I'm getting really old. And cranky. This story is tongue-in-cheek humor, I get that, but days after I read it on More.com, it’s still annoying. (And by the way, I absolutely act old on my cell phone. I really, really miss landlines and being able to hear every word on every call and never having a battery die mid-sentence. There. I said it.)
I re-read it and wondered if I could substitute the words “like a woman” for “old” but then I realized that wasn’t the problem. The piece was aggravating because apparently being “old” at work is also code for “responsible” and “authoritative” and “focused” and “reliable.” Clearly, these are attributes few people value in an employee these days. It's aggravating because there is some portion of the workforce that actually agrees with every single point in the article because they are, well, not "old."
You know I'm right. Who has time for such mundane things like punctuality, planning and learning from experience in our status-updating, tweeting, checked-in everywhere we go, pinning our latest fancy, youth-obsessed world? I ask you: Why go to work if it isn’t fun, or at least a little freakin’ awesome every day?
What follows are the “rules” about how NOT to act old at work, with my comments following each. Once again, I get it: it's humor, and it's directed toward people of a certain age. Fine. Lovely. But somehow this feels like the joke could be lost on an entire generation, which troubles me.
How Not to Act Old at Work
Hint: Don’t bring the donuts.
Don’t arrive at the crack of dawn and make everybody feel guilty for not being there as early as you. If you’re bushy-tailed and at your desk by 6:35, at least have the good grace to keep your mouth shut about it.
Translation: How to act young and awesome: Stroll in just about on time and make everyone feel great about putting in just about 40 hours a week. I mean, we don’t live to work, right? How very “like your parents” of you to arrive early and stay late.
Don’t bring the donuts. You don’t need to be Mommy or Daddy to the entire office, showing up with coffee, remembering all the birthdays, making sure everybody signs the card.
Translation: This one I almost agree with. My overall feeling is this: we all have one birthday a year and we all get to choose exactly how much of a spotlight we want to shine on it at work each year. Once we all agree on this, we get to think about one birthday in the office: our own. If you want to display balloons and offer cake to the team that day, by all means start the party. On the other hand, if you want to let the day quietly come and go: fine by me. Or mix and match the options: keep mum about your own day but send a greeting card to everyone in your group or in your company if you want. Lovely.
But then again, having someone in the department who likes remembering co-worker birthdays and coordinating the celebrations means they’re probably just organized and nice. Why does that make them “old?” When did that happen?
Stifle the self-aggrandizing anecdotes. Reminiscing about the year you almost won the Pulitzer or that time you saved the company a million dollars won’t convince people you’re cooler than they already think you are.
Translation: “…Cooler than they think you are?” How about more accomplished? How about they may help younger co-workers realize you may just be able to teach them something about the business? When did accomplishments have to make you "cooler?" I get the feeling that anyone who has done anything at all noteworthy shouldn’t reveal it to younger co-workers because that will somehow diminish the feeling of awesomeness among them. No one likes a braggart but working with brilliant people? I like that.
Don’t be tough. The young gestalt is much softer and less direct. People ask questions and seem to defer to others even when they have a strong opinion. And if they want to do it their way anyway, they’ll just go ahead without discussion or confrontation.
Translation: This is almost too much to bear. “Much softer and less direct” means everyone is right and no one knows more than anyone else. Don’t be too demanding; don’t make anyone feel unprepared or uncomfortable or challenged. Remember: everyone is a winner and everyone can do anything they want to do.
Look, I respect and learn from the young people I work with every single day. They are bright, energetic and talented. But the idea of not being “tough” when the work calls for strong direction, leadership and yes, authority, because their sensibility is ‘much softer and less direct’ is ridiculous. This isn’t a support group. It’s an office.
Don’t stay glued to your chair. Rolling everywhere, avoiding getting up and walking across the room, and sitting there till your ass grows around the cushion is definitely acting old—and won’t do much for the way you look, either.
Translation: Go hang out in someone’s office; or in the break room, or in the conference room, or in the cafeteria, or wherever you’re not doing any work. Too much time in your office makes you no fun and feels too much like you’re trying to show up everyone else.
No long-range planning. Looking too far ahead, wanting firm commitments on times and places far (i.e., more than a day or two) into the future, is definitely an old thing. If you simply must plan (I know I must), do it in secret and be flexible if things change.
Translation: Awesomeness of any kind may be right around the corner and how could you be expected to commit to a Thursday morning meeting on a Tuesday afternoon? And if you think keeping your calendar up to date and informing coworkers of your schedule is polite and efficient, you’re wrong. It’s acting ‘old.’
Don’t be a human archive. There may be value in having someone at a company who can detail the résumés of everyone who has held a job there since 1981, who can remember what year manual typewriters were upgraded to electrics and when secretaries were replaced by voice mail. But there isn’t much value in letting that person be you.
Translation: Your experience is worth nothing. Anyone who doesn’t acknowledge that business is cyclical; that everything old is new again; that lots of smart people have come before you and, in fact, done some pretty successful things is thinking “young.” Let's face it: for some people of a certain (young) age, nothing is real until they've done it, right? What good can be gained from experience or tapping the knowledge of your older co-workers?
