Holly Via Gorski

Last week I did this thing – this big thing, which I was anxious about, and had to psych myself up for – and it was hard. I hated it. When it was over, I felt a sense of accomplishment and relief. A few people congratulated me, or said they were proud or impressed. A friend asked me to write about it.

I didn’t do anything important or impressive.

I went without food or water for 15 hours. I participated in a one-day fast with other non-Muslim folks in order to experience what our Muslim friends do every day during the month of Ramadan. That part was cool. Joining others in a new experience, learning about Ramadan, taking another step towards human understanding (regardless of religion or culture) – those things are important, and it was a valuable experience for me.

But my one-day, voluntary fast? I can’t be proud of such a meager feat. I chose to go through my day without food or water, but I was surrounded by it. I could have poured myself a glass of filtered water in my air-conditioned office building at any time. My huge accomplishment boils down to skipping a few meals and resisting snacks from the staff table, for one day. During Ramadan, Muslims do this for 30 days. In a row. In some countries women do it wearing burkas in 100+ degree heat.

I’m not saying it was easy for me. The hardest part going without water; I have never been so thirsty. Physically, the biggest lesson I learned that day was I need water. I don’t need snacks, or the second breakfast I typically eat at my desk, or even (though I hate to say it) coffee, but I need water. By the afternoon I found it very difficult to concentrate. If I couldn’t drink or eat, then all I wanted to do was sleep. It was a hierarchy-of-needs experience. My husband called to see how I was doing and at the end of our conversation, he said, “I’m guessing Ramadan is not a real productive time.” (If my one-day experience is any indication, no, it’s not. However, I’ve heard that once your body adapts to fasting things go more smoothly.)

Intellectually and emotionally, the biggest lesson I learned that day was what real hunger and thirst feel like. When I say, “I have never been so thirsty” it’s not a figure of speech; it’s literal truth. Before last week, I had never, not once in 38 years, gone 15 waking hours without a beverage. Before last week I had never gone 15 waking hours without eating. On and off throughout the day I thought, “There are people who live like this every day.” At 2:00 PM when my brain was foggy, I thought about kids in school too hungry to learn and I almost cried. Now I have an inkling, just an inkling, of what that must be like. This is why schools in poor areas have free breakfast programs – or did, the last time I paid attention. Maybe they’ve been cut from the budget.

I’ve never been against school breakfast or free lunch programs, but I’ve never been actively for them, either. Suddenly now I want to make sure my taxes go to these programs. Please, take a little bit of my money and use it to feed children so that they can pay attention to math and reading.

For 15 hours last week my empathy muscles got a workout while my stomach took a break. At the end of the day, a good friend who had also fasted and I broke our fast in an Italian restaurant. We talked and laughed, drank and ate together until past closing time. She kindly drove me to my car so I wouldn’t have to walk five blocks alone in the dark.

On Twitter I’ll sometimes see the hashtag “#firstworldproblems.” It’s a joke; a self-deprecating nod to how good one has it tacked on to the end of a tweet complaining about the barista messing up one’s coffee order. That’s what having to walk five blocks alone in the dark after a restaurant meal with a friend is: a first-world problem. That’s what a self-imposed 15-hour fast is, too.

Katherine is a teenager in Texas who has been my Twitter friend for almost three years. She is in the final stretch of her Senior year and wrote a fantastic “day in the life” blog post today that you should read if you, like me, are not a teenager. Especially if you (like me) peeled out from the driveway of your own teen years as quickly as possible.

There is a writers’ maxim that writing about the specific makes one’s story universal. I’m 20 years older than Katherine; when I graduated high school in 1991 a different (much shorter) war was ending (and if I had to see one more yellow ribbon anywhere I was sure I was going to puke). I was in Utah, not Texas, and the details of my life were different. The details don’t matter here, because it felt the same: suspended, waiting for this farce to end and “real life” to begin.

That last stretch of school took for – ev – er . . . until it was suddenly over.

Hang in the air with Katherine from tinytowntexas for a moment, and remember your own stagnant Spring:

A day in the life.
The substitute in my first period class reads aloud a Bible verse in an attempt to make sense of recent news. She apologizes afterward. The bell that marks the passing of class periods has been turned off for the sake of AP testing and the weather dips into the fifties, which would leave the student population off-kilter on any normal day. This isn’t any normal day . . . .

Last night I was complaining to my husband that my latest Women of HR post only had one comment while the post before it had 15.

“. . .Of course,” I continued, “the post before it was about authenticity in social media — being read by a bunch of people who participate in social media –and my post is about systems theory, using a dental practice as an example.”

He looked at me. “Uh-huh.”

In case you’d like to read it anyway (and I hope you do), here’s the link:

The Tale of Discount Dental

At work we offer two dental plans. The first one is the plan you hear jaunty radio ads for; the name-brand plan. Nearly all of our employees choose it. The second plan is the discount, HMO-type dental plan that yeah, we offer, but very few employees select. The second plan has a bad reputation . . .

