Fear Of: High Heels

They're like candy for so many women. They make your ass look fantastic, they give you a height boost with a dollop of intimidation and, if they have that beautiful red sole, they're such a status symbol. High heels are a girl's best friend. As one of my friends recently wrote on her blog, there's nothing better to boost your sagging confidence than donning an extra high, extra sexy pair as you step out the door.

Unless you're like me, in which case you'll do everything you can to not wear high heels. Because high heels terrify me.

When I was still mini-See and plodding along in High School, I somehow managed to get the reputation (from a lovely group of young women) that I was "elitist." How, exactly, a 16-year-old girl can present herself as elitist when she is neither popular nor cool is somewhat beyond me. But we'll just run with that idea.

For someone who hated being weird or different, especially then, "elitist" as an epithet was tough to hear. It was one of those annoying character observations that never seemed to leave my brain. Every new friend I met, every new activity I joined, I wondered if I was giving off that high-falutin' attitude. So I spent college learning how to converse and how to be charming when I met someone; all in attempts to dampen this part of myself which I couldn't even see. I didn't want to make anyone feel small or like an outsider. I'd felt that enough in my life. Instead, I actively worked against the single word that I felt defined me, and tried my damnedest to un-learn my elitism.

What ended up happening was an utter and complete under-performance in the clothes department.

Shirts where cleavage would be exposed? Sorry, lads. If there was even a hint of breasts, a well-placed tank top would hide any lady-mounds from view. (In my four years at college, I would like to say that I perfected the double layered tank-top look). Dresses and bang-on heels that made me look like freaking Aphrodite rising from the sea? Pass. Anything that involved flash, pizazz or "personality" were tossed out as being too provocative and too inflammatory. If I ventured into any of those zones, I knew, I just knew I'd come off as elitist. The idea was to blend in, and blend in well. Sadly, that attitude led to far too many graphic t-shirts from Abercrombie and decent fitting jeans from American Eagle.

But by the time I'd hit my senior year of college, fresh off a semester of traveling and learning about fashion in Europe, I decided to give those girls the finger. That ridiculous statement was still ringing in the back of my head. Except at 21 I was beginning to realize that there are some intrinsic parts of yourself you can't change -- however, you sure as hell can try and own them. So I took to wearing bright pink heels and donning a few dresses. I even started to wear shirts that weren't made by Abercrombie. That lasted a year.

And then I went back to San Francisco, where time and time again I would find that flaunting anything felt like the complete opposite of the culture. SF is a city of "un-effort." (This nytimes article explains it rather well.) Hipsters rule with thread-bare, hole-ridden shirts or hippies in birkenstocks and North Face jackets. The goal is to look like you rolled out of bed and rolled into your clothes for the day, all of which are lying in a pile a few feet from your bed. Yet again, I was passing on clothes that had any attitude or pizazz because, particularly in SF, my new-found East Coast sensibilities were making me out to be a Snob. Plus the topography of the city (hills at every turn to make your quads burn something fierce) made it somewhat impossible to wear heels.

So by the time I came to New York I'd forgotten how to love heels and how to embrace my elitism. This city, more than most, has superiority in its veins and in every one of its people. Everyone thinks they're worth something big, something awesome, and they're willing to fight tooth and nail against a sea of unrepentant assholes to prove that. You may end up here on a whim, but you'll have to fight and defend yourself to stake a claim. In the women, the higher the heel, the thinner the stiletto, the more people you know they took down to get there. They've earned each inch of those shoes. Make no mistake, the Jimmy-Choo-wearing-bitches run this town (at least in my media related world) and they can ruin you.

So, me and heels now have a touchy relationship. I own them, oh so many of them because I aspire to wear them. I want to run the parts of my city, I want to be the Editor at the top calling the shots.

But dressing the part, wearing those heels, that means something huge to me. Those heels say to me, and to everyone in my office (small office), that I will not be conquered. They scream intimidation, ownership and elitism. Really, they're like telling a guy "I'm too good for you" right before you knee him in the balls and run off with his colleague who makes more, dresses better and has a bigger penis. Perhaps not that bad, but they definitely make me feel more elitist and more superior that I have ever been willing to let myself be.

