…on the princess scale. I’m outraged.

Let me back up.

Last year I took three friends – who knew little of each other – on a road trip. We drove south 5 or 6 hours (who can keep track when you’re knitting?) to Jekyll Island and a magical, mystical, friendship cementing, chickens in trees and skinny dipping place called The Hostel in the Forest. During a lazy afternoon of reading on our bellies on a near desolate beach, we dipped ourselves in the ocean.

NOTE TO MEN: look away now.

It was during that dip and chattering over the waves and newfound buoyancy that the topic somehow turned to my needing to roll up the beach to the cabana for a check-in/swap out of a female variety. Problem was that we’d hustled away from the hostel (before chores, me thinks) and I hadn’t…ya know…packed properly. One of the girls couldn’t offer me assistance because she’s a member of the Diva Cup cult, and another couldn’t because she hadn’t packed anything – didn’t need to. The last of my wee little piggies offered her stash of OB.

Now let me just say that as much as I love the earth, I do not love jamming my own appendages in my girlie places. The other alternative involved a cardboard applicator…to which I replied something along the lines of “I have a sensitive vagina.”

Alright. It wasn’t along those lines. It was that line.

The line was noted in our book of fabulous one-liners for which we’d always remember our retreat and though amusing, I’d mostly forgotten it.

Until tonight.

I met up with said Queen of Cardboardandfingerjamming and a few friends tonight after work for a little adult giggletude. They’re her friends, really, a circle I’ve been invited to join time and again (and loved every minute of it!) but nonetheless, her friends first.

One of these friends (who may or may not remain NAMELESS) and my gal-pal apparently had an interesting conversation when we returned from our grand tree hugging adventure to the Georgia Shore, starting somewhere near my sensitive vagina and ending with their having rated all their friends on a Princess Scale – where they were the happy medium.

My vajayjay combined with my blogging apparently ranks me as a 6 on the princess scale – which – returning to my original point – I find appalling.

I consider myself something of a no-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners, say-it-like-it-is, hard-and-fast, hike-camp-dig-sweat, morse-code-dashing kinda gal. In real life. A solid 3. I’m a tomboy for cryin’ out loud. I don’t buy designer clothes or wear make-up or spend a lot of time on my hair (all other considering factors on the weighting scale).

It’s only here in the safe embrace of the faceless interwebs or with close friends that I let the other side out. I mean really -I grew up in a house where my mother used code like “BM”, and “TP”. I still can’t bring myself to use real words when I go to the doctor and tell them I don’t feel well. I CRIED at my doctor years ago when he suggested a colonoscopy while I was awake. I cry at commercials. But that’s for me and my loves and not for the whole world. Not for consideration in the running for This Circle of Friends Next Top Princess (which I was really in no danger of winning).

So there’s the rambling story and my ranking and now I want to know – if I’m ground zero, if I’m the neutral 5 on myveraown princess scale – based on what you know about me – where would you rate me? Where would you rate yourself?

This is a terribly half baked post, but something I wanted to puke out so bear with me and throw in your $.02.

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A handful of weeks ago I was at lunch with Kelly, talking about how we (women/friends) need to play a bigger role in helping each other achieve our dreams. If you’re the corporate ladder type, you may not *get* any of this, but maybe it’ll spark a thought about a part of your life you’ve been neglecting. Who knows. Read on.

What I’m talking about is the following your bliss kind of dreams. The get out of debt and build a cabin dreams, the being a writer dreams, the making the world a better place dreams, the having a job that involves doing or working with what you love dreams.

I was telling Kel that we all need to be able to identify what those dreams are so we can help each other along the way by being outstanding cheerleaders or smack you on the ass as you hit the field team mates. We need to identify them so we can manifest them. We need to figure out what they are so we know where the hell we’re going.

It strikes me there are several things that prevent us from doing this though – either on the giving or the receiving end.

One is the BS brainwashing we go through from infancy to middle adulthood. We’re taught to be strong, not vulnerable. But admitting your dreams involves a great deal of being vulnerable. Even trying to find the start line can be anxiety inducing to a point of paralysis, let alone talking about it? Risking failure and exposing ourselves to others knowing about the failure? The horror!

Another self sabotaging move is that we fail to recognize our friends for what they are. People to share these dreams with, who want to help us succeed. Yes, we all have friends that’ll just stand on the sidelines and heckle and mutter under their breath about what we *should* have done, but we also have amazing communities of true, good people who are loving and constructive and will bounce onto the field if we trip and help us get back up. Eventually they might have to help us off the field but would you stop trying to see into the future? You haven’t even suited up yet!

Oh I’m getting lost in my analogy.

The week before last I met up with a group of women I’m in the early stages of getting to know, and somewhere early in our evening I admitted one of my dreams. And you know what? I was instantly less alone. Less scared by it. Still overwhelmed, but I’d taken a step. Not only did I have three new brilliant, charming and enthusiastic cheerleaders, but something unexpected happened: I had an opportunity to be a cheerleader for them and their dreams.

Can I get a hallelujah and an amen?!

So while I’m riding the high of these magnificent women and their energy, I’m also saddened and curious about the women on the other side of the playing field. The women who won’t celebrate or embrace or lift each other up – the ones who take your news into a the big gnarled black hole where their heart and spirit used to be. Is it because they’re jealous? That they have dreams they’re not ready to admit or chase? Am I a bad person for wanting to walk away from them, or is it somehow my duty to lift them up to join me? Are they absently producing passive discouragement or is it intentional?

Sure, I may not realize half my dreams. I’m not anxious to admit that or absorb that reality yet, but it’s looming…and it’s okay. At least I’ll have tried and done and learned and lived.

Like I said, this is a pile of still warm regurgitated thoughts – bits that probably shouldn’t have been mixed but somehow were and while delicious, not all of it is settling exactly right.

Any thoughts resonate with you? Anything you’d argue for or against? Any dreams you want to come out of the closet and share so we can get a full squad formed (don’t worry, I won’t make you wear the skirt and spankies unless you want to)?

I almost forgot. So much for the “never forget” slogan…

Thanks for the reminder, Sherrie! Hard to believe it’s already/only been a year.