Make getting dressed interesting

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Because this blog has never known any serious limits, I figured I might also dabble in a bit of informal fashion blogging. I mean, I get dressed everyday and it’s one of the things I enjoy doing (deciding what to wear, that is), so I thought I’d share a bit too. Who knows, maybe it inspires or maybe y’all hate my fashion sense. But in a sea of people wearing university sweatshirts and joggers, here is a little bit ofย  ______.

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It’s the little things

I take the bus almost everyday, and there is this one spot in town that is always under some stage of road construction. Week to week, cars are redirected this way and that in order to accommodate the work that is being done.

Today, I was bumping along on the bus, staring out the window as we together entered this construction area. A stoplight glowed about half of a block ahead of us, and a white van that was driving in front of the bus turned into what was once a turning lane. What that driver was unaware of was that the turning lane had since been designated as a new lane for oncoming traffic.

The light ahead turned green, and oncoming cars approached the van. It all happened in a matter of seconds. My bus driver, in the correct lane of traffic but still behind the white van, slammed on the horn in warning. The van reacted – swerving quickly back in front of the bus, and just barely missing a terrible collision with oncoming traffic.

A couple of seconds passed, and from the back of the bus, I saw my bus driver throw up a very casual peace sign in response to a thank-you wave from the white van.

I liked that.

Not a wave, not a nod – a peace sign.

“Deuces.”

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When someone saves a person’s life and then just casually throws up some deuces.

INFJ#2 “I’m not mad” and other topics on anger:

Perfect INFJ contradiction:

INFJ’s can’t STAND it when people don’t communicate their feelings of anger, especially if it is directed at them.

If you are angry, tell me WHY and then we can go from there! kPassive aggressive makes an INFJ’s skin crawl, and they’d rather be hurt by harsh, unplanned words (and deal with that temporary pain) rather than watch someone pout or pretend not to be mad when they clearly are. An INFJ pet peeve might be the good old passive aggressive pouty phrase: “I’m not mad!”

Remember, INFJ’s are acutely sensitive to the turmoil of other people — meaning that INFJ’s can both pick up on people’s unexpressed emotions as well as find their own mood altered by those emotions. This goes for a wide range of feelings, but especially negative ones. So, INFJ’s will want to resolve that anger that they sense in other people, especially if it directed at them, both to restore the peace in the relationship, and also to calm the inner alarms that are going off.

An INFJ will act according to each person who they are dealing with. If the person is stuck in denial of their anger and seems to somehow be enjoying dragging out the anger process, INFJ’s will try to spur gentle reminders of love and happiness, without being direct. They will do this until the person cracks a smile, which the INFJ totally catches, and the conflict reaches an unspoken resolution, free of anyone’s embarrassment. Phew, exhausting work, but the INFJ will wear themselves out to get it right. (If it goes too far though, the INFJ will essentially wipe their hands clean and let the person mope if they want to. INFJ ain’t about to grovel.)

If the INFJ knows that the person just wants to scream at them but personally needs some kind of trigger or permission in order to do so, the INFJ will purposefully trigger the other person. This may either happen in some planned way, or the INFJ will simply say something along the lines of, “Please just talk to me. I know I messed up, tell me how. I won’t be mad, I just want to listen.”

(It should be noted that this is the preferred way. However, it will be hard for the INFJ to embrace the criticism. They will keep their promise, though! They won’t get mad – at least not in a way visible to the outside world.) Which leads to the contradiction…

When INFJ’s get mad at someone, they might do that exact thing: go quiet, maybe a bit of sulking, definitely withdrawn.

(Note: if the person messed up just a little, they’ll get just a tiny little taste of the silent treatment. This serves 2 purposes. First, it gives just the tiniest clue that the INFJ’s feelings are hurt without the INFJ having to say anything. A simple apology should do the trick. Second, the INFJ actually does need a little bit of time to personally recover in oooorder to get back out there and continue liking/loving the person. So if space is needed, give space. Hug later, aka after space. But if the person messed up big time, like with trust or something, omg good luck. INFJ is about to whoop your a**.)

They might even toss out the phrase that they hate so much to hear: “I’m not mad.” Partly, it’s to try to convince themselves, but it’s mostly because they need the other person to work their butt off to make amends. INFJ’s want a giant “I AM SO SORRY AND I STILL CARE” sign, but not a literal one. They want to feel that genuinely from the other person.