I'm having a tough time owning that. I want it, that success, that queen of the mountain feeling. But I don't know if I have what it takes to get there. I was the girl who didn't want to make anyone feel left behind or like an outsider. Can I become the girl that's not afraid to abandon people and even trample everyone to get what I want? Maybe I don't have to destroy all these parts of myself in the process, but doesn't it sure as hell feel that way once you slip on those shoes? That, dear friends, is why I haven't been able to pull on my Stuart Weitzman platform heels in camel. Because when I do, it might mean that the girl I tried to un-be for years, that elitist bitch, has always been there just waiting to come out. And wouldn't it be terrible if those high school girls were right?

Today's fear: Lose-your-soul-to-your-ambition-phobia

Fear Of: The Setup

I don't write much anymore. I've been out of journalism school for about 2 months now and since I handed in my last assignment (2500 words, feature story, something something blah dee doo) I've written roughly 3000 words -- total. My days have been spent fact-checking stories by others, which is standard for those of us starting out, and doing pretty much nothing in the way of creativity.

Thusly, I've decided to change it up and get back into blogging again, and have decided to do so by doing something that we'll call a unique mix of stupidity and catharsis.

I'm pretty much afraid of everything. Bars on windows, spiders, failure, mean dogs, dying by pen stabbing, rape, getting fat, getting old, bad clothes, cockroaches, bad breath and the list goes on. However I don't have a therapist (yet) to help me through these fears. Seeing as I'm poor, and that I have a emotional baggage the size of Antarctica, I've decided to attempt a ludicrous exercise.

Every day for the next year I'm going to write about a single fear, big or small, stupidly boring or stupidly metaphorical and "meaningful." The extra challenge will be that I have to write everything in about an hour -- particularly during the work week -- to try and train myself in the writer sense. You know, the speed/dexterity/mental acuity etc. Yes, I know, very Julie & Julia of me, but hey -- if it worked for her, maybe it can work for me. In the event that I'm traveling and can't get to a computer, I will write the entry out on paper and then post it the following Monday.

I'll do a check in at the end of month 1, 3, 6, 9 and 12 so I can keep tabs on my sanity, but for the most part, it's allllll fears, baby.

Now that I've laid out for myself the way it's gonna work, cause no one read this anyways, I hope you're all having a great Wednesday. Tomorrow, the inanity begins.

Fear Of: The Letdown

It's so fast sometimes I barely realize it's happening. I'm buoyant and excited, a low buzz of electricity running through my system, smiling and laughing with every person I see. But in a split second, it's an email, or a text message, or an awkward encounter with a classmate in the hallways and suddenly I'm cascading into a boxed in sandpit. All of a sudden I feel flat and empty, plopped into blandness and staring at the spot where I'd just been completely elated. How did it happen so quickly?

I've always loved being happy. Who doesn't, right? But I've always cherished the glowing ball I get in my chest when everything just seems to fall into place. I'm probably such an "insecure overachiever," as my Professor likes to call us, because I'm just searching for the next glowing ball of light in my life. It's shown up in several different forms: a rekindled wholesome family life, proving I could get into grad school and subsequently not failing out of grad school, functioning relatively normally in a happy longterm relationship, and every small success I've gotten while in grad school. But I've always been amazed at how quickly I can let go of that warm, energizing happiness. It takes the smallest, most indistinct action to grab it from me. Even plans falling through with friends can "bring my elevator down."

So it's become a well-defined fear. When I'm happy, or when life is running smoothly and without incident, I'm petrified I'll lose hold of whatever is carrying me forward. I've realized, ironically, I push me forward. So how come it's so easy to get down on myself after an achievement? Is this an issue any other 365fear-ers have? Sorry for the muddled post but I'm mid-edit and have to run off before it gets too late and I get stuck at school.

Today's fear: Happy-go-bye-bye-o-phobia

Fear Of: The Cheek Kiss

I am a terrible cheek kisser. Aside from my natural inability to predict other people's movements and general awkwardness with affectionate greetings, I am particularly bad at the cheek kiss. From watching others, I've seen how fluid and effortless it can be.

Step.
Lean.
Kiss cheek with one hand their shoulder.
Step back.

Simple, right? Four basic steps to a heartfelt, cute hello or goodbye.

Here's how the steps work for me.

Step and land on opposite person's foot.
Lean and almost smash into their face.
Get kissed on the cheek and somehow kiss air instead and make the annoying "muah" sound while fumbling for their shoulder.
Step back and stare at the ground.

