Too Big for My Britches

I just missed the cut-off for Generation X. I guess that makes me a "Millennial", which is unfortunate because I feel like everyone hates millennials right now. Dubbed "Generation Me", it seems narcissism flows in my veins along with glitter and also frequently, copious amounts of sub-par vodka.

Listen, it isn't easy, okay? In fact, it's really hard. I make almost no money, and simultaneously work insane hours to try to get to the next rung on a ladder I will most likely be climbing all my life.

People love to complain about Gen Y. We're so into ourselves it hurts. We self-medicate, are always the victim, and constantly have our hands out for more. You can't really blame it all on us, our parents told us we were awesome and stroked our hair in adoration. They told us to go to college, to get a degree, and to never settle because we were the generation that started to get the trophy just for participation. You know, I kind of vaguely remember when everyone started to get an award of some kind. It only made me scramble for a blue ribbon that much more voraciously. I was probably 8, but damnit, I was always going to win.

The hit HBO show, GIRLS, highlights a LOT about my peers and I that makes most balk in disgust. Seen through the eyes of Hannah, Marnie, Jessa, and Shoshanna, 20-something females transform from hapless and hopelessly confused to flat-out monster right before your eyes. Everyone loves to harp on creator Lena Dunham, but really, I think she's telling an important story. And to every 25-year old critic who says "I'm not like that at all" - congratulations, you're a liar.

It's kind of exhausting to be a young person trying to find your place in the world - especially when you've realized you're one rat race away from Revolutionary Road (um, the book, not the movie). The only thing I have too much of are aspirations, and they're really not getting me anywhere further than working until 10pm on my couch every night. Full of ideas, possibly full of promise, but I just might work myself to death before I reach 27. There's something very dichotomous about being a 20-something in the work place. On one hand, I understand my place within the food chain. I need to put in my hours, play it safe, and do my best to stay in line while meeting and exceeding both deadlines and expectations. On the other, I need to get as ahead as I can as quickly as possible, I can sleep when I'm dead. I juggle thinking I'm not good enough, and being confused about how to handle surrounding mediocrity. I waffle between thinking I'm a farce and a total boss ass bitch. Every day is a new day. I can't decide if I'm insane or need to sleep more.

I've always been the kind of person who is ready for the next thing before the current thing is even over. I immediately consume everything and excitedly look to what follows. I don't understand the term "rest on your laurels". I think I have a lot of laurels, but what good does rest do? Right now I tell myself, someday I will have a yacht. Or at least a sail boat with some kind of sleeping quarters. Definitely a second home. Maybe one in Santa Fe, a villa somewhere in Europe, and obviously a beach house - location TBD. Do I own a first home? Nope. But I will one day enjoy a two-story closet.

Have I made myself sound awful yet? I don't care. I have never been one to be shy about what I do and don't want. Life is too short - YOLO, if you will. Somewhere along the insane roller-coaster that has been my life post-college, I realized I possessed an unflinching need to actually care about what I do to earn my private jet (thankfully, recently confirmed by The Guardian). Sadly, the career I live, breathe, and love means that my financial dreams will stay very very far off into the unforeseeable future..

Actually, I'm lying. I can see it ALL very clearly (exotic vacations, expensive linen pants, $300 face cream), but no, I don't think it's helping any of it get here any faster. For now, I will keep dreaming. Keep working too hard at what I love. Day by day, I will get to whatever is next. It's probably not a seafaring vessel anytime soon, but it could be a house of my own. Some day, all of it will pay off, or I will die - and my version of heaven is definitely full of silk pajamas, cruelty free spotted furs, and great skin care.

Female Viagra, A Challenge Indeed

To my 4 regular readers, if you are not yet aware, welcome to Blog Challenge 2014 with my ladies for life, Stephanie, and Sarah. Together, we set out on a journey to complete a blog challenge that no person has ever quite done before. Each Monday, we use a random number generator to select two topics from a pre-determined list. In the week that follows, we must produce a blog post on either topic (or sometimes, when appropriate, both).

This all being said, last Monday, we were very fatefully (and comically) awarded the topics "Learn Something New" and "Female Viagra". If you are in the category with approximately 94% of America, you would also be "learning something new" whilst learning about female viagra. So, dear readers, what to do?

Let's dive right in.

While there are about 24 medications for male sexual issues, there are a big fat ZERO approved for women. The long, American road for this little pill with big promises has included various trial and error approaches. Some initial stabs at female sexual arousal medications have focused on things like:

• increasing blood-flow to female genitals (aka, the schmaschmina - a word people are still afraid to say..)
• hormones, including but not limited to testosterone (yuck, doesn't that make people grow fur?)
• via brain chemistry, boosting dopamine levels 

The FDA appears to remain hesitant on various female viagra options due to lack of substantial or overwhelming findings within the drug trials. One recent drug trial for flibanserin from Sprout Pharmaceuticals with particularly underwhelming results showed only "1.7 more satisfying sexual experiences per month than women taking placebo". Never fear ladies, Sprout is exceptionally committed to helping you cream up real nice (shoutout to the most under-celebrated Breaking Bad quote of all time). An article published less than a week ago shows Sprout is re-submitting. But don't drop your panties just yet, many articles about the drug's progress have mentioned how hard it is to pinpoint exactly what factors contribute to a woman's low sex drive. Regular contributors to decreased "appetite" include these common life occurrences:

• Lack of Sleep
• Stress
• Lack of Trust in Partner
• Infertility Issues
• Or Lack of Infertility Issues (i.e., New Moms)
• Thyroid Problems
• Medication Side Affects
• Insecurity/Self-Esteem Issues
• Lack of Exercise
• Inability to Communicate (if you're not feelin' it, ya gotta say so)

Is anyone with a vagina surprised that the ongoing hold up stems from the inability to adequately understand female sexual desire? In short, female sexual motivation is not simple or consistent. Still not satisfied? (Pun SO intended) If you're up for reading a first hand account on female viagra from a fellow female across the pond (seriously, read it, I'm snorting into my keyboard) check this out.

It's a little funny that in 2014, our society is still struggling (like, man-bear grappling) with female sexuality SO hard that our biggest consensus on a woman's sex drive is "it's complicated". No apologies necessary for being a human being with complex thoughts, feelings, or emotions. But seriously, don't apologize.

Ladies, we're complicated. Said every man ever. To date, there are still no approved medications to treat female sexual arousal issues - outside of various types of wine, (or liquor), The Bachelor, Ryan Gosling, and Ghost. Maybe there never will be. You keep doin' you - get to know yourself, ask for what you need, and try not to be shy about it.

Until next week,

So What

"It was in that moment of not pretending, and choosing acceptance that I found hope once again".

-Gail O'Keefe (yes, not Georgia, though I'm not sure who Gail is..?)

This week's blog challenge is a challenge indeed... we drew "Random Acts of Kindness" and "Get Over It", which more specifically means, to write about a time when you simply had to get over something. Since I am seldom random, and hardly kind (mostly joking with the latter) I feel the need to write about the acceptance of something I wasn't initially so keen on.

Growing up as an athlete is something I must have taken for granted. As far back as I can remember I have loved soccer, and from almost as far back, I wanted to be the next Mia Hamm (it must have been the 1996 Olympics). I began playing soccer at 5 (which was probably, 1995) and loved it. I had a great coach, a great team, it was so much fun. For one glorious year, I enjoyed soccer for what it was, an hour out in the grass, a steady supply of capri suns, and running around with friends. In '96, it all changed.

The US Women's Olympic team in Atlanta that year was unstoppable, with the much-celebrated Mia Hamm at the helm. Watching them must have given me some new sense of purpose, a new life goal. Forget the hopeful doctors, lawyers, and marine biologists - I was going to play college soccer, and be on the US Women's Olympic team. Obviously, these are pretty lofty goals for a 6 year old. Luckily, I had the most supportive (perhaps sometimes, over supportive) parents a girl with said dream could have. They enrolled me in regular skills sessions with former pros, and gave me every possible opportunity to excel and get one step closer. When I turned 10, it was finally time to try out for a club team. These teams had non-stop schedules, played regular season games, traveled to out of town tournaments, had multiple weekly practices, conditioning, and skills. Growing up in metropolitan north Texas (one of the national hubs for competitive or club soccer) meant there was no shortage of club teams, so while I had options of where to play, so too the coaches had options of who to sign (yes, as a 10 year old, you would "sign" to a club team for one calendar year). I chose the American Eagles, a club based right in Colleyville. That first year, I made the B team. I was devastated. The A team's coach told me my weakness was conditioning, I had the rest of the package, but tired too easily and needed to work on my stamina. At 11 years old, I began to run cones in my front yard, at the park, wherever I could. I would run myself until I threw up. I did push ups, sit ups, and sprints, on my own, almost daily, in addition to the team's regular practice schedule.

After one year on the B team, I was moved up. I now had to earn my starting spot on this team. New challenges and new struggles arose, but I never faltered. As I got older and older, continuing to play, I never lost sight of the dreams I'd had as a 5 year old. I'm sure this story could be a novel, and not an incredibly interesting one, so in summary, I continued the ascent to better and better teams. We all know little girls can be mean, so I developed a thick skin in an extremely competitive world. I was with the team so often that when I got into middle school and high school, I had no time for dating, or getting into drugs and alcohol. I worked out so much that I could eat bacon cheeseburgers and fettucine alfredo to my heart's content. I made Varsity as a freshman with two other girls, and became a starter on a club team that was nationally ranked. Soon enough, I was 16, and unofficial college letters started to come in.

Here's where things get fuzzy. As a child, things are black and white. You know what you do and don't want, and the future is so far off you can do anything. At 16, I had hard times with the sport both emotionally and physically and suffered severe, long-term damages from both. Girls in the high school program with me who had been like sisters turned on me, made my life feel like a personal hell, even vandalized my car. My mom loved to tell me when people were mean to me that they were just jealous. I don't think I fully bought into that, but maybe she was right. 16 years old, with a million college doors open to me academically, not only athletically, and with so much potential. My parents were always 110% behind me, I am lucky to have had such a strong foundation to continue to rely on. Growing older only cements this even further.

