Tag Archives: women

January 27, 2013 · 11:58 pm

Abortion Stories: A Priceless Cup of Coffee

“It’s freezing out. Why don’t you c’mon in for a cup of coffee while you wait?”

The tall woman waiting alone outside the Germantown abortion clinic shivered. She’d taken a taxi to the clinic, and arrived early, a good half-hour before it opened. Standing, pacing, stomping her feet to stay warm, the tall woman stole a glance across the parking lot, towards the voice. It was a “sidewalk counselor” from the pro-life pregnancy center across the way, and she was gesturing to a warmly lit, friendly office. The tall woman’s fingers were already stiff with cold, and she wrapped her coat tighter around her belly.

The cold won. “All right. Thanks.”

Moments later, she was inside the pro-life pregnancy center, warming her frozen fingers as she gripped a steaming cup of coffee.  Little by little her story came out.

She was three months pregnant and suddenly homeless. Her father was in jail and the baby’s father was unreliable. She was twenty-something, had one child already, and no job. Her own mother would tell her to get an abortion, if she knew, but her mother was knee-deep in troubles of her own.

Abortion seemed like her only option. The tall woman knew nothing about the clinic’s abortionist, Dr. LeRoy Carhart, nothing about his chilling defense of partial-birth abortion, and nothing about the women who had suffered serious complications, even death, from his abortion ‘care.’ Those issues meant little compared to her own overwhelming troubles.

But over coffee, and warmed by the volunteer’s compassion and energy, the tall woman changed her mind about the abortion. An hour and several phone calls later, she had a place to stay, a doctor’s appointment, and transportation.

In the following months, the volunteers became the tall woman’s support system, driving her to prenatal appointments and dropping everything to be there during childbirth. They helped her find a job and child-care and shared her worries and joys. These days, the tall woman stops by for coffee and conversation when she can, and even spent a morning doing sidewalk counseling outside the clinic. She empathized with the women who found themselves at the clinic’s door. Cradling her one-month old son, she became the voice across the parking lot, urging vulnerable women to choose life.

 “Choose Life.”  It’s been the pro-life movement’s cry for decades. And yet Roe v. Wade, the Supreme Court decision legalizing abortion, has left a gruesome legacy after 40 years: 55 million tiny lives extinguished—poisoned, dismembered, stabbed, and suctioned into pieces.

But “life” will prevail.

In fact, the abortion landscape has changed markedly.

  • Courageous state legislators passed record numbers of new abortion restrictions in 2012.
  • Few doctors do abortions anymore, with only four U.S. doctors hard-hearted enough to perform barbaric third-trimester abortions.
  • Americans cannot deny the humanity of the unborn child as new ultrasound technology captures their breathtaking images in the womb.
  • Better pro-life media and investigative journalism have shaped public opinion favorably: Eighty percent of Americans believe third trimester abortions should be illegal, and 64% say the same about second trimester abortions.
  • Young people are driving the pro-life bus, confounding pro-choice elites. It’s hard to demonize a generation that’s passionate enough to travel hours by bus, sleep on church basement floors, and brave chilly weather to raise their voices against abortion at the March for Life. And this pro-life generation understands “the pain that abortion causes women,” and cares as much about women as their unborn babies.

But as important as those factors are, the pro-life position will prevail for a deeper reason.

At heart, the pro-life movement is about people, its message intensely personal: “You are loved. You have infinite dignity and value. And we will care for you.”

Resonating deeply in the human heart, this is the truth that vulnerable women need to hear, for themselves and their babies.

It’s a message best delivered person-to-person—and young people know this. Their generation, halved by abortion, shares its stories, feelings, and experiences of abortion in intensely personal language and images, in social forums from Twitter to Snap Chat to YouTube and Facebook. It’s powerful and effective.

So too is the work of pro-life pregnancy centers. Years ago, as a law student, I was part of the first team of counselors at the Women’s Care Center, a crisis pregnancy center in South Bend, Indiana. The Center opened in a tiny, donated house right next to the city’s only abortion clinic. Our small group of volunteers worked in a spirit of prayer, with a clear mission: to welcome each woman who walked through our doorway, offering care and support even if she chose an abortion next door.

From one tiny house, offering simple pregnancy tests, practical resources, and loving attention, the vision took wing. The Women’s Care Center now has 19 different locations in Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, and Wisconsin and serves nearly 22,000 women annually. Abortion rates in those communities have dropped and Women’s Care Center clients deliver healthier babies than their peers.

Today, U.S. pro-life pregnancy centers outnumber abortion clinics nearly three to one (twenty-two hundred pro-life centers compared to 724 abortion clinics). And because successful pro-life pregnancy centers threaten the abortion industry’s profits, abortion advocates have sued (unsuccessfully) to muzzle or close pro-life centers.

Remember the tall woman, and the cup of coffee that changed her life?

Abortion will end, because pro-life volunteers really care whether a pregnant woman stands cold and alone in front of a gritty abortion clinic. And they care enough to offer not only an easy-pour cup of coffee, but also hours of dedicated time and resources throughout her pregnancy and beyond.

Will you help pro-life centers reach women like “the tall woman”?

Please consider a donation, large or small.  Because somewhere, standing in the cold, is another young woman who needs a good cup of coffee…and your support to do the right thing.

 

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February 8, 2012 · 11:34 am

Abortion: A Private Matter Between a Woman and Her…Vending Machine?