I am proud to be among the contributing writers for the Women of HR blog. It’s a wonderful site run by some smart, funny women I first met two or three years ago on Twitter. (There are a ton of fabulous HR professionals on Twitter.) They’ve run two of my pieces so far and I expect another one to go up in about three weeks.

It’s been a change for me to write about Human Resources, because I usually write to escape Human Resources as a self-definition. I’ve heard that in Jane Austen’s time it was considered terribly rude to ask what one did for a living and that’s one of the few things I wish had survived from those days.

I’m not ashamed of the work I do, don’t get me wrong – HR is important and most of the time, I think I do it well – but inside of me is a teenager who insisted her high school keyboarding class was a complete waste of time because it wasn’t like she was going to work in an office. As if! I write to keep that girl quiet; to help her feel proud of herself once in a while.

Thanks to the Women of HR I’ve had a chance to write creatively about my profession. I enjoy it. Here are the two pieces I have up so far, if you’re interested:

The Female Version of John Wayne – On businesswomen who thrived before EEO laws were in place/enforced.

On Labor and Chocolate – How the story of Cadbury chocolate reminded me of the importance of the labor movement.

If you go, stick around! Don’t just read my stuff. Everything on the site is well-written and worth your time.

We’re at our son’s indoor soccer game, watching him wander around the court as if in search of flowers to pick. So far it’s been a mediocre game: two teams of 2^nd & 3^rd grade boys and girls, some running after the ball, others standing around or wandering like our son. Occasionally someone kicks the ball towards a goal. I think each team has scored once, though they don’t post the score, so it’s easy to lose track.

Suddenly this kid sweeps towards our team’s goal from the far side of the court. He’s one of the larger kids: not fat, but solidly built; his dark hair is trimmed close on the sides and sticks up bushily on top. In one gilding pass he sinks a goal and arcs away from it, towards his side of the court, back towards the bleachers where we sit. Now that he’s facing us I can see the look on his face: he’s mouthing a primal scream of victory worthy of professional sports. Wearing that look, his haircut becomes defiant instead of bushy and he seems at least three years older than his teammates. This kid is cool.

I laugh and turn to look at my husband.

“Did you see that look?” I ask.

He nods, grinning. He shakes his head and says, “That’s the kind of killer instinct I wish our son had.”

I look back towards the game. After a moment he adds, “Do you know who had that look as a kid? Your brother.”

I laugh. “My brother was born with that look!” This may actually be true; they didn’t videotape deliveries in 1976, so we’ll never know for sure.

“I had that look.”

I’m skeptical. “You had that look at age 7?”

“I did.”

“My mother probably has ten pictures of my brother with that look. No, more than ten.”

He points at me. “You never had that look.”

He blames my genes for our son’s lack of sports interest and instinct. The year I played high school basketball, my entire team stood up and cheered on the single occasion I fought another girl for the ball. Standing 5’10” at age 14, I had only joined the team so that my dad would pay for ballet lessons. I had no interest, no killer instinct.

I shrug. He can blame me, but it’s got to be a recessive trait because my family is full of jocks and sports fanatics. When I was a year old my mother broke her leg in a highly competitive game of backyard volleyball. That would never happen to me, because having a one-year-old is a perfect excuse to sit any game out.

“I wonder if our three-year-old will have that look,” I say.

“He’d better! Otherwise this baby is our only hope.” He holds up the baby and smiles at him. “Yes! You would be our only hope. Are you going to have that look?”

I have a hard time imagining it. I think he’d better pin his hopes on the three-year-old.

Our third child, a boy, is due in April. My husband and I do not have a name picked out and likely won’t by the time he arrives. With our two older sons, we brought a list of possible names to the hospital and named each baby the day after he was born.

A couple of nights ago we had a long (and initially productive) baby-name discussion. This is how it ended:

I said, “I still like Grayson. Or maybe just Gray. Something like—“

“Something Batman-esque?” He asked.

“No, I didn’t think of that, but there’s your comic-book connection.”

“Something that says, ‘My parents were doomed acrobats?’”

“Shut up! Are you going to let me say—“

“Something that says, ‘boy ward?’”

“SHUT UP! What I’m trying to say is, ‘Something like Grace, but for a boy.’”

“Something that indicates a possibly inappropriate relationship with my legal guardian and benefactor?”

I ignored that, but was suddenly struck by his earlier comment: “’My parents were doomed acrobats!’ God, you’re a dork!” Then I laughed for about five minutes straight.

Somewhere in there, he said, “Nice delayed reaction.” I laughed so hard I had to pee.

When I came out of the bathroom, he said, “I’ll let you name the kid Grayson if his middle name can be Nightwing.”

“No.”

I’m seven months pregnant and digging deeper into the storage bin of maternity clothes each week. Today I pulled out “the $12 pants” and thought of this story, written about a week before my second child was born (originally posted on my MySpace blog).

Monday, April 16, 2007

My mass and/or girth reached some sort of critical point on Friday and suddenly I could not pull on my maternity pants.  Fearing this might happen, I had purchased a pair of larger pants from the JC Penny catalog earlier in the week.  I wore them on Friday and Saturday.  Happily, they allowed blood flow to my legs while seated (a nice change).  Unhappily, they were huge, off-white and ugly.  I needed to go shopping.