16 is hard for a lot of kids, for most kids. Outside of soccer, 2 of my classmates, one a friend, committed suicide. Friends began to have sex and I had never even kissed a boy. People brought drugs into the locker room. The place that had kept me safe from the normal adolescent struggles suddenly became a catalyst for it. I definitely grew up a LOT slower than my peers. I would say that's continued to be to my benefit. So many pressures exist in the regular world for a teenager, that when I tore cartilage in my rib cage and was out for the entirety of recruiting season, I was readily waving the white flag. I was told I could play through the pain, but that it would be constant, unrelenting, and I would never fully heal. The thing I had worked so hard for my whole life became impossible to stomach. I quit.

Quitting was both the easiest and the hardest decision to make. I loved the game, but so many external factors were keeping me from it. I felt like I couldn't take another minute in that high school locker room, with those girls. The pain in my side from my rib cage was constant. I needed to escape fully and at once. When I think back on it, I can't believe I put up with so much.

Day by day, with new choices, and new faces, and the help of one phenomenal teacher and coach, I made new goals for myself. I chose a college based on what I wanted to do with my life. I don't think I ever thought too hard about what I would do after the Olympics. Sadly, there is still not a place for a professional women's soccer league. Reality will knock everyone on their ass eventually, I know I'm lucky to count this as one of my hardest life adjustments. I'm Alissa, I'm 25, and I will never play in the Olympics. I mean, seriously? Duh.

Through what felt like the hardest thing, I learned to value myself for every other reason. I found new ways to measure growth and success, new things to make me happy, and learned how to say goodbye to the things that begin to hurt more than they help. I surround myself with people I love, who let me say how I feel, and I'm focused on what I want, and how to get it. Life is short, & all that. YOLO bitches.

“Sometimes people let the same problem make them miserable for years when they could just say, So what. That's one of my favorite things to say. So what.” 

- Andy Warhol

A happy glance back… Note, none of these girls vandalized my car.

Conspiracy Theory: 2014 or 1814?

In the Archaic Period from 8,000 BCE to 800 CE, women brought home the bacon.

In the 1500s, women freely initiated divorce in Native American farming societies. A bit later, the matter would be settled by simply placing all of the husband's belongings just outside of the teepee.

In the 1700s, Native American women were the deciders of whether or not their people would go to war, or stay at peace.

In 1767, hispanic women living in South Texas received land grants.

In 1814, while the men were off at war (Mexico had declared it's independence from Spain in 1810), the wife of the governor of Texas ran the state affairs in his absence.

In 1843, mother of 20 (yes, 20) Mary Levy buys land in her own name in Houston.

In 1848, the first women's rights convention is held in Seneca, New York.

** Above courtesy of http://www.womenintexashistory.org/timeline/ 

A brief summary of how women finally earned the vote in Texas shows a documented struggle lasting from 1868 to 1919. At the time, a woman's right to simply cast her opinion on civic matters was a huge step forward. In 2014, our fish to fry include things like voter ID laws, the glass ceiling, and the right to be the authority on what happens to and within our own bodies.

Frivolous, right? Why should we concern our pretty little heads with such complicated matters? Is it truly the year 2014, or are we forever doomed to repeat the ideals of 1814?

You may be wondering what I'm doing. You may have figured it out. You may have realized I don't actually think it's possible that we still live in 1814, although sometimes I have to wonder very hard. In an effort to help myself to a more complete understanding, I've been combing through a bit of history. Which moments in time helped solidify the ass-backwards way of living that puts me second to any male counterpart; that lets people value and devalue me based on my decisions to keep my legs crossed, to take certain medications, and to procreate?

I refuse to be defined by my choices that do or do not concern marriage or motherhood. The fact that pieces like this NY Post article on Wendy Davis still exist show me that this problem does not solely lie in Texas. That's right Naomi Schaeffer Riley, I'm calling you out. Quite honestly, I'm mad as hell.

Naomi suggests that Wendy Davis has absolutely no future in politics, regardless of political affiliation, simply because she chose to go to HARVARD law school and leave her two children with their father.

There are so many things wrong with this, I am dizzy with rage at where to begin.

What if men were held equally accountable in REALITY, and not just biology? What if we called every man who got married, had children, and went to better themselves a horrible human being - BOTH personally and professionally?

To determine that someone is fit or unfit to do a JOB because of their choices as a mother is not only sexist, ludicrous, and asinine, it's also deeply offensive. I honestly can't believe that in 2014 I am still subjected to trying to stomach this bullshit.

I am more than a ring finger and much more than a womb. When or if I decide to have children, they will never question their mother's ability to do absolutely anything their father does. They will never measure me by my ability to get home and cook the perfect chicken. They will never be scarred by the lack of matching socks, or the layer of dust on top of the refrigerator. And they will never think, for a second, that any of those things are my sole responsibility just because I have a vagina. They will know better. And so should you.

In conclusion, shrug this off. Forget you read it. Chalk it up to hormones. Call me a bitch, squirm at my vitriol, and utter a silent prayer chaining me to a stove somewhere with a baby (or seven) on my hip.

Bless your confused little heart, your ignorance is your cross to bear, not mine.