At Shippensburg University, female students who hook-up for drunken sex on Saturday will find it easy to dispose of just-conceived babies on Monday or Tuesday. A quick trip to the vending machine is all it takes.

Easy. Kind of like buying a bag of Doritos.

Women who wake up in unfamiliar beds or sober up and wonder,  “What were you thinking, girl?” needn’t worry much. Stride across campus, past the dining hall (grab a doughnut for later), and into the University Health Center. Flash a student ID and head to the vending machine in the “self-help” area. There, next to the cough drops and Mucinex, in discreet, feminine packaging, is Plan B One Step. No questions asked. Feed the bills into the slot, grab and go. Empowered with “choices,” these women pop the package blister, swallow the pill, and breathe easy.

Problem solved. Glad that’s over.

Only it’s really not.

Billed as “emergency contraception,” according to the package insert, Plan B inhibits ovulation and thus prevents conception.  But it also alters the lining of the uterus, preventing a newly conceived child from implanting in its mother’s womb.  Without implantation, that tiny human being cannot draw nourishment and will die. (Occasionally, Plan B fails and the pregnancy continues.)

In most cases, however, Plan B ‘succeeds.’

But ‘success’ is not pretty. Our Shippensburg student will have a one-in-three chance of heavy bleeding. And 13% of women who take Plan B One Step end up curled up in bed with nausea, abdominal pain, and fatigue. Worse, nearly one in ten women who use emergency contraception (compared to 2% of pregnancies in the general population) develop severe abdominal pain and require emergency treatment for an ectopic pregnancy.

But no worries, this is a private decision between a woman and her vending machine.

(Maybe the Supreme Court should update that hallowed language about abortion being a private medical decision between a woman and her doctor, eh?)

Back in Shippensburg, it’s been a bad few days for the University’s PR team–one negative link on Drudge would keep anybody hopping—and they’re feeling a bit defensive. “We’re not the first” to make Plan B available on a college campus, they say.

But from a vending machine?

Has our culture so trivialized sex and baby-making that the ‘solution’ to an unintended pregnancy comes out of a vending machine? And the grown-ups in the room don’t even blink?

Shippensburg’s decision seems destined to create a campus norm of casual sex. But in its February 7th statement, the University asserted that it’s “not encouraging anyone to be sexually active. That is a decision each student makes on his or her own.”

But why offer students abortion-inducing drugs, right on campus? (Ironically, the University vending machines don’t carry condoms, the typical must-have accessory for promiscuous sex).

In a phone interview February 7th, Dr. Peter M. Gigliotti, Executive Director for University Communications & Marketing, said the university installed the vending machine “several years” ago after a student survey showed that 85% of students favored on-campus access to emergency contraception. He defended the decision, expressed surprise at the media coverage, and insisted that no one under the age of 17 has access to the vending machine. (By law, Plan B cannot be dispensed to anyone under 17 without a prescription.)

In Shippensburg’s public statement, Dr. Robert Serr, Vice-President for Student Affairs, also downplayed the disclosure and framed the issue as support for reproductive choice: “Reproductive services are a personal decision to be made by every man and woman. As such, the university is providing students with a medication that they can obtain legally elsewhere as part of their ability to make their own choices.”

Put differently, Shippensburg wonders, “What’s the big deal?”

That attitude is precisely the problem.

“Emergency contraception” dispensed from a vending machine is the perfect icon of our culture’s impersonal–and utilitarian–view of sex and reproduction.

The icon’s meaning:

  • Sex is no big deal. It’s entertainment. Condom malfunction? Fix the problem in less time than it takes to rent a Redbox movie.
  • Making—or destroying–a baby is no big deal either. Using ‘emergency contraception’ has the moral significance of taking a cough drop. (One button on the vending machine gets you Plan B, another gets you lemon-flavored cough drops.)
  • Convenience rules. Why bother with nine months of pregnancy—and 21 years of child-rearing–when freedom is just a vending machine away?
  • Like casual sex, abortion (even disguised as “emergency contraception”) turns a union of two into a solo event. No strings. Just another individual experience that requires “appropriate decisions.”
  • Repeat business is a given—the abortion industry depends on it. No one visits a vending machine just once.

To the women of Shippensburg University: wake up! What could be more lonely than heading across a cold Pennsylvania campus “the morning after,” alone, to rendezvous with a vending machine? It’s an automated ‘problem-solver,’ stoically dispensing drugs that not only kill your baby but also numb your heart.  All so you can go back and do it again.

That’s not ‘choice.’ It’s exploitation. And people who really care about you won’t exploit you.

Please, reach out.  Because you deserve better.

 

 

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March 1, 2011 · 4:11 pm

Girl Wrestlers: Boundaries, Faith, and False Equality

In high school, I ran cross-country—the only girl on the boys’ cross-country team. Running made me happy and I was good it.

But with no girls’ team at my high school, I churned up the hills with the boys’ team. The miles I’d run with my dad and brothers over the years made competing with the boys’ team as natural as running itself.  (And beating even a few male runners on the racecourse was, I admit, satisfying.)

So I get it.

I understand Cassy Herkelman’s athleticism and her desire to compete against the best athletes around.  I really do get that.

Cassy Herkelman, by the way, is a 112-pound high school girl, a freshman at Cedar Falls High School in Iowa. The problem, however, is that Cassy competes with high school boys in a sport where success depends on breaching all the natural boundaries of male-female physical contact.

She’s a wrestler.

And what I don’t get is her parents’ decision to let her aim her athleticism and competitive drive at the wrestling mat. I don’t get that at all.