To fix this, the INFJ is going to need a lot of genuine apologizing and signs of deep care/love/affection. (I seriously emphasize both genuine and deep since the INFJ will call your b.s. instantly and you’ll be back to square one ASAP, or even negative one.)

Most of all, they will just need the constant assurance that you’ll never make that mistake again. Depending on how big the mistake was and/or how many times it has been made before, the INFJ may or may not take you back into their lives. But don’t worry, if the INFJ is still somehow communicating with you after a couple of days — passive aggressively or not — you are still completely and entirely in their “Keep” list. If the INFJ has stopped talking to you all together or has verbalized that they very seriously do not want to see you again, I’m really sorry, but you must have messed up in a major way. Best of luck, but most of all, never do it again.

I hope this is in some way validating/reassuring/explanatory to people out there.

As an INFJ myself, I know it’s something I wish more people would understand about me. MOST of all though, OVER EVERYTHING, we just want the love and cuddles and positive words of affirmation. We don’t like being mad! We don’t like it when other people are mad! We want everyone to be happy, which is probably more of a human thing than an INFJ thing. Haha okay, great plan then. Hugs all the way.

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all gifs from giphy.com

IUD!!! Omg what a journey.

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Yesterday was a pretty momentous day. So many firsts, where do I begin? Okay, well, it was the first time I had ever put my feet up on birthing stirrups (thank god I wasn’t giving birth). It was the first time I had THREE different people all together looking right up my cooch (thank god they were all docs, and also oops about the choice language). It was the first time I read comic strips taped on a ceiling (well, I really just looked at the pictures since I had zero mental capacity to read the words – we’ll get to that in a bit though). In summary, as the title suggests, this was the first time I had ever received an Intrauterine Device, aka IUD.

I want to give this 20 minute doctor appointment all of the glory that it deserves though, because this was not JUST an IUD insertion. It was also a simultaneous pelvic exam. That is because (brace yourselves for another ‘first’) I had never received the much-dreaded pelvic exam that people with a uterus are supposed to receive around my age, which is a seasoned 20. I remember the school nurses at my old college asking me my age when I visited their office to pick up my birth control pills, which I had been taking before I decided to get an IUD. That was last year. The exchanges, which happened every month, went something like this:

Nurse: “Name?”

Me: “Isabel R***”

Nurse: “Age?”

Me: “19”

Nurse: “Oh, well that’s good. You’ve got a year left before you’re required to receive a pelvic examination in order to receive any more birth control pills.”

At which point, I would make a socially amiable reply of, “Oh, thank god” or “Uh, oh! I better enjoy this year then, huh?” While privately, inwardly my mind was running a little more like “Isabel. Did you hear her? Only a year left. Only a year left to figure out how to avoid gameplanthat pelvic exam. Only a year left to find a way around getting that extremely intimate, incredibly painful vag./yoot exam that once allegedly made Tina Fey herself pass out on the table. One year Isabel. Break the law if you have to.

So back to the present day, age 20. You see how much I was dreading the appointment to get both an IUD and pelvic examination, yes? Now let’s rewind just a touch more. Don’t worry, I won’t go back a whole year this time – instead, let’s just take a brief glimpse of earlier that morning.

You see, when you are about to have your bare-ass legs splayed wide open, in florescent lighting, in a far less than sexy setting, in front of multiple people, you plan ahead. Let’s start with underwear. “Why are you planning your underwear? You won’t be wearing it!” you say. But to that, I have many thoughts to contribute. True, I won’t be wearing underwear, but that’s not to say they won’t see my underwear. When they tell you to undress, your clothes have to go somewhere, and they’ll definitely catch a glimpse of your pile of clothes at some point during the appointment. Knowing that they will see my underwear, I’m left to think “what kind of underwear will speak the best and truest of me as a person, as a patient on their operating table?” ((I’m aware of my overthinking problem, but thanks for pointing that out.))

