jamelah.net

Voting is now closed. Since it ended with two votes for each topic, I decided that I would combine them all into one ultra-mega-super post, because if anybody can do it, it’s me, thankyouverymuch. You have spoken, and I have kind of paid attention, so, without further ado, let us go forth and conquer.

Over the course of my existence, I have been in several airports. This is a side-effect of being somewhat more well-traveled than average, yet not as well-traveled as I would like to be. I have had acceptable experiences in some airports, especially the smaller ones, like Kalamazoo and Lansing. Some airports inspire nothing but ambivalence — Frankfurt, Hamburg, Paris, Venice, Tulsa, DC Reagan. And then there are the ones I hate with the fire of a thousand burning suns. They are, in no particular order of hatred, as follows: New York La Guardia, Detroit Metro, Chicago O’Hare, Atlanta Hartsfield, Philadelphia, St. Louis, Krakow.

St. Louis and Krakow are the only two I’ve hated since the time before racial profiling, which currently makes the experience of being an Arab and trying to get on an airplane a singularly pleasant experience. I don’t really have a good reason to hate the St. Louis airport, other than the fact that I’ve had to spend two long layovers there, and that’s reason enough. I hate the Krakow airport because, well, when I arrived there, my luggage was lost. And when I was leaving from there, the plane was broken, so I had to wait there for 10 hours while they shipped in a part from Warsaw, and you know, that’s really not something you want to have happen before you have to embark on the torture of a trans-Atlantic flight. I’d flown out of Detroit Metro a few times during this period, but I didn’t hate it until I left from there to go to New York in August 2002, and my hatred has only escalated since that time. Metro is big, it’s annoying, and the security people all act like they’ve never seen an Arab before, but seriously. It’s Detroit. I’ve had people threaten to confiscate my tweezers, comment loudly on the fact that I was carrying tampons, yell at me because I put my hand down on the table for balance while removing my shoes so I could have them (as well as my person and carry on bag) swiped for explosives. The event that forever secured my hatred of Metro was the time I was flying to DC and my bag was searched. Three times. Completely unpacked. I was left standing, waiting, trying not to appear agitated (so they wouldn’t think I was a terrorist) while all of the idiots huddled around my CD case discussing the number of Radiohead CDs I was carrying with me. Bastards. And then I had to re-pack my stuff in a completely haphazard and upsetting way and run across the ridiculously huge terminal so that I could arrive at the gate all frazzled and insane just as the plane was boarding. I. Hate. Detroit. Metro.

I hate O’Hare because the customs officer refused to believe I wasn’t smuggling something into the United States, Atlanta because it’s huge and illogical and my cab driver was a lying bastard and they searched my bag (I have a default hatred for those places where I get searched) and they tried to bump me from my flight and I had to get in a fight with the evil Northwest people who I also hate, and La Guardia because I got screamed at (in Spanish!) by this insane woman in the bathroom, and getting screamed at by insane women in bathrooms seems to be a New York theme for me, but the other screamed-at-by-insane-woman-in-bathroom story involves Penn Station and I just can’t get into that now because it is not an airport.

I’ve saved Philadelphia for last because I’m going to use it to segue into my next topic — the underwire bra. See, really, I’m pretty used to having my stuff searched by security personnel, because I apparently look like a terrorist and from the x-ray thing, it’s impossible to tell that my blow dryer isn’t actually a weapon of mass destruction. I get it. It’s annoying and a complete waste of time, but I get it. However, when I was leaving Philly (after visiting Sarah), I had a new experience. My bra hooks set off the metal detector. What’s that? Yes. You read correctly. My bra hooks set off the metal detector. Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like being felt up and then told to lift your shirt in front of everyone who happened to be going through security at the time so they could be sure I wasn’t wearing a bra hook bomb. Because really, there’s nothing that even remotely compares to the experience. “Ma’am, can I have you lift your shirt?” What the hell is this, Mardi Gras? At least I wasn’t wearing one that closed in the front.

I didn’t say that it was going to be a smooth segue, or anything, so. Underwire bras. I am greatly appreciative of the underwire, because how could I not be? The underwire is unparalleled in its ability to lift and support the girls, and I am grateful. The girls are too. They told me. Because yes, sometimes I do talk to them, but I might as well, because, um, they’re there. And sometimes I have things to say and nobody else to talk to, but it’s not really as insane as it sounds, I swear.

Anyway.

Even though I (and the girls) appreciate the underwire for its lift-and-support capability, I have to say that it’s really little more than a medieval torture device, covered in lace. And any woman who says she doesn’t know what I’m talking about is either a dirty liar or completely flat-chested, so here’s the thing. The bras, they stab. Oh, how they stab. Sometimes they even try to perform mastectomies, which is, to put it delicately, unpleasant. This has nothing to do with the way the bra fits, because I am completely capable of buying a bra in the correct size. No, see, at first, things are fine. Everything’s copacetic and everyone’s happy. But then, then, things start to go awry after wearing the bra for awhile, and it doesn’t matter if the bra is on the A team or the B team. (The A team consists of items worn on special occasions, and the B team is the… stuff that’s made out of cotton.)