Cassy and another girl wrestler, Megan Black, earned spots in this year’s Iowa State Wrestling Tournament for the first time. But Cassy’s first round match proved to be a test of faith and conviction rather than skill…for her opponent, at least.

Her scheduled opponent, Joel Northrup, was a promising young wrestler who finished third in last year’s tournament. But Joel withdrew from the match, handing Cassy a victory by forfeit.

Why did Joel refuse to wrestle Cassy and, with that refusal, end his title hopes?

Because his faith taught him better than to grapple violently with a girl, grabbing at her body parts for handholds, mentally focused on subduing her. He knew that the sports context didn’t make the contact less problematic. Joel’s strong character propelled him to do the right thing—forfeiting–even though it cost him a shot at the championship he’s worked towards all season long.

To his credit, Joel speaks well of Cassy and acknowledges her athletic talent.  But he goes on to say, “wrestling is a combat sport and it can get violent at times….As a matter of conscience and faith, I do not believe that it is appropriate for a boy to engage a girl in this manner. It is unfortunate that I have been placed in [this] situation…”

Joel’s right.  It should never have come to this.

Even if dunder-headed school administrators lacked the common sense to keep girls from wrestling boys, the girls’ parents should never have allowed it. For the girls’ sakes as well as the boys.’

While wrestling moves aren’t overtly sexual and must conform to set rules, wrestling is a contact sport–an aggressive, body-on-body contest. Unlike the jarring, two-second contact of tackle football, wrestling entails sustained grappling, grabbing, squeezing, pressing, and even gouging. As the match progresses, opponents might end up lying on top of each other, wrapping their arms and legs around the other’s torso, or grabbing through the opponent’s legs to flip or pin the other.

“She can take it.”  I can hear the argument now.  But this isn’t a question about whether a girl is tough enough to physically endure those demands on her body.  Certainly an athletic girl can condition her body as well as a boy, and learn the techniques to deftly escape or take down an opponent.

Yes, girls can be fit, well-conditioned, competitive athletes. But that misses the point.

Throwing girls and boys on the wrestling mat together involves more than relative strength or skill level. Girls’ bodies are, well, girls’ bodies, different from boys.’ And that physical difference extends to the way they think and feel, as well as their natural inhibitions and inclinations. Our norms about appropriate physical contact are a way of respecting those differences.

Consider this: fifteen-year-old girl wrestlers, like Cassy, must allow a succession of fifteen-year-old boys (friends? strangers?) to handle their bodies roughly, intimately, aggressively on an open mat in front of a crowd, in an atmosphere of adversarial domination.  And, in order to win, they must respond in kind.

Do we really want a girl to shrug off this kind of contact? To overcome her innate emotional resistance to having her body handled roughly by random males? To accept an adrenaline-driven male grabbing her face, reaching through her legs and flipping her, pinning her? Or for her to grab a teenage boy the same way?

Do we really want our boys to put their physical aggression in high gear against a girl, “fighting” her, while they simultaneously experience her touches and grabs in sensitive areas?

For a boy and girl to wrestle each other requires each to make internal compromises–mental shifts to overcome the ingrained, rightful boundaries we have about how males and females should interact physically.

I believe it’s a good instinct for a girl to recoil from a stranger’s rough touch, especially in intimate areas, just it’s a good mindset for a boy to pull back from causing a girl physical pain or overpowering her in pursuit of physical dominance.

So what on earth are parents thinking, when they allow their son or daughter to wrestle an opposite-sex opponent? I just don’t get it.

Cassy Henkelman lost her subsequent matches and has been eliminated from the tournament.

She failed to win a medal.

But does she even know what she lost in the attempt?

(c) 2011 Mary Rice Hasson

 

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October 14, 2010 · 5:41 am

The Duke Sex List: What She Didn’t Say “Tells All”

Two studies, of sorts, made headlines last week.

The first, by Australian researchers, says that personal choices, reflected in our priorities and goals, have the greatest impact on our long-term happiness. People who prioritize God, family and altruistic goals (e.g. helping the homeless, being generous, or volunteering) are more likely to find happiness than those who pursue self-centered or material goals. And personal choices that result in healthy living, strong friendships, stable marriages, and the right balance of work and leisure all have a significant effect on long-term happiness.

The second “study” that grabbed the headlines last week was the work of

Karen Owen, a 2010 graduate of Duke University. Karen created a tongue-in-cheek senior “thesis” on “Excelling in the Realm of Horizontal Academics,” a.k.a. random, frequent, mostly-drunken sex. In great detail (and no one disputes the truth of her account), she lists and evaluates her too-many-to-count sexual hookups with 13 “subjects,” mostly members of Duke’s lacrosse and baseball teams, during her four years at Duke.

Karen’s PowerPoint presentation, stuffed with details, images, analogies, and explicit dialogue, was a time-intensive effort. She included descriptions of her partners’ attractiveness, physical “hardware,” and performance (ranked on a ten-point scale—actual scores range from a humiliating “1” to an over-the-top “12”).  Her ratings also factored in athletic skills, creativity, and “entertainment” value, including “dirty talk.” She named names and included photos of each “contestant.” Finished, she emailed it to three lucky friends; it was a guidebook for future fun with these “top dogs”—the guys that “everyone wants to be or be with.”

Karen Owen names names

But one friend forwarded it on to another and, within hours, Karen’s PowerPoint went viral, reaching millions on the Internet.

