Skywalkers

I don’t usually delve too deeply into internet trends.  Funny pictures of cats, e-cards and memes—these things are good for a chuckle or a distraction when I’m suffering from writer's block.  But these pictures caught and held my attention.  It’s pretty hard not to be caught by it, to be honest.  I found myself searching for the safety equipment, for any sign of photoshopping, but found nada.  These are real, flesh-and-blood people who are hanging off of skyscrapers.

What kind of a trend is this?  Because I’ve done my research, and apparently it is a trend.  ABC News did a segment on it, which proves I’m not imagining things.  The trend began in Russia, where “skywalkers” like Vitaly Raskalov and Marat Dupri have made names for themselves climbing impossibly tall structures without safety gear of any kind.  At the top, they take pictures of the views and of themselves—naturally, right?  No one would believe them, otherwise.  Now if it were just these few people doing it, I would be impressed.  I would question their sanity a little, but I would be impressed. 

But there are hundreds of people doing this.  There are pictures of skywalkers and “roofers” all across the internet, each more daring that the last.  People doing handstands on exposed beams, people dangling from suspension bridges, all in their twenties or younger.  I look at all of this in blank astonishment, and my question is: why?  Who would want to do this?  What in this trend would be worth risking their lives?  It is so, so dangerous.  Check out the video above, if you haven’t already—it says plainly that one young man has died from this hobby.  His friend Marat, also a skywalker, says this tragedy stopped him from doing “something very risky.”  He still climbs, though, and to me, that's pretty damn risky.

I’m trying to restrain the immediate, mom-like impulse, which is utter horror.  I don’t want to be a stick in the mud, by any means.  In theory, I can come up with a few reasons people may want to do this, and most don't balance the risk, in my opinion.  If they do it for fame, then I pity them the lack of wisdom that counts the regard of others over their own self-regard.  If they do it for the thrill, then I pity them that they can’t find happiness in smaller things.  But if they do it for art—to capture the beauty and the danger of such a moment, to put their lives on the line to find something that no other human being can—well.  That I can admire, and even be grateful for.

I still am afraid for these people, and I regret the years they might lose, the years they don’t value enough to protect.  But after all, what makes humans amazing is their vast differences from one another.  Some will never take their eyes off the ground, not once in their entire lives.  Some will wish for the stars, but never do more that hope.  And some—some will steal stairways to heaven, will offer up their safety and sanity for a chance to taste it.  That vast spectrum between the former and the latter is what makes humanity all that it is.

Hello My Name Is

Being a server, I frequently see articles and posts online about the problems and irritations that servers encounter.  We’re human, and so we find things to complain about—commiseration is an international sport.  Recently, however, I came across a post that expressed the opposite side.  Now, I try to think of myself as a fair person.  I read through the post, and most of the points it brought up, I could agree with.  I personally try not to point people towards a certain menu item just because it’s the most expensive, nor am I pushy about selling people more than they want.  I don’t think I am, anyway.  And there are some things on the list I’ve been guilty of—stealing someone’s plate before they’re finished is one of them.  My bad.

But the very first point struck me as strange.  The writer listed the giving of the server’s name as a point of irritation.  In his words:

            Does anything induce more eye rolls at the table than this sort of chipper opening gambit?We’re going to be in each other's company for at most a few hours, and preferably about 30 minutes if the meal goes according to plan. This sort of feigned intimacy is just annoying, and always feels a little like a ploy to actually say, “Remember that I am a human being with a name and a family…so don’t stiff me on the tip, you dick!”

Huh.  I always thought it was polite to introduce oneself when you met someone.  Pushing past the pique, however, I have to admit that he brings up an interesting topic.  What is the relationship between a customer and a server?  Are we friends, or temporary master and servant?  What is the proper etiquette?  It’s an interesting interpersonal relationship that hasn’t really been explored, or at least I’ve never seen anyone take a good look at it.  And yet almost every day you’ll come across someone else in this role: a cashier, a server, a salesperson.  How should you treat them?