Well, I obviously wasn’t going to wear any of my old Hanes Her Way undies – the kind I use for days when my period is sure to get the best of me. And I wasn’t going to wear anything lacy, or thongy, or even too cheeky, because I didn’t want it to seem like I was trying hard to look cool. I had also been informed that one of the docs would be male ((I’m a hetero woman btw)) and I didn’t want him to think I was trying to impress him ((lol wut? I was about to have yellow iodine smeared all over my vag. I don’t think he would have thought I was in it to impress him.)) So settled on a pair of 80% cheek-coverage, pink (aka hey look, I know how to have fun too) undies with that signature thick Calvin Klein band on the top, except not CK because I’m a college student and I don’t have that kind of money.

I was already expertly shaved and sculpted, so all I had to do before the appointment was drink a nearly literal ton of water, since I had accidentally alreadydrink up.gif peed that morning, even though I had been told to go to the appointment with a full bladder. (They do a urine sample pregnancy test before the procedure.) Just before I grabbed my wallet and keys, I popped four ibuprofen pills and took a final swig of water. Five years of pregnancy protection, let’s go.

As I mentioned before, I had been informed that one of the doctors would be male. At first I was kind of thinking, “Could they not be..?” but then I just sucked it up like a grown up. I made the decision that I didn’t care. So when the first doctor came in the room, I was prepared. He was indeed male. What I was less prepared for was for him to be a male medical student. That is – no, not a doctor yet.omg Yes, still possibly attends college parties. I’m a f**king QUEEN of hiding my emotions when I need to though, so I played it SO cool. WAY, SO, VERY COOL. I got the feeling that he was a little less than stellar at concealing his emotions though, since the eye contact was definitely hard to come by. We made some nice chit-chat, but I think we both had the completely cognizant understanding that in a number of other potential circumstances, he – a young college student much like myself – could’ve been seeing me in a completely different and literal light. More blatantly, *cough* no lights.

“Some of the risks,” he read to me off of a paper that I had to sign, “include that we could puncture the wall of your uterus…”

“Ha!” I shouldn’t have laughed. Why did I laugh? It was nervous laughter.

I signed the paper and my real doctor came in, followed by the nurse that would assist her. Total: three people. But man was I glad to see my doctor. Dude, I’m not even kidding, I LOVE her. She is the best. Like, everything I look for in a friend. I want to be her friend. She is super cool and nice and sweet, but I think she’s only down for a professional doctor-patient relationship.

So now I will spare you the details and fast forward a bit. I got an IUD, I got a pelvic exam. They hurt like hell, but so do doctor bills for a baby that you never wanted in the first place. So I stared up at the ceiling comic strips, without reading them because how can you when you are being probed like that, and I took the pain the way that I usually take any form of severe physical or emotional pain: quietly, with minimal signals to the outside world that I’m about to punch a bitch. (Sorry, doc. You are so not a bitch. Also I want to be your friend.)

And you know what? Throughout the whole damn thing, they complimented the hell out of me. And I operate SO WELL with words of positive affirmation, that by the end of the procedure, I was somehow feeling emotionally on cloud nine, even though physically, it felt as if my uterus had received multiple bullet wounds. But I kid you not, these were the final words of the procedure:

Doctor Amazing: “And that’s it! You’re all done!”

Me: *breathes out something kind of high-pitched and weak and not even English*

Nurse: *exchanging an impressed look with Doctor Amazing* “She took that like a trooper!”

Doctor Amazing: *looking at me* “You did really well!”

Me: “I’m adopting.”

Everyone: *laughs*

Doctor Amazing: “You say that now, but one day you might decide to have a baby, and then we can do this all over again together.”

Me: *inwardly, privately* uuughghfjdklsdjfadfsd Doctor Amazing you are incredible!

So there you have it. That was my 20 minute appointment. The three of them said their congratulations and friendly goodbyes and left the room so that I could change back into my pair of pink, 80% cheek-coverage, meticulously pre-selected undies. By the time I walked out of the building, I felt somehow like a superhero. I had finally received the pelvic exam that I had been quietly dreading during my first 2.5ย  years of college career; I was almost entirely protected from unplanned pregnancy for the next five years ((still use a condom though you guys, since STI’s are still a thing)); and maybe – just maybe – best of all: I drove right out of that parking ramp feeling like my vagina and uterus were the best goddamn vagina and uterus on the whole damn planet. It was all thanks to my crew of three – one doctor, one nurse, one med. student – who didn’t feel the need to hold back a single compliment or word of praise in those twenty minutes of hell. Shout-out to Doctor Amazing. I still feel like a superhero.

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