In a hasty quasi-apology, Karen says she originally created the slides to amuse her friends—not to expose the guys to worldwide public humiliation. She claims that she “would never intentionally hurt the people that are mentioned.”  Still, she backpedals, arguing that it’s really nothing different from the standard frat house practice of ranking coeds on their sex appeal.  The notoriety prompted her to shut down all her social network profiles—the Gen Y method of disappearing—but book deals reportedly are in the offing.

Public reactions to Karen’s “study” have focused mostly on the privacy issue– her publication of explicit details, with names and photos, without the consent of the young men involved.  Several commentators also chastised her for making snide remarks about Asians and Canadians.

But Karen’s promiscuity—the source of her problem–elicits a ho-hum reaction in most quarters. Chalk it up to college-as-usual. (And if the comments ricocheting around the Internet are any indication, her hookups reflect a disturbing college norm for many young women.)

A few writers admit that her drunken bed-hopping is “sad” or “immature,” but the chattering media typically characterize her as sexually self-confident, empowered, and even admirable.  The Duke student newspaper calls her “a funny, actually intelligent lady who likes to show people a good time. And she has nothing to be ashamed about.” And one feminist blogger hailed her as “another reminder that women can be as flip, aggressive, or acquisitive about sex as men can. And there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as all parties are consenting.”

That’s the Cosmo line, after all.  Strip sex of any meaning beyond selfish pleasure—and women are free to be equally as aggressive, detached, and utilitarian as the cads of yesteryear. No wrong, no shame. Be happy, right?

Wrong.

Remember that other study, the Australian one? It tells us, first, that the best way to be happy is to prioritize God, family, and others over our own selfish pursuits. Karen’s tell-all reads like a chronology of self-gratification, on her part as well as her fleeting partners. Any regard for others as persons, not just anatomical parts, is completely missing: 42 PowerPoint slides devoid of compassion, caring, affection, or even basic respect for others.

The Australian study also reminds us that the choices we make about important things–like friendships, a healthy lifestyle, and choosing a marriage partner–directly affect our long-term happiness.

How do Karen’s choices stack up? Again, it’s what she didn’t say that tells the story.

Karen’s tales contain no hint of genuine friendships with any of the guys involved. She duly notes any “enjoyable” conversations, pre- or post-sex. She seems to consider it a success if it’s not “awkward” when she sees the guy later on campus, fully clothed, She derides “clingy” behavior, whether on her part or theirs, and refuses to accept Facebook “friend” requests from the guys who sleep with her.

No, Karen’s sex buddies are not friends. Friends don’t exploit each other for momentary–or even hours of–pleasure. They certainly don’t tell tales, like Karen and the guys themselves did.

On that score, her girlfriends fail the true-friend test as well. One of the girls who received Karen’s PowerPoint pressed “forward,” hoping to raise her own social status, perhaps? And what kind of girlfriends let a friend repeatedly get drunk and leave with any guy—or multiple guys–sporting two legs and an athletic scholarship? Karen betrays no sense of her own dignity and value. It’s not surprising that the others don’t either.

Without friends who really care about her, Karen receives little encouragement to make good choices in terms of her health.  Healthy living doesn’t share space with random, drunken, hook-ups.

What does her thesis tell about her prospects for a stable, enduring marriage? It’s what’s missing that matters.

Her exploits describe a young woman practiced in sexual techniques but utterly clueless about the inevitable emotional connections that sex generates. Karen ridicules the tugs on her own heart that leave her “extremely depressed” after a final hookup with one particular man. She can’t afford to be vulnerable. Caught in the inevitable contradiction of the impersonal hookup, Karen wears the emotional armor of indifference to protect against the natural intimacy of sex.

Her sexual “fun,” disconnected from personal intimacy and commitment, is really a solo ride towards unhappiness.

What’s missing from Karen Owen’s thesis—and her life? Trust. Kindness. Friendship. Self-Giving. Love.

Everything that will make her happy.

Isn’t there anyone who cares enough about Karen Owen to tell her the truth?

© 2010 Mary Rice Hasson

 

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May 28, 2010 · 3:03 pm

The Starbucks Lady: A Latte of Kindness

Fueled by Starbucks, I can go anywhere. A few months ago, my odometer scaled a new peak–86,000 miles–as I, the soccer-mom equivalent of a cross-country trucker, crossed the border into North Carolina. Again.

Now don’t get me wrong, North Carolina’s grown on me. It’s green and beautiful, the weather’s not bad, and the people I’ve met have been warm and hospitable.  The past two years I’ve been a spring and fall repeat visitor to the highly competitive tournaments here, pursuing necessary “exposure” for my college-bound players.

One thing’s for sure, as a soccer tourist I see a different slice of North Carolina than I do as an Outer Banks vacationer.

And idle moments on field after field offer ample time to reflect on lessons learned in the Piedmont. The best lesson? Served up, unexpectedly, by a Starbucks lady.

Saturday morning, a 6 a.m. wake-up call, and my sluggish, caffeine-dependent body stubbornly insisted on a Starbucks. Fortunately, my internal Starbucks radar found its target (not so easy here in the land of “Biscuitvilles” and furniture stores). I rattled off my order –“grande, non-fat, extra-foam latte”–and plunked down some bills.  Out of habit, I surreptitiously–and compulsively– started checking my blackberry, like I always do when I’m waiting at my Starbucks back in D.C.

Inexplicably, I caught myself and looked up. Something was different. The Starbucks lady, for starters.  Not a tattoo or facial piercing anywhere. In fact, she was 60-some, with permed gray hair, a maternal bosom, and comforting smile.