So, yeah. Awry. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold, and I bet Yeats never thought that would ever be used in a blog post about underwire bras. But actually, it’s not the center that’s the problem. The problem is the side. And it begins with a slight sharp stab. You know. The Oh My Bra Is Stabbing Me stab. This can be fixed temporarily by The Bra Wire Fidget, which is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a fidget. With a bra wire. Trying to reposition it so that it’s not stabbing anymore. But the problem with The Bra Wire Fidget is that it doesn’t last and must be repeated, um, repeatedly. Doing this gets irritating after awhile, and it becomes necessary to move things to the next level. What is the next level? The Tuck, that’s what. The Tuck is also exactly what it sounds like, because it involves tucking a little bit of fabric from the shirt in between the stabbing stabby wire and the skin. This is unsatisfactory for several reasons, namely, tucking one’s shirt into one’s bra looks ridiculous, and there is always (repeat: ALWAYS) someone who happens to be looking right at one at the exact moment one tucks one’s shirt into one’s bra. This is a rule of The Tuck. Of course, The Tuck is also a temporary fix, because what kind of idiot goes around all day with her shirt tucked into her bra? Not my kind of idiot, that’s for sure. Yeah, The Tuck is only to be used for short periods of time, to momentarily alleviate the pain of the incessant stabbing before putting your chin back up and taking it like a woman. Do not abuse The Tuck, or you will be sorry.

So then anyway, it finally comes to the point where the only course of action left is to go into the bathroom and forcibly shove the wire back into place. This doesn’t work forever either, because the wire has a job, and that job is to stab in a horrid, evil way, typically while I am really busy at work and there are lots of people around. Because, seriously, when else would it possibly happen?

After enduring a day of this, one would think that the next logical step would be to throw the offending bra away, but it’s just that it always seems to happen to the really pretty ones, and sometimes underwear has sentimental value, and I’m just going to shut up about this now.

There you have it. My thoughts on the evils of the underwire.

Before I put this epic of a blog post out of its misery, I still have to write about how being obsessive-compulsive and chaotic and disorganized is an excellent way of dealing with life, but, to be honest, I’m sure that nobody is even still reading this by now, and I really should’ve broken this up into a few shorter posts, but whatever, because I’m here now, and did I mention that dude, I do not like this coconut syrup?

I thought so.

I was trying to think of a way to tie this to all that crap I wrote before, and I can’t. So, it’s like this. On the surface, I am a mess. My system of organization consists of putting things in piles, and whenever I need to find something, I rifle through the appropriate pile for a long time and then don’t see it, so I have to go through all the other piles, until I finally remember that yes, I had it right the first time, and rifle through that pile all over again. I do this with everything — clothes, books, papers. Shoes. CDs. My keys. My wallet. My hairbrush oh my God where’s my hairbrush I just saw it a second ago. Whatever. You get the idea. I’ve tried on several occasions to be organized and put things where they go, and I can usually pull it off for about a week before the piles start in again. (One day my therapist asked me what would happen if I ended up marrying a neat freak, and I said, “I’d feel really sorry for him.” I also feel sorry for my hypothetical future husband because I am the worst person in the WORLD to share sleeping space with because I don’t share very well and I tend to get violent, and I have testimonials. But that’s another story for another day.) I’m also scatterbrained and forgetful and I lose stuff a lot. I have problems with authority and refuse to do things, even if it would be good to do them, just because someone else suggested them. I abandon ideas, hobbies, projects and other things at random (but if there’s something I really want, I go after it with a single-minded stubbornness that borders on obsession). I like getting lost, I’m always slightly disheveled, and I always think I’m doing everything wrong.

That’s the surface, anyway. Underneath the surface, however, lurks someone who craves cleanliness and order. I like things the way I like them and I am very particular about this. I don’t like paper when it’s folded or crumpled or the edges are bent. There’s only one way for a CD to go into the CD case and that is the right way and all other ways are wrong. I like things to be in rows. I alphabetize stuff. I hang up my shirts in my closet (when I actually hang them up instead of putting them on the back of the chair, which is really bad and I know I need to stop it) first according to fabric, then according to style, and finally color and sleeve length. I’m very big on routines and don’t like it when my schedule is disrupted. Seriously. In the morning, I have to do everything according to an exact pattern or my whole day is off. I always put on my right shoe first. On top of this, I wash my hands more times a day than I can possibly count and I obsessively check expiration dates and smell food before I can eat it. I always put bleach in the dishwater. I am literally afraid of other people’s spit (which is why I don’t understand how I can think kissing is a lovely pastime, which I do); I can’t eat or drink after others, and I have to remind myself to stop wincing when I’m around people who get too close when they talk, because I always know they’re going to accidentally spit on me and I can’t handle it. And just thinking about it is literally making me gag right now.

In short, I’m crazy.

So, the reason why being this way is awesome is that my own personal sense of order is constantly offended by the chaos. And it’s great when you can piss yourself off on a regular basis. I’m always late, I do things at the last minute, I never put stuff where it belongs, and though I crave quiet, I do a lot of yelling. Being a series of contradictions and idiosyncracies is frequently frustrating, but it’s also a lot of fun, and I wouldn’t go about life any other way.

I can’t think of a good way to end all of this, so, um, yeah. The end.

Trackback URI | Comments RSS