I live a few miles from the shopping Mecca of East Pierce County.  This street has everything, including a sex toy shop, but for some baffling reason does not have a maternity clothing store.  I haven’t been able to find a metaphysical store either, although a co-worker says she saw one near the Best Buy.  I’m not sure she knows the difference between a metaphysical shop (where one can buy candles and tarot cards) and a head shop (where one can buy Grateful Dead stickers and things “to put your weed in, man”).  To be fair, they both sell incense and bumper stickers railing against the President.  But I digress.

Last night I traveled to the Motherhood Maternity outlet in the SuperMall.  I told the young clerk who greeted me (I later learned she was the new store manager) that I had about three weeks left (wishful thinking), had outgrown all my pants, and needed the cheapest pants and/or skirts they had.  “Cheap” is what Motherhood Maternity does best and I was at their outlet store, for Pete’s sake, but apparently my choice of words offended her.  She wrinkled her nose and said, “If it’s cheap you want, I can’t help you.  Try the clearance and “as-is” racks over there.  See what you can find.”  She waved her hand at the corner of the store and left me alone.

Luckily another clerk, a tough-looking older woman, had overheard us and wanted to help.  “What size are you, Dear?” she asked.

“Lar . . . um, extra large, now.  I had a thigh explosion,” I over-explained.

There was a beat where neither of us spoke and I almost saw the words, “The baby’s not in your thighs, Dear,” flit across her face, but she just shrugged and said, “That happens.”

She helped me find a $5 skirt and two pair of pants ($12 and $13 each).  She also suggested some other items –ah, upselling, I know you well—and in the end I left happy if a little poorer than planned.  I’m wearing the $12 pants now.  It’s so nice to have blood in my legs without feeling like a complete fashion catastrophe.

I’m pregnant and right now I’m also sick, so I nap a lot. This afternoon I dreamt that I had to collect everyone’s retirement incentive responses via Facebook.

The first problem with this is that I deleted my Facebook account several months ago, because I hate it. I have enough trouble keeping up with my real social obligations without feeling guilty for not tending other people’s virtual gardens or sending them enough clever bumper stickers.

The second problem with this is . . . NOOOO, DON’T MAKE ME WORK THROUGH FACEBOOK!!! . . . . Ahem.

Anyway, I woke up amused by the idea of creating a “Human Resources” Facebook account with spying eyes as the avatar and then sending friend requests to all of the employees at my organization, just to see what they would do. Mwha ha ha! Catbert hits Web 2.0.

Ahhh, I’ll save that one for the “someday” list. It has possibilities.

In the car on the way to work this morning, while I was freaking out my lifelong tendency to take on too much (there are new, shiny things I’d like to do), I said, “. . . and I’ll never accomplish anything and we’ll die in abject poverty and shame.”

Smoothly and without blinking, my husband said, “Technically it won’t be abject poverty. We are above the poverty line.”

That’s my guy.

Yesterday I dusted off the Footloose soundtrack. After an ‘80s flashback afternoon, I drove home from work with “Let’s Hear it for the Boy” cranked up and on repeat.

The summer I was 11 years old I made up a cheerleading/dance routine to that song on my Dad’s front lawn. I put my older sister’s stereo speakers on the windowsill facing outwards and blasted Denise Williams over and over. (The neighbors recall that summer fondly, I’m sure.)

I’ve always known the lyrics, but yesterday I listened to them with an adult’s perspective. When I was 11 I didn’t really get that the song was about a guy who’s so talented in the bedroom nothing else matters. Lyrics like:
“. . . what he does he does so well
makes me wanna yell
let’s hear it for the boy
let’s give the boy a hand . . .”
take my mind to a different place at 36 than they did at 11.

Realizing this, I suddenly thought of “Annie,” my high school boyfriend’s mother. Her son and I never had sex, though that was due to our mutual fear of the Lord’s wrath, not a lack of hormones or desire. To us Annie seemed unnecessarily concerned with sex: overly cautious, prudish, even paranoid.

One day as my boyfriend was listening to Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough,” Annie turned to him and said, “It’s about SEX, isn’t it?!” When he told me this later, we both shook our heads and laughed. If she wanted to hear a Depeche song about sex, we could think of several more obvious selections. Silly woman. The song was about the rush of new love; how you think about a person all the time and can’t get enough of them. We knew about that from recent firsthand experience. (Silly, virginal teenagers.)

Nineteen years later, I can suddenly see where Annie was coming from. I feel as though a tiny crack has opened in the curtains that shielded her world view from me. Prude or not, as the mother of seven she was clearly a sexually-active adult. She knew what she was talking about and she had only her 17-year-old son’s word that her worries were unnecessary.

The Lord’s wrath doesn’t come up much in my household now. When my oldest son is 17, if he has a steady girlfriend they will likely be having sex. Thankfully I have a few more years before that thought starts keeping me up at night. But very soon I’ll probably object to one of his musical selections and I won’t be able to explain why. Silly parent.