All posts by Rebecca Michelle

Educator, traveler, reader, blogger. Loves learning, black coffee, and friendly people.

Let’s Talk About Sex

As all men, women, and increasingly younger groups children are fully aware, we live in a society obsessed with sex. We live in a culture that make oodles of money developing products that convince people they’ll look, feel, and even be sexier just though wearing that dress, rolling up the sleeves on that shirt, eating that low-everything meal, and smelling like that new product. As any woman who has recently walked through the blindingly pink “feminine hygiene supplies” section of any supermarket or pharmacy knows, there’s always something new to try to get us whatever we’ve been missing. (Increasingly, we’re told that we’re missing more and more, but that’s a topic for another blog post.)

Today I stumbled across a feminine hygiene product I certainly will not be buying: green tea scented pantiliners.

Enough said, but I’ll say more.

Like many women, I wear a pantiliner every day. I’ve done this for so long that I can’t remember not doing it. Like most people, I also wear deodorant every day. Same story regarding length of time, though I do remember that I was really upset the night my mum told me I smelled.

I have never, however, worn anything scented. I’m really sensitive to smells and the concept of having armpits that smell like flowers or ocean breezes just doesn’t make sense to me. If the idea is to not smell, the logical thing is to buy unscented deodorant. I know I’m in the minority here, especially with women. However, I can’t say I’ve ever walked by a woman and thought, “Mmm ocean breeze.” (Alternatively, when I walk by a man wearing a certain brand of deodorant favored by high school athletes I generally think, “Ew Axe,” which I’m sure is not what that hopeful teen or immature 20-something is going for.) When you’re not wearing deodorant, though, I notice.

When choosing pantiliners, I have one rule. They need to be unscented. For several reasons:

Firstly, chemicals. I don’t need any chemicals down there, thank you very much. There’s enough to worry about without the itchy feeling that I get from even thinking about chemicals in that particular area.

Secondly, the point is to be dry. The point is not to smell and also to not smell, which are different things if you think about it closely.

Thirdly, we all know that scent matters. Back in high school, I wore a vanilla body spray from Bath and Body Works (as did about ten million other girls, I’d imagine) and the boy used to like to kiss me on the wrist because that’s one of the places where I put it. You can do that in public without people staring. If a different scented region is the spot you like to kiss, there are far fewer opportunities to do so.

But hey, if green tea scented private areas make you feel beautiful, go for it. In the end, that’s what matters.

Lightbulbs (and the stark reality of independence)

I’m speaking quite literally here. Two of the lightbulbs in my rather fancy light fixture in the living room have burnt out and I need help replacing them. I am 5 feet and one and a half inches tall. Standing on my coffee table puts me nowhere near the light. It would probably behoove me to buy a step ladder, but that would involve buying a step ladder. Considering I know my days in this apartment are numbered, I’m not keen on spending any more money than I have to in order to live comfortably.

That being said, trying to read when two of five lightbulbs in the only light fixture anywhere near the couch have burnt out is not exactly comfortable. I have to admit, I’m relying on the fact that my dad is coming to visit in just over two weeks. If he weren’t . . . I’d probably just have a few tall friends over and see what they could accomplish while standing on the coffee table.

In all seriousness, though, I like to think of myself as an independent woman. In most ways, I am. I could easily fix this myself. However, I’m making the conscious decision not to.

And I’m not sure why.

The first lightbulb burnt out about two weeks ago, and that’s when I first thought, “Well, at least Dad’s coming.”

I think that in some ways, we all like to be helped and, conversely, to be needed. The roles that we are accustomed to playing are comfortable for us and help preserve the status quo or social norms govern our lives. There’s all sorts of research on sibling relationships and birth order to suggest that.

In my DP Psych class, we’ve been talking about situational and dispositional factors that influence behavior. In this particular case, dispositional factors are influencing my decision to squint at my book for the next two and some weeks before my dad arrives and changes my lightbulbs. It’s been a while since I’ve let someone take care of me; it’s been a while since I’ve let myself simply be someone’s child.

Even though I chose to live halfway around the world and I live alone, I miss that.


Update: Upon further reflection, I decided that my behavior described above is both ridiculous and unacceptable. Today after school I popped into a Chinese supermarket (though really the only thing “super” about it is its wine prices) and bought two new lightbulbs. I set a very sturdy kitchen chair on top of the coffee table, which is so heavy I can’t even move it, and managed to replace the lightbulbs. Hooray for independence!

Devastated

I’m planning a trip to Bangkok for October when my dad visits, and I thought I’d revisit my Bangkok post to see exactly what Mitch and I did. As I looked through the post, I realized that the photos were gone. I realized that years of photos, including my 365 photos project, are gone. That’s because I ran out of media storage space on this blog ages ago and deleted a bunch of photos from old blog posts from the media library. I thought they would be saved because the posts were already published.

I was wrong.

They’re all gone.

I’ve been keeping this blog since 2012 and I have nothing to show for it. My entire 365 photos project is gone; those photos were lost on my computer when I had to transfer most of my files to an external hard drive last year because I ran out of storage space. I can’t find them on the external hard drive, which means I must have deleted them because I figured I could always pull them off my blog.

It’s times like this when I wish I had a film camera. It’s times like this when I wish I made photo albums or scrapbooks instead of storing everything online.

I’ve always wondered why regular blogs, like mine, have domain names that they pay for. Now I know why: Storage space.

To say I want to cry is an understatement. I feel empty, like I’ve lost part of who I was. I can’t point to anything I’ve done or tried to do because it’s all gone.