It seems everyone has a different idea, and I try to follow my customer’s lead.  Sometimes the table is chatty and interested in me—“Eileen, that’s a pretty name!  Did you know there’s an old song with your name in it?”  (The answer is yes.  Yes, I did know.)  Other tables simply smile, place their orders, and then go back to their conversations, and that’s fine.  I’m like that when I go to restaurants—I just don’t really enjoy talking to strangers.  It’s not personal. 

But when I’m working, I do take it personally when a customer cuts me off before I can give them my name.  Money has nothing to do with it in that moment.  The customers who don’t wait for my name are the ones who shout “excuse me!” or even “hey!”, usually when I’m busy with another table.  Or worse, snap their fingers at me.  They have relegated me to automaton status, and it’s rude, even hurtful.  The fact is I am a human being, and I like to be treated as one.

Even if I weren’t working for tips, I would give my name to you.  It doesn’t mean I want to be your best friend.  I understand that I will probably never know your name, and I might never see you again.  I will spend maybe ten minutes of your hour-long meal in your company.  But for that entire hour, I will be fetching things for you, checking to make sure your food is the way you wanted it, arguing with the bartender for you, and keeping an eye out so your drink doesn’t run dry.  In that hour, I am working for you, and I take pride in my work.  If that doesn’t deserve twenty percent, it certainly deserves some consideration.

Photo from http://paleoperiodical.com/2011/09/22/how-not-to-conduct-yourself-at-a-restaurant/

Her Morning Terror

Do something for me.  Go to Google (or your preferred search engine) and type in "looking in the mirror".  Hit images and take a good look.  How many of the images that come up are women?  Of those images, how many of those women are smiling?  Not that many, right?  Look into the eyes of those women who are not smiling.  What do you see there?  Uncertainty, disappointment, nervousness, resignation?  I would argue that it is fear.

There is fear in every woman.

You have to really look to see it.  It looks like vanity in some, or even pleasure, when they pause to glance at themselves in a mirror or a window.  Sometimes it's simple busyness when a woman is preparing for her day.  But I see it, when my friends pluck at their clothes and sigh, or when they cringe at photos of themselves posted online and hurry to disconnect their names from their faces.  I see it sometimes in my own mirror, in the moment when I realize the reflection isn’t going to get any better.

The world makes us afraid of ourselves.  It makes us afraid of the way people will look at us, the judgments that they will make.  It makes us afraid to eat that scrumptious-looking hamburger, afraid of the little pudges that form at our sides or in our belly.  It makes us hide behind thick makeup, uncomfortable shoes, sticky hairspray and heavy earrings.  I remember several occasions where I was drawn to some brightly colored shirt or dress in a store.  I would pick it up, hold it up to myself, dream of myself wearing it, indulge myself in that brief happiness—and then I would put it back.  “I’ll never be brave enough to wear that in public.”

I have it better than some women.  I know that.  Having heard friends talk about their strict diets and moan about their figures, I know I have a better self-image than they.  But even I struggle with myself in the mornings when I’m preparing to step out.  Now if I venture out of the house with loose hair, no makeup, wearing jeans or a T-shirt, or any combination thereof, I do so in a faint haze of fear.  “Who’s looking at me?” I wonder.  “Someone is.  I know someone’s thinking that I look like a slob.  Look at that poor girl, they’re thinking, she doesn’t know anything about fashion.  She’s so ugly.”  And I put those thoughts into other’s mouths because I’ve thought the same thing about other women.  I’m just as much prosecutor as defendant.

I’m sure this happens to men too.  I remember when, growing up, I would walk out of my bedroom into a cloud of cologne issuing from my brother’s room; back then he paid more attention to his wardrobe than I did.  Everyone, male and female, suffers the scrutiny of others.  But when there is an entire industry—really, multiple industries—telling you what you should be and are not, it increases the pressure exponentially.  I won’t even get into the fact that “plus-size” models always look exquisite to me, whereas supermodels look like some strange cross between teenage boys and aliens. 

It hurts me to think that the weight of those stares in some way diminishes what we are.  It hurts me to think that we sometimes look at ourselves in the mirror and feel that tiny despair of not being good enough.  I wish there were a way my sisters, my mother, my friends, and someday, my daughters, could walk out into the world and not care what others think, not even the smallest bit.  I wish we could wear our hearts on our sleeves, certain of coming home in the evening with them undamaged.