And she was slow. Really slow, at least by my Washington-calibrated patience levels.

“Good morning!” she now said, as if my order had never been given.

“Now what’s your name? Mary? All, right, now let me write that down, right here on this cup for you. ‘Grande, non-fat, extra-foam latte, right?’ I’ve got it honey.”

She paused, then smiled warmly and continued, as unhurried as if I’d pulled up a chair and leaned in for a good chat. “So tell me now, where y’all from? You visiting family?”

Her calm manner gave her time to meet my eyes, to smile, and to make conversation.  60 seconds had elapsed and, cup in hand, she still had not finished putting my order in, nor had she taken my money.

But she knew my name and she wondered what brought me to her neighborhood. Her eyes saw me, not a generic customer. The point hit home.  What was my hurry? No line in front of me, no line behind. The game wouldn’t start for an hour.

More importantly, a real person—not a vending machine—was serving me coffee. A person whose daily work in life was less about pouring shots of espresso, and more about showing interest, kindness, and respect. She treated each customer as a person rather than latte #47 in a two hundred-latte day. Surely I could respond in kind.

It was the slowest cup of coffee I’ve ever ordered, but one of the fastest lessons ever taught. John Paul II once said that, in a world of materialism, the mission of women is to see others with the eyes of the heart.

I’ll bet my North Carolina Starbucks lady has the sharpest vision around.

In a small-town coffee oasis, the loving eyes of a curly-haired, kind Starbucks lady awakened me from my sleepy self-absorption. I no longer remember the taste of my latte.  I will always remember the kindness with which it was served.

Three-eighty-nine for a coffee? In one Starbucks in North Carolina, at least, it’s a spectacular value.

A version of this blog was originally published at www.phasesofwomanhood.org

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May 20, 2010 · 5:31 pm

Men and Women: The Lies We Tell

A new study released by the London Science Museum  is making headlines.

“Men are Bigger Liars Than Women,” shouts the BBC. “Science proves it,” says CBS. “Men lie nearly three times a day,” accuses another, suggesting a morally lax conscience in men, compared to women. Women stretch the truth only twice a day, after all, and feel way more guilt over two lies than men do over their triple fibs.

So, what kind of lies are these?  Amusing ones, mostly, at least to the extent they confirm the stereotypes of about men and women and how we relate.  (See the whole list here.)

The big lie for men? ‘I didn’t have that much to drink.” Did we ever believe that one? Another set of lies revolves around men behaving rather badly—and their excuses to cover up. A stop at the Apple store, a flirtation with the iPad, and next thing you know–despite the tight budget–he’s taking ‘er home. “It wasn’t that expensive,” he lies. Drinking beer with the guys, and he forgets to call? “Sorry I missed your call,” he says, or maybe, “I had no signal.” You expected him 30 minutes ago? He calls: “I’m on my way,” followed by, “I’m stuck in traffic.” You’ll see him when you see him.

Most amusing are the lies men tell as they tiptoe around the quicksand that can sink any relationship. Imagine a young couple, two twenty-somethings in Britain (where the research took place).  She opens the closet to find something to wear. He begins to sweat, dreading the inevitable. Sure enough, a few minutes later she’s trying something on–and asks the question, “Do you think these pants make my ‘bum’ look big?”  His relationship instincts kick into gear. He’s lying for survival. His instant answer: “Of course not. It doesn’t look big at all!” To score points, he adds emphatically, “You’ve lost weight.”

Truth be told, those are the lies we like.  We know our girlfriends will tell us the real truth.  But with our guys…well, sometimes honesty is not the best policy.  It all reminds me of friend who, as her 40th birthday approached, bemoaned the soft little muffin tops rising ever so gently over the top of her pants. Post-baby fat, settling in.  Her husband’s response? Well, problem-solver that he is, he bought a Stair Stepper for her 40th birthday so she could work that fat off! Emotionally tone-deaf, I’d say. On the bright side, God proved His existence that very day and worked a miracle to save that marriage.  The Stair Stepper, however, did not survive.

As the study shows, men lie more often but women do tell their fair share—and for different reasons. Women commonly tell lies in order to hide negative feelings or to avoid burdening others. We’ve all heard this exchange:

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.  I’m fine.”

The gritted teeth, drawn look, or furrowed brow say otherwise.

The storied line, “I’ve got a headache,” masks our feelings as well, camouflaging the real reasons why tonight’s not the night.

Many women lie to hide their shopping and spending patterns. “It wasn’t that expensive” is the lead-off line introducing many a purchase. Variation: “It was on sale,” (Thank God that whatever we want is always on sale!)  Sometimes the lie is outright shopping denial, “Oh, I’ve had this for ages.”

The only really surprising items from this survey, for me at least, were the lies women tell in response to their guy’s everyday question, “Where’s my… (supply noun of the moment: phone, toothbrush, socks, golf clubs, cleats…)?”

In our house, my automatic, mental-tracking-system generates replies like, “Oh, it’s in the family room, behind the recliner, under three CD’s, next to the yellow lego.”  They’ll find it.  I know it’s there.

According to the survey, however, women commonly answer the “Where is it?” question with a lie: “I don’t know where it is. I haven’t touched it.” or with the more suspicious reply, “No I didn’t throw it away.”

Sounds to me like a lot of favorite, but ratty, T-shirts, and embarrassingly loud shorts have gone AWOL.  But I wouldn’t know about that. (Really, honey.)

