Consider the female gonad. When you rip open a new wound on yourself every month for decades on end, ready and waiting each time to overtake an entire body, orchestrating the coordinated and prolonged creation and delivery of an entirely new and unique sentient being, which the body then must sustain for months longer with only its own nutritional synthetic power, how is it that you are still not crowned the queen of all organs of strength, capacity, and resilience?
“Balls out”, we say, when we hold up boldness and assertiveness–but only when referring to men. Do we only see it when men are heroic and daring? What about when women take dauntless risks, so often on behalf of others? How do we express our admiration for this? BOOBS OUT, I say, when I want to validate a woman’s right to assert her power, agency, and independence, out loud and in front. But it doesn’t do the conviction justice. “OVARIOS,” my friend suggested, when it came up in conversation years ago. Hell yes. I’m still waiting for this to catch on.
Of course strength, courage, and resilience are not always manifest by taking impulsive public action in the face of immediate threats to survival, ego, or status. For how many generations have women held collective humanity up, well after birthing it, serving as tireless caregivers, counselors, mediators, peacemakers, scapegoats, punching bags, breadwinners, and confidants? What countless family and professional units would outright unravel and disintegrate, and then the fabric of society follow, if not for the ovarios deep in the weave?
I write this post not to devalue men or their contribution to society. Their role and relevance are unquestioned.
But please, friends, let us elevate and amplify our praise of women, yes? It is well past time, and there is plenty of room to share on the pedestal.
For a heartfelt rendering of women’s strong, stoic resilience, check out my colleague’s post on her Smiling Grandma.
What are your favorite words or phrases, in any language?
Daughter taught me Kummerspeck recently–literally grief bacon. It’s the German compound noun for the weight one gains from emotional eating.
How awesome is that?
I posted the word on Facebook the other day, and a loving friend of German descent commented, “I hope you are reveling in the bizarre household-nature of German compound words, and not suffering from Kummerspeck.” I replied that I have indeed experienced Kummerspeck before (possibly also now, not sure), and that “I *love* German precisely because by having words for such mundane and yet significant experiences, the language, and thus the culture, validate them and make us feel not alone for having them.”
In med school we learned Mittelschmerz–middle pain–the pain women feel from ovulation, which happens 14 days prior to menstruation (the middle of a typical 28 day cycle). Now I also love Drachenfutter–dragon fodder–‘apology gift (given to a spouse)’. And everybody knows Schadenfreude–joy in others’ misery; but I like Freudenfreude–joy in others’ joy.
In Chinese I particularly love shang nao jin, 傷腦筋, which literally means to wound (shang) the mind (nao jin–‘brain nerve’). It’s used to express when one is exhaustingly vexed by a problem. Similarly, when we say someone is dong nao jin, 動腦筋, moving the mind, we mean they are actively, even agilely, thinking. I also love shuai, 帥, which is usually translated simply as handsome. But the connotation encompasses more than just physical appearance. There is something attractive, masculine, strong, graceful, respectable, and maybe even alpha, all included in the one word, one syllable expression. Chinese language is extremely efficient.
Here are some British expressions I love, which really make me want to live there for a while someday:
Barmy, barking mad, and off your head — crazy
Fiddly — fussy, requiring an annoying amount of close attention
Faff — to make a fuss over nothing
Cheeky — amusingly irreverent (I also love irreverent itself–the word and the way of being)
Dodgy — dishonest, unreliable, potentially dangerous, low quality, or just ‘off’ in some way
Loo — the best word in the whole world for bathroom
Isn’t this fun?? Won’t it be fantastic if everybody writes about their favorite phrases in the comments below? C’mon, it’ll only take a minute!! 😀
As of today, I begin my 50th year. What. A. Ride!! All at once I feel pretty well-accomplished and also utterly mediocre… Married 25 years, practicing medicine 20, parenting almost 19, blogging 7. Such a thick tribe of friends, so many of whom showered me with love and attention today, OMG. So much to be grateful for, there simply are not enough words. So much love. …I might list the myriad self-diminishing comparisons here, but naah, I grow beyond such pointlessness in my advancing age.
The Book of Regrets. That was my original title for this post. Would it have grabbed more attention and views? It was an honest point of query after I listened recently to The Midnight Library by Matt Haig. Oh my gosh, HIGHLY recommend! In the liminal space between life and death, the main character gets to peruse her personal Book of Regrets, and sample various alternative realities wherein she made different seminal life choices. Each path shows her both favorable and adverse subsequent events and circumstances, an infinite set of possibilities, paradoxes, and outcomes. Perspective, my friends! I think we consistently underestimate its value, or at least neglect to practice it in too many encounters and endeavors. What lies ahead that I have control over and not, and that will forever send me down this path and not another? Which of the countless choices I might make, in any given moment, may close these doors and open those? I get giddy just thinking about it—the future is so bright, so full of infinite possibilities, and I get to live into it! OMG can’t wait can’t wait!
Then again, in these 49 years, my Book of Regrets can feel quite heavy. It appears sometimes out of nowhere, dropping like a sandbag on my chest—driving to work, in the shower, looking through old photos. Within seconds I’m haplessly pinned under guilt, shame, sorrow, and remorse, sinking in the quicksand of self-loathing and powerlessness, wishing with visceral aching that I could just go back and be a better me—a much better me—in those flash moments that I will never forget, that I may never shake. Ugh.
Paging through my book more thoughtfully, I realize that every regret is relational. It’s never about not studying enough, failing a test, not achieving some goal, missing some external benchmark of success. It’s never about coming up short in social comparison to others. It’s always about hurting someone’s feelings, diminishing their self-esteem, abuse of power, and offloading or projecting my own discomfort and judgments onto others, making them suffer because I cannot tolerate or manage my own issues. My regrets are all moral failings. Oh man, it feels so shitty, looking back, surveying the damage I did, the relational carnage. Wow.
*deep breath*
“What’s done is done.” Husband has said this since our earliest days together. I remember how freeing it felt—I still hear his voice, so clear and firm, in the living room of our first apartment, or was it a dorm room? I am, indeed, utterly powerless to change the past. Thankfully, shifting into agency over my present and future comes more easily every year of life and adversity lived. Regret is painful. And it’s inevitable. Learning is the best poultice for such self-inflicted wounds. And if I can figure a way to make amends, all the better. How could I have been a better self then, when I’m always bettering myself now? Grace and forgiveness, I know more deeply and profoundly, may be the greatest gifts we offer one another, including ourselves. My most sincere thanks to all who have granted these to me.
Peace and equanimity, generosity and humility, joy and love, curiosity and learning, connection and solidarity. That’s a good, strong list of healthy aspirations, ya?
It’s been a pretty awesome 49 years. I have received so much more than I have given. I shake my head in humble and astonished wonder. The good news is that these days, I write my Book of Regrets in shorter chapters and longer intervals.
Who knows how many more years I have? However long it is, may I compose my other Books—of Contribution and Connection, among others—with eloquence, gladness, and excellent grammar.
Healing Through Connection 