Socialite of the year, I am not. I can't understand how I always end up kissing air when I try to lean in for a normal kiss. Is it because Americans are real cheek kissers who actually put lips to skin as opposed to the hoity-toity European double air kiss? Or maybe people get this idea that I'm just socially graceful enough that they can expect me to commit to a skin kiss but, actually being painfully awkward, I go for the air kiss instead so I don't slobber all over them. Perhaps at my next cheek-kissing opportunity I will try and go in for the full fledged skin kiss. My only other fear regarding that situation, is that in going for the cheek, I will totally miss and end up hitting lips. Gross. Let's hope that doesn't happen, readers, because really the last thing that you want after a fun-filled day at el-bfers house is to accidentally kiss his mom on the mouth. Yikes!!!! I'll keep you guys posted on that one.

Today's Phobia of the Day is: Accidentally-liplocking-with-kind-of-older-people-phobia.

Fear Of: Perpetual Adolescence

As I coaxed myself out of sleepiness this morning watching Laguna Beach, I realized that I have an unusual joy for all media things typically labeled "young adult" or "teen." Like, Britney's Circus Album, or the Hills, or the Real Housewives of NYC/NJ, and who could forget The Twilight Saga. Because, OMG if you haven't seen the New Moon trailer where Taylor Lautner has his shirt off, then you are totally missing out on like, this season's best trailer ever.

Which all begs the question: since I love my some teen romance, and I love me some mad trashy tv and bad pop music -- am I stuck as a sixteen year old girl living in a quarter-century woman's body? Or is it that all adults, people we'll call them, retain some aspects of their youth throughout their lives?

For instance, my mother is by far one of my style icons. It happened both consciously and subconsciously that her likes and dislikes began permeating my own aesthetic palate. But, obviously there are some sharp points of divergence -- aka, she wears neon colors that cause epileptic seizures, and I try to save the elders and small children of the world by wearing only lame ass neutrals. Okay, but really, she has a much more adventurous sense of style than I do, excepting when we're talking about housewares. What fascinates me, though, is that even though she'll often find these beautiful, vibrant pieces that I would never think to pick out and that she always wants to wear, she rarely ever does. Like, for example, one of this season's hot colors is a blingingly bright red. Momma See found one such awesome purse hanging out in a sale section at Nordstrom's. This low shoulder slinging See by Chloe bag is literally the type of purse I would pick out for maybe myself, but much more likely my teenage cousin. Yet, it's still versatile enough that anyone could use with the proper amount of confidence. Momma See scooped it up off the table and promptly decided that it had all the attributes she'd been looking for in laid back, fun-times, everyone gets to dance like we're in Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants bag, and bought it. After unpacking and packing it multiple times and parading in front of our hallway mirror, three days later, she promptly returned it to its sad, unloved place on the Nordstrom's sale table where it was surely cannibalized by some eighteen year old with Daddy's mastercard. Now, the quick turn around on acquirement and then disposal of the Red Bag could be a product of my mother having too much stuff (<3 you, mom!). But, strangely, I find it more likely she still retains this youthful piece of herself which, no matter how much she'd love to partake in it, she can't bring herself to cross into that realm.

Even at twenty-four, I'm beginning to wonder where the expiration date lies for me on enjoying the current day pop culture ephemera. Is it me who's tagging on longer than my expiration date? Or is it my cousin who is embarking on an adult existence far earlier than her age? Yet, there's something so fascinating about hearing el bf-ers Aunts singing "I'm a single lady, I'm a single lady" to Beyonce's Single Ladies in the kitchen over Easter weekend, or sitting at the dinner table and finding out his mom knows more of Lady GaGa's songs than I do. It's both empowering for them and for me. Partially because I feel a sense of connection, and admittedly can't pull the wool over the eyes any more, but more because it forces me to view them as equals in a world where I think hitting forty means losing touch. Which is probably why, in the end, I love talking to my mom about fashion, and designers, and why I actually encouraged her to buy that red See by Chloe bag that day. There's something charming and wonderful about allowing yourself a small space to be that sixteen year old girl who loves Yves Saint-Laurent, or the sixteen year old boy who can't ever play enough Counter Strike. Everyone is always racing to grow up and have everything in check as quickly as they can in their mid-twenties, when ironically we don't realize that even the awkwardly attempted pop culture references our parents and their generation make, really do make a difference to us. Not only because we see them as both hilarious and informed, but because the no man's land of teenage vs. parent interests has been crossed. Their effort to meet us halfway, helps bring them and us forward.

