I made a friend! And then I yelled at her.

Sigh.

I get so angry. I try not to. I try to push it down. But every time I'm forcing down whatever wrath has been conjured, it fights me back. Knowing when to shut up is an art. Or maybe the real art comes when you figure out how to say what you say without making it about being angry.

So this friend of mine, who shall remain nameless obviously (I'm not in the gossip business. Yet.), found herself in a compromising position with a young man where she should have spoken up and didn't. Her reasoning?

Guilt.

I grew up your quintessential WASP. New England born. Mayflower roots. Never supposed to talk about money or bodily functions. Although I find guilt to be mostly a Catholic thing, the 'in' WASP thing to do is feel guilt when you think others might be disappointed or uncomfortable. The logic in this is archaic, yes. However, the practice runs so deep into the culture that I have yet to shake my twisted understanding of it. It makes people do crazy things.

And by crazy I mean old-fashioned.

It has forced women to apologize profusely when there is no need. To put someone else before you when they don't really deserve it. To worry more about what people expect of you than what you expect of others. Guilt has perpetuated unhealthy relationships, fights rooted in delusions instead of fact, standing up for others and not for oneself. It's not a good-lookin' force. The worst part of it is that people act in response to the threat of guilt and not to actual guilt itself. Meaning "I won't do this or say this because I don't want to end up feeling guilty at some point".

So I reacted in anger when my new friend expressed guilt over not pleasing someone (a man, to be specific). I don't feel guilty about getting angry. I feel bad for not communicating calmly and effectively. In addition, I think my new friend rocks and I'm disappointed that she would give up her own comfort for someone else. It's one thing to give and take in a relationship but it's another to be unaware of your limits or your limitations.

And on one last fire-feminist-raging note, haven't we done enough, suffered enough, and overcome enough to know that we don't have to live our lives pleasing men and not ourselves? Or better yet, find some sort of balance between pleasing and being pleased?

Let's show our new and improved biceps, shall we?

I didn't want to believe it, but it's true.

Before the feminist attacks begin, I just want to qualify by reinforcing that I can only speak for myself and from my own experience. And I have discovered that it is, in fact, true that I may sometimes, as accused, be irrational. Although I may not describe my own behavior as 'insane', I will admit that when faced with similar behavior from others, I have, at times, described them as 'insane'.

I may also be guilty of using lots of commas. Some might say 'too many'.

Yesterday I had to admit that I was in a bad mood. I couldn't escape it. I rode a train for five minutes. As the hills to the east passed by, I tried to rid myself of all annoyances, of all irritations, of all things that I attach myself to and can't let go of until I run it ten feet deep into the hard ground, jump up and down on top of it yelling obscenities, and finally stop, shake the dust from my feet, and leave in peace. All in my own time of course. It's a lot to try and accomplish in five minutes on a train. Especially when there's a dude sitting four feet from you talking to himself about falafel.

When I arrived at my destination and Grassfed picked me up, I was still irritated. The list of thorns is long and gets applied to everything. Here are some examples:

• I'm unemployed.
• I recently gained 15 pounds.
• None of my pants fit.
• My cat meows irrationally at night.
• I bowled really terribly last week.
• I've been late to things recently.
• There are ten unopened cans of Bud Light in my backyard.
  
• My leg itches.
• My garage was made into a beer pong room and never switched back into a regular garage.
  
• I have two cowlicks.
• I hate my coffee table.

These things are all related. These things are all reasons for other things not working and other things being annoying. Does this seem irrational to you? Insane, perhaps? Yeah. Yeah, I thought so. Feminists, put your signs down.

144. Digital.

I don't own a scale. It's not a protest or anything. I just never cared about numbers. After I realized I couldn't eat like a normal human, I had about fifty doctors' appointments, most of which involved the intro of "blood pressure-pulse-weigh-in." Weigh-in interested me the most because I hadn't been that thin since I was nineteen. The numbers wavered. 127. 131. 129. I hardly associated the numbers with myself. It may as well have been a receipt from the grocery store. Yogurt, $1.27, Salt shaker, $1.31, Chocolate bar, $1.29.

Last night at a birthday dinner for Grassfed's partner in crime, he suggested I use their scale. I thought hey, why not and hopped on without hesitation. The first number that arose. 146. That can't be right. Let's give this a second whirl. 144. Ok, then. Approximately 15 pounds, it is. I needed to remind myself that although that number was looking up at me without remorse from its digital perch far below, my ego was no match for the facts. The fact is that I'm 15 pounds heavier, I can eat what I want, when I want to, and my body is no longer yearning for nourishment.

With the risk of sounding self-righteous, I feel refreshed with my own outlook. This has never been the case, as I'm normally self-deprecating for effect. But I think about how many women I know that are constantly talking about dieting and love handles and calories and "being good" and drinking light beer instead and keeping clothes that don't fit in the hopes of one day slipping back into them. Slipping back into an old body. Instead I'm trolling the jeans rack at Macy's not knowing what size I am and grabbing three of everything without looking at the price tag. And then following up the shopping with a full rack of ribs and two pints of Newcastle.

It feels warm to not worry. To not worry about the size of my thighs, as long as my pants fit around them. To not worry about how much of something I'll be able to eat. To not worry that I will have to leave the table or leave the party or leave the bowling alley. To not worry about what I don't know about what's happening inside of me. To just KNOW. Knowledge isn't as much power as it is comfort.