A final thought…while men and women often fudge the truth with each other, we save our biggest doses of creative fiction for our own moms.  Yes, 25% of men (and 20% of women) lie to Mom.

Not surprising, I suppose.  Most of us wear out our moms’ truth detectors in our teen years. Unless mom replaces her aging batteries, she’s a gullible audience for the polished-up version of our lives, for decades more.

Maybe, no matter how old we get, we still don’t want to worry or disappoint Mom–and that’s probably a good thing.  Mom, I want you to know that most of the time when I say, “I’m fine,” I really am.

But remember those cute new shoes I bought “on sale”?  Well, please don’t ask.

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May 14, 2010 · 1:13 pm

Women and Their Hairdressers: Guilt is Always in Style

It all started with a chance comment to another soccer mom.

Lisa had her hair pulled back in a banana clip. (Guys, that’s one of those curvy, claw-like contraptions that women stick on the back of their heads to hold their hair back).  She usually wore it loose (quite flattering) so this was a different look for her, but attractive as well. Being a woman and noticing such things, I complimented her on the new look.

“Well, I usually keep my hair short, like yours, but,” she lowered her head and looked from side to side before whispering, “I broke up with my hairdresser.” She looked relieved. There, she’d admitted it.

“She’s in Alexandria, I’m out here.  I’m not working right now, so why spend the money, so…” Her voice trailed off with the justifications, but it was clear: although it was time to move on, she felt guilty.  A second later, she confessed. “I feel so bad.”

Changing hairdressers is a real, often secret, pain point for women. In fact, it’s such a big deal that, Lisa tells me, Oprah actually did a whole show on the subject. Now guys just don’t seem to have this problem. Maybe because they only get their hair “cut” while we get ours “done.” Maybe because it’s hard to have an intimate conversation over the sound of buzz clippers or while your nostril hairs are being trimmed.  (There are some benefits to being a woman.) Maybe it’s because they more easily view the hairdresser as a business relationship, rather than as a friendship.  I don’t know.  But the fact remains: for women, breaking up with a hairdresser is hard to do.

We women bond with our stylists. They have us “in the chair” on a regular basis, surpassed in frequency only by therapists and confessors (at least for the good Catholic sort).  We rely not only on their styling skill but also on their personality judgments (”Is this ‘me’?”).

When our hair—or mood–demands a change, however, our loyalty is tested.   Hairdressers tend to get in a rut—cutting the same-old, same-old. For many women, “new hair” comes only with a new hairstylist.

And guilt follows.  Like Lisa, most women seem to feel guilty less about the “break up” itself, and more because, “I didn’t tell her. I just haven’t been back.  She was my hairdresser for so long…13 years.”

What’s the right way to break up with your hairdresser?  OK, I agree, it’s not one of the weightier moral issues of the day.  But, hey, over at Oprah.com, they call it an ethical dilemma and summon the experts.  Two male ethicists, reflecting the “business relationship” approach to the question, said women should definitely tell their hairdresser that “it’s over,” rather than leaving her to wonder what happened, not only to your roots, but also to your family, friends, and all the other “issues” in your life.

The lone female expert thought differently.  After all, she points out, how do you say, “”I started seeing someone I love more than you”?

Most of us, I suspect, would side with her. Instead of the male, business-like approach, we start the process indirectly by “neglecting” to make our next appointment. Then, sealing the deal, we slink across town to find more excitement, leaving our “ex” to ask, like a jilted lover, what she did wrong and if we’ll ever call again.

Now it’s my turn to confess. It’s been five years since I broke up with my old hairdresser, Martha. It got too expensive and I simply stopped going to her. And I still feel guilty every time I drive past the strip mall that’s home to her very own salon—her pride and joy after 30 years of working for someone else.  In fact, I always crane my neck to make sure she’s still in business—to my great relief, she seems to be thriving even without my every-six-weeks-cut-and-color.  It’s bad enough to desert your hairdresser for someone else, but who wants the added guilt of feeling like you put her out of business? Oh, the baggage that comes along with beauty.

Maybe now’s the time to make up for my cowardice of five years past.  So I’ll say it: “Martha, wherever you are, I’ll come clean.  I’m seeing someone else for my hair. Lucinda’s her name. I hope you understand.”

There.  It’s over.

But why, like Lisa, do I still feel guilty?

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May 12, 2010 · 4:35 pm

Sex, Women, and The Pill: Insights on The Pill’s Real Consequences

“The Pill.” It’s been an interesting couple of weeks, reading the commentary leading up the 50th anniversary of the pill’s debut (celebrated ironically on Mother’s Day).

The New York Times engaged in revisionist history, finding an historian who promotes the view that “the pill had little effect on the sexual behavior of unmarried men and women.” (Only a modern day Rip Van Winkle, having slept through the past 50 years, would maintain such a ludicrous thing.)

The Huffington Post looked at the pill from several different angles. Dr. Christine Northrup,  a New-Age-y doc who specializes in women’s health, gave a scary litany of the health problems associated with the pill. She ended, however, with the unsupported conclusion that, compared to the potential ill effects of an unplanned pregnancy, the pill is an overall boon to women’s health.  Another Huffington Post writer extolled the life choices enabled by the pill: “[A] woman no longer has to choose between having a family or a career and a couple has more options for controlling whether, when or if they have a child. Women’s economic status overall has improved….” However, she goes on to acknowledge the pill’s dismal failure in preventing unplanned pregnancies. (Do the pill’s 12 million users know that?)