Today's Phobia of the day is: Forever-watching-reruns-of-Laguna-Beach-with-acne-and-pining-for-that-senior-guy-phobia

Fear Of: Pooping in Public

I hate the 'plop' that poop makes when it hits the water. There is nothing more privacy inhibiting, more wince inducing or more upchuck worthy to me than hearing poo dropping into a toilet. For some reason, not only does it cause supreme aural discomfort, it also prevents me from feeling comfortable in any way with taking care of my own business. There's something so perverse to me about bodily function sounds. Like, isn't that the last thing you would want to share with anyone? Because, p.s. Cosmopolitan just featured a little ditty on how the last thing you should ever do in front of your BF is, you got it, taking a pee or a poop. So unsexy. But if you can't do it in front of someone who loves you, how are you supposed to do it in front of complete strangers?

Flatulence I can handle. Okay, correction, flatulence with pants up I can handle. But think about all those times you've just run in for a quick number 1, and all of the sudden the stall next to you lets out an explosive, soppy sounding blow of the buttocks. Is there anything more humorous, or disgusting, than knowing that the person next to you has a stomach which firmly protests everything that they just ate? Strangely, I would rather hear a woman vomiting than pooping, (I'll blame that on four years of hyper-familiarity with binge drinking in college) because even if it's coming out of her mouth and her nose is unfortunately close to the toilet water, nothing is coming out as bio-degraded smelly brown junk.

Which, of course, means that if I can't even hear other people do it, how could I possibly force my own pathetically vomit inducing sounds on them? This isn't to say that I won't ever use a public toilet, just that I'll avoid one if possible. If I walk into the bathroom, and find someone else jauntily dropping a number 2, I'll leave them to it -- unless it's a really dire situation, in which case, I could give a flying monkey what anyone else is doing. It's particularly bad in those small bathrooms. The ones you find in bookstores or medium sized restaurants where, if it's busy, there's a long line and a steady stream of customers entering and exiting. With only a few stalls, there's nowhere to run if you have an emergency. But, what's worse, is knowing that your shoes are showing and there's probably at least one person who will glance beneath the stall door as you let loose a trumpet like sound so they can smirk at you when you return to your table. Those are the absolute worst. However, in bathrooms filled with 10 or more stalls, I am happy to find one in a far off corner and do whatever I need to do. Is that a fear of intimacy? (Hyuk.) A fear of sharing myself with others? Or is that a fear of someone discovering my coveted secret and badmouthing me to the world? Hrmm, in retrospect this is probably my middle school, toothpaste filled oreo eating self running in terror from the big bad bitches of 7th grade.

My friend recently called me out on my poo hesitancy. While visiting her in LA, a few friends and I were all crashing in her apartment. 24/7 with your closest friends means there's no hiding when you've got to do your grossest deeds, and it also means that at any time during the day you will have a conspicuous absence from conversation assuming that you're relatively regular.

I disappeared for a short period of time one evening -- this is where they would all tell me my "short" is everyone else's "long" -- and attempted to tend to my needs as quickly as possible. Upon stepping back into the living room where everyone was conversing pleasantly, one of them turned to me and promptly said, "take a poop?" Here is where my dilemma arose, dear readers. I could tell them the truth, and say "why, yes! And it was quite a good one indeed." OR I could slink away and mumble beneath my breath that I'd been flossing, brushing my hair, and putting on make-up (which I never wear). Choose your own adventure, kiddies. Which did I go for?

"uhhhhhhhhhhh......"

Neither, apparently. I just froze in place. Which is when my other friend promptly stated, "Awww, See, you're a shy poo-er!" And I blushed, and we all laughed, and I realized that I have a serious problem with publicly taking care of my business as they all regaled me with their own stories of public humiliation at the hands of their sphincters. (That's the type of stuff that friends of 10 years can talk about. Or really, scarily open people talk about over drunken dinners.)

This only became worse when I was at a Borders bookstore earlier this week, and after entering the ladies room to wash my hands, I was confronted with a resounding "pppppppppfffffftttttttttt!" Embarrassed for her and for myself, I did a quick sud and wash session then looked around wildly for a hand dryer. Because I know the only thing that would make me comfortable with continuing on my poo adventures if I were her, was if a sound was there to cover it up. Alas! There was no hand dryer in sight, and I could tell that since it'd been a good few minutes between my entrance and her last flatulence release -- and not a flush or move for the toilet paper at all -- she was nervous and doing her best to prevent another unfortunate butt alarm from popping out. That's when I heard it, the peep of farts, the blippy-like "pft!" and I ran for the door just in time to avoid blippy-fart's older brother from appearing, explosive diarrhea.

