprised myself by keeping up with Naked Time since that day in the Huf. “Hark!” you say. “Self Magazine is a Godsend!” And indeed I have heeded their advice, making the article a not-total-failure. But my daily affirmations are just a tad more….weird, for lack of a better word, than I believe the author intended.

So far I’ve yet to run out of nice things to think about my buck-nakedness. However, that’s not to say I accept my body any more than the next self-deprecating female. Far from it. I still hate my scraggly chicken legs and I’m no fonder of my boyish frame than I was in November. But I have discovered some odd Frankie-isms that I proudly declare each morning during Naked Time:

“I love how, if I hold reeeeal still, I can see my heartbeat in my stomach.”

“The scar on my neck makes me feel edgy.” (If you don’t know what it’s from, don’t be scurred. Ask me.)

“I’m proud of how square and misshapen my feet are from their days in pointe shoes.”

“My weirdly defined external oblique (tummy) muscles make me look like Pink.” (umm… those are gone now.)

“I like my small and unbendy ears.” (Can you bend the top of your ears down? Yeah, I can’t.)

“My elbows are super sharp and would probably make awesome weapons.”

As you can see, I’ve wildly distorted the article’s advice and intentions. If that author only knew what I’d done with her work, she’d likely up and quit her job (as well she should, because COME ON. What a dumb idea.) But in my own way, I’ve benefitted from the magazine. I’ve grown. I’ve matured. And if not those things I’ve at least learned how to creatively insult my body. And that’s a valued skill for any insecure, under-confident, self-loathing woman like myself.

So thank you, Self Magazine. Thank you for the gift of Naked Time and innovative self-criticism. For without it, I never would’ve noticed the chicken pox scar on my leg that is kind-of-sort-of shaped like Snoopy.

Much love.