The Los Angeles Times offered data, reporting that in spite of near-ubiquitous pill use (80% of women take the pill at some point in their lives), “about half of all pregnancies in the U.S. are unintended and 22% of pregnancies end in abortion.”  The immediate solution? More pills, but with over-the-counter availability.  Gobble them down, ladies. Princeton expert James Trussell, however, believes the pill is “not going to be the answer to unintended pregnancy– we can be sure of that.”  He and other experts point towards IUDs and implants as the longer-term solution.

All the talk about more choices and better medicine, however, obscures a more significant point about the pill. (And, ironically enough, it’s an “aging sex symbol” who lays bare the pill’s most troubling legacy.) In a provocative piece, actress Raquel Welch laments “how low moral standards have plummeted” because of the pill and the sexual recklessness it unleashed. She deplores the self-delusion and lack of responsibility among women who believe, “Now we can have sex anytime we want, without the consequences. Hallelujah, let’s party!”

The pill did promise a sexual utopia, without the usual consequences (like babies).  Now, fifty years later, the myth of sex without consequences permeates media, advertising, sex education programs, and the culture at large. A chimera, really, it lines the pockets of the pill purveyors while creating untold heartache for real women.

In the laboratory of life, the pill has proven that sex still has consequences. What’s changed for women is the context in which they  have sex and the consequences they face.

Instead of married sex that sought to space the number of children born within a marriage, we now have unmarried sex, uncommitted sex, teen sex, hook-up sex, and sex that wants nothing to do with kids, ever.

And instead of wives jiggling more babies on their hips (which for many women was indeed a great hardship), sexually active women now face consequences that promise a lifetime of suffering:

  • Abortion: The contraceptive mentality (we want sex but no babies) requires abortion as a backup. According to the Guttmacher Institute, about a third of American women will have had an abortion by age 45 and 54% of them used contraception in the month they became pregnant.
  • Sexually transmitted infections (STI): The CDC reports that forty percent of sexually active teens have an STI and many have more than one.
  • Infertility: One in eight couples suffers from infertility, typically from an STI or from delaying childbearing too long. (Did anyone warn them?)
  • Mental health disorders: Eating disorders, depression, self-injury, and feelings of poor self-worth have skyrocketed among college-aged women. (No surprise, according to former UCLA psychiatrist Miriam Grossman. In the campus nirvana of no-consequences sex, young women find themselves confused by  sad, empty feelings in the wake of last night’s drunken hook-up, or by unexpected romantic feelings for a friend who only wanted “benefits.” And they find themselves dismayingly alone when they face an unexpected pregnancy or a lifetime of genital herpes.)

Raquel shakes her lovely tresses in dismay over the pill-induced sexual frenzy.  She astutely notes that it impairs a woman’s likelihood of finding what she really wants–a loving, faithful relationship with a lifelong partner. “[A] lack of sexual inhibitions, or as some call it, ‘sexual freedom,’ has taken the caution and discernment out of choosing a sexual partner, which used to be the equivalent of choosing a life partner. Without a commitment, the trust and loyalty between couples of childbearing age is missing, and obviously leads to incidents of infidelity.”

Going further, Raquel urges women to embrace with maturity the most likely consequence of sex—motherhood, the pill notwithstanding. Unexpectedly pregnant at 19, Raquel realized that the pregnancy, ultimately, was “not about me. I was just a spectator to the metamorphosis that was happening inside my womb so that another life could be born. It came down to an act of self-sacrifice, especially for me, as a woman.”  Her two children became an “ongoing blessing.”

That’s Raquel Welch talking, today, in 2010, with the hindsight of experience.

Her words remind me of someone else who worried that the pill would “open wide the way for marital infidelity and a general lowering of moral standards…. a man who grows accustomed to the use of contraceptive methods may …reduce [the woman] to being a mere instrument for the satisfaction of his own desires, no longer considering her as his partner whom he should surround with care and affection.”

That’s Pope Paul VI talking, in 1968, with the foresight of truth.

Sex still has consequences. Let’s choose well. In the words of Raquel Welch, “Come on girls! …We’re capable of so much better.”

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April 24, 2010 · 5:22 pm

A Starbucks Conversation Overheard: A Woman and Her Adolescent Boyfriend

I didn’t mean to listen.  But it was a Starbucks conversation, easily overheard.  The young woman was cute, twenty-something, dressed with hip, young professional style.  Her companion was older, perhaps mid-thirties, sharply and expensively dressed.  A boss? Older co-worker? Too young to be her dad and, from the conversation, clearly not her boyfriend.

They were talking about plans for the weekend, that comfortable staple of Friday lunchtime conversations.  And it was in that conversation that her lament broke through, interrupting my concentration on an article in process.

“Well, I don’t think we’re going out this weekend.  I’d love to, actually. But my boyfriend, all he really likes to do when he gets home from work is play video games. His work is so stressful, you know?” (Something in the financial services industry, I gathered.  So he was no slouch.  Some brains, anyway.)

“It used to make me really mad,” she continued. “But he’s really into it. Even on Saturday mornings, it’s get out of bed and grab something to eat in front of the TV, so he can play a video game.” (She puts up with this?  I bet she takes the trash out, and walks the dog too, so he doesn’t have to interrupt his game.)

“I really don’t like it, but what can I do?  He says it’s what he likes to do to relax, so I guess I should support that.  In fact, his birthday’s coming up and I broke down and got him the latest version of one of his favorite games.”