The moral of this story, friends, is that poop shy folk are all around you. If you are not among our masses, I commend you on your power and strength in owning your bodily functions. If you're reading this and emphatically nodding your head in agreement, trust me, I know where you're coming from. Do not be afraid of your fear, for you are not alone.

Today's phobia is: poopie-plopping-in-water-phobia.

Fear of: Smashing into the Divider on the Freeway

While cruising in the fast lane of 101 in Northern California, it's particularly difficult to ignore the grey concrete dividers protecting you from oncoming traffic. Smooth, innocuous blocks are strategically placed in the center of traffic merely to remind you that you're a lot closer than you think to equally foolish drivers speeding along, heading in the other direction. They are there only for your safety, and should be viewed as perspective and panic attack providing on your trip down an otherwise overwhelmingly large highway. However, please attempt to overlook the realities of you driving in the furthest over left-hand lane at a healthy 85 mph while endless porous, mundane concrete slabs snap by, ever closer to your car door. Not to mention, you are but three seconds away from the sharp hairpin turn where everyone from your high school class (as far as you know) has encountered a follied death because they had to hear that 50 Cent song just one more time?! One uncontrolled twitch of your steering column and, ta-dah! Awesome you, hamburger meat you is pleased to make your acquaintance.

Everyone knows the feeling of terror that washes over them when they've looked down to attend to a small task. Changing the radio station, grabbing the drink, adjusting the fly. Then suddenly the car is veering too far to the left and the only option left is to jerk the wheel to the right in an attempt to safe (yes, safe) oneself! The clench in your throat and the rise of the hairs on your neck are only momentary, just long enough to cause complete silence in your brain so it can react without hesitation. You feel weightless. A complete suspension of reality begins and then quickly ends, where you're carefully watching a multi-dimensional you correct the course of your car just before you strike the wall. It's terrible, and fascinating, and absolutely addictive. In fact, that moment is almost liberating. But only if you approach it just right. Say, from the safety of your couch as you dive off yet another highway -- in Vice City. Or if you're an adrenaline junkie, with a nylon sheet and reinforced rope hooked to your shoulders as you "parachute" out of a plane at 15,000 feet. But, funny enough, even with all the freedom and calm that occurs in that split second, it's the moments after the adrenaline rush, the minutes when you can taste the acrid terror in your mouth and the sweat forming on the small of your back, which are the moments you remember the most.

I don't know about the rest of you, but every time something like that happens, I can't help but remember everything I wish I'd done and completed by that moment. It usually occurs as follows:

I want to be successful and rich beyond my wildest dreams. I want to be the next Anna Wintour, except with a soul and a really awesome family (oxymoron). It'd be kind of fun if someone pointed out I'm the next undiscovered Giselle Bundchen. While I'm at it, it'd be really fun if someone pointed out I'm the next Coco Chanel, too. I want my unwritten, unthought-of script to achieve worldwide acclaim without ever having put pen to paper (or more realistically, fingers to keyboard) and without any kind of production into a film necessary. I want to have children who I love and adore, and who I don't want to strangle slowly. I want two puppies who will grow old together, and then as they are wobbling on their bony legs into doggie old age, they will meet a new puppy who will fill the roll of "ickle one" who they shall care for and befriend. I want a beautiful graduation (for once), two wonderful weddings for both my brother and myself, and many other happy, unforgettable occasions for my family, friends, and even acquaintances who I will only write cards to and think of both fondly and rather un-fondly.

Oh yeah, I want my Pulitzer.

I want to reconcile with old enemies, but not without telling them off first, and I want to stand up for something I really give a damn about and know that I've made a difference by either personally giving an organ, my life's work, or life's blood to them, and if not any of that, than millions of dollars (which by that time will be little to nothing in the great sum of my wealth). I want to have a full life, that no one can tell me is bad or wrong because even if they do, I will know without a doubt that I have done the best I can. And I want to get my mom that flat in Hong Kong that I've been promising her since I was 18, so she can live the high life she's always deserved and may frolic among the young, restless, and relatively pedantic socialites that I find so amusing.

In a moment, all those thoughts flash across my mind while my eyes jump from the road in front of me, to the divider at my side. For some reason, it still happens every time I do that momentary jerk with my steering wheel. Perhaps it's my familiarity with death, and loss, and fear that creates such a mish mash overload of images in my mind. Or perhaps it's someone's way of reminding me to be happy with what I have, and to appreciate the little things that make my life so wonderful everyday.

Phobia of the day: Smacking-into-hard-thing-phobia