I felt sorry for her.  She was such a cute, together-looking young girl.  Clearly living with her boyfriend, she shared sex, an address, and expenses (as her conversation went on to reveal). But it was just as clear that they shared not much else. Companionship?  Only if she counted time spent sitting on the same sofa while he exercised his thumbs.  Mutual friends?  Only other guys interested in the same things.

His video game obsession, while a problem in itself, was but a symptom of a much bigger relationship-killer: self-absorption, bordering on narcissism.  Self-absorption, as a temporary way-station on the adolescent’s journey, is nothing new. Self-absorption, as a character trait carried to the destination of adulthood, is disturbingly new.

In my own single years, we wouldn’t have hesitated to dub this perpetual adolescent a “loser.”  Not so, for this generation of women. Maybe some women are willing to put up with boys-who-refuse-to-grow-up because they have their own version of perpetual adolescence (see Skyla Freeman’s insightful commentary over at American Maggie.) And others, like the sweet young woman at Starbucks, have been snookered into believing that adolescent self-absorption is all that can be expected of young men.  From the metrosexual obsession with male muscles, clothes, and hair to the self-indulgent pursuit of video game victories, Internet porn, and sex without commitment, the common denominator is that these young men live for themselves. And the young women who live with them, usually in the blind hope that an engagement ring will appear “soon,” often waste years trying to make the child-man grow up.

But perhaps the tide is turning. An interesting website, The Art of Manliness, has quickly garnered over 65,000 subscribers by opining on and celebrating “manliness.” It highlights both the responsibilities and satisfactions of real manhood—a life lived  for others: “[I]t is boys that live only for themselves; men fully enjoy life’s pleasure but also live for a higher purpose. Boys try to find themselves in what they buy; men find themselves in what they do. Boys base their identity on what they consume; men base their identity on what they create.”

Young women need to expect—and demand—that the young men in their lives aspire to maturity.  They have to want to grow up, to be willing to assume responsibility for others, to build relationships based on depth, self-sacrifice, and self-giving.  For their own sakes, these young men need to find a love stronger than their own self-love—and I feel fairly certain they won’t find it by working their video game controllers.

My advice to the lovely young woman at Starbucks?  Dump him, fast.  (You might want to unplug the Play Station first, so you’ve got his attention.)

Find a man who “lives for a higher purpose”….Now that’s a guy to go home to.

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March 6, 2010 · 7:26 am

Tweeting Abortion

My heart is so sad.  I just watched the chilling YouTube video by Angie Jackson, a Florida mom undergoing an abortion at-home using RU-486. Angie wants the world to experience her abortion with her—so she’s “tweeting” about, in graphic detail and with appalling coldness. Her purpose? According to her video, she hopes to “demystify abortion” so that women will know, “It’s just not that bad.”  Her tweets themselves tell a different and tragic story.

For those who twitter, see hashtag #livetweetingabortion.  For those who don’t, Jill Stanek, a pro-life activist, reprints Angie’s tweets here.  Fox,  ABC, and others also covered the story but with few quotes from the tweets themselves. I think it’s important to read the Twitter posts, not to condemn Angie but to understand who she is and the misery wrought by her adult choices.  (Her wretched childhood, rife with religious exploitation and sexual abuse, scarred her soul. She calls herself an anti-theist.)

I am so sad, for Angie and women like her.  Her child is now with God.  Angie remains in her own internal pain.  She says she’s been astonished by the outcry over her tweets, in which she calls her baby a “parasite,” “tapeworm,” and a “squatter” and celebrates death (“Yay, I’m bleeding.”) How does a heart become so callous? And what kind of doublethink causes a mom–with a four-year-old son whom she loves—to depersonalize her unborn child in such appalling terms?

Angie’s reactions, chronicled by impulsive tweets, capture a dark reality that contradicts her scripted rhetoric. In one interview, she called her boyfriend “completely supportive,” citing his ready agreement to pay for the abortion.  Her real-life tweets curse him for leaving dishes in the sink while she’s in pain that even Vicodin can’t dim. She claims she’s “relieved to see how simple it’s been,”  while her posts bemoan the failure of the first round of meds, the drawn-out process (at least a week from start to finish), the cramping, and the pain. While her interview says an RU-486 abortion is like a “menstrual period,” she repeatedly talks about her need for support, to avoid feeling shame, to lessen the taboo of abortion.  Since when do most women feel a taboo, shame or in need of support to cope with their monthly period?

Most revealing, she says, in a Facebook Q & A , “I had imagined, naively, that people would accept it [the abortion] because I’m in a committed relationship. I was monogamous. I was using protection. I had a kid. I have health risks. We paid for this out of pocket and not out of any taxpayer means. If I can’t talk about my first trimester abortion, which was legal and in my case life-saving, then who the hell can talk about her abortion?”

This is a woman who desperately wants approval for what she’s done.  She, like others who become militantly pro-abortion, wants the whitewash of “normalcy” to camouflage her awful choice—and her even-worse decision to provide play-by-play coverage.

Angie desperately wants to silence the whisper of God in her own heart. But unlike the clamor of condemnation from some harsh pro-lifers, God’s whisper is a message of His love, steadfastness, and forgiveness.  And it’s a whisper so powerful that it can open even the hardest heart. Ironically, Angie’s inability to still the whisper gives us hope—hope that she’ll take the armor of hurt off her own heart and hear the God who loves her.

Angie, I hope you’ll tweet again when you’ve found the love that never fails. And in the meantime, even in sadness, I’ll be praying for you.

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