So what have we learned? If you've been in the workforce for more than one presidential term, and want to be perceived as young as awesome, keep your experience to yourself and /or risk coming across as too “tough.” Watch what time you show up in the morning and how much time you actually spend in your office (later and as little as possible are the correct options.) Don’t make any commitments to things like quarterly forecasts or God forbid strategic plans that outline the approach you'll take with the business over the next five years.
If these are the new rules of business, we’re doomed. Gold smart phone, anyone?
Tuesday, April 03, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Note to self: how are you?
Sometime in early January, I put a note on my calendar; specifically a note on March 28th that read as follows: "How are you?"
March 28th marks three months since my Mom died. Like many people, I have picked up the daily responsibilities that don't go away, no matter how numb I feel. I've rejoined the workplace and have found equal measures of distraction and panic there over these past three months.
I've felt bereft and heartbroken. I've wanted time to pass quickly so the loss would feel softer and more distant; I've wanted time to stop completely so I could just sit quietly with my sadness and give it its due.
So, Renee, how are you?
I've wanted to call my Mom just about every day; sometimes several times a day, and many evenings when I had time on my hands and knew she would enjoy a story about something that had happened that day. I've wanted to give her extremely good news and have her celebrate with me; I've wanted to share frustrations and feel her comfort. I wanted to hear about her day; her stories about her lifelong friends she saw regularly; her updates from her many visits to half a dozen doctors.
Events that are coming up, including Easter (when she still insisted on coloring eggs every year and putting out baskets of candy), my son's senior recital that would find her bursting with pride, and the births of two babies that are due to join our family this summer, will all be missing one tiny scrap of happiness for me because she won't share them and take absolute joy in in each of them.
But really, how are you?
I'm a little different than I was three months ago. I've lost a touchstone of sorts; a person who could be my rock, my cheerleader, my sounding board and my challenger, always accompanied by unconditional love. The new me has one less lifelong friend in the world; someone who knew me like no one else does.
In between the meetings with the attorney; or my niece who is selling Mom's house; or the insurance companies who never seem to request everything they need from me at one time, I try to separate the pile of paperwork from the emotions that pile up and then crash from time to time. I've apologized to my husband and sons for being distracted and upset about "estate" things that tend to take over my life from time to time; and have thanked God for their understanding.
The questions don't seem to stop. Unanswerable, of course: questions like why I didn't do one thing or another for her, why I didn't insist on doing one thing or another instead of accepting her resolute nature about what she could do on her own.
Some of the questions are specific: why didn't I go clean her house once a week? Why wouldn't I have made it my job to pick up her groceries and run her errands? Why didn't I help her organize her basement while she and I could have laughed together about the chaos that my Mom preferred to think of as temporary until she could "get to it."
Why didn't I ever buy her an amazing hat and take her to the Kentucky Derby, her favorite sporting event of all time?
Not one of these things was on her list of "things Renee didn't do for me." It's all on me; I know that. But they're all part of my answer to the original question: how are you?
I'm hanging in. Doing what needs to be done. I'm laughing; I'm crying. I'm not great but I guess I'm okay. I miss her.
March 28th marks three months since my Mom died. Like many people, I have picked up the daily responsibilities that don't go away, no matter how numb I feel. I've rejoined the workplace and have found equal measures of distraction and panic there over these past three months.
I've felt bereft and heartbroken. I've wanted time to pass quickly so the loss would feel softer and more distant; I've wanted time to stop completely so I could just sit quietly with my sadness and give it its due.
So, Renee, how are you?
I've wanted to call my Mom just about every day; sometimes several times a day, and many evenings when I had time on my hands and knew she would enjoy a story about something that had happened that day. I've wanted to give her extremely good news and have her celebrate with me; I've wanted to share frustrations and feel her comfort. I wanted to hear about her day; her stories about her lifelong friends she saw regularly; her updates from her many visits to half a dozen doctors.
Events that are coming up, including Easter (when she still insisted on coloring eggs every year and putting out baskets of candy), my son's senior recital that would find her bursting with pride, and the births of two babies that are due to join our family this summer, will all be missing one tiny scrap of happiness for me because she won't share them and take absolute joy in in each of them.
But really, how are you?
I'm a little different than I was three months ago. I've lost a touchstone of sorts; a person who could be my rock, my cheerleader, my sounding board and my challenger, always accompanied by unconditional love. The new me has one less lifelong friend in the world; someone who knew me like no one else does.
In between the meetings with the attorney; or my niece who is selling Mom's house; or the insurance companies who never seem to request everything they need from me at one time, I try to separate the pile of paperwork from the emotions that pile up and then crash from time to time. I've apologized to my husband and sons for being distracted and upset about "estate" things that tend to take over my life from time to time; and have thanked God for their understanding.
The questions don't seem to stop. Unanswerable, of course: questions like why I didn't do one thing or another for her, why I didn't insist on doing one thing or another instead of accepting her resolute nature about what she could do on her own.
Some of the questions are specific: why didn't I go clean her house once a week? Why wouldn't I have made it my job to pick up her groceries and run her errands? Why didn't I help her organize her basement while she and I could have laughed together about the chaos that my Mom preferred to think of as temporary until she could "get to it."
Why didn't I ever buy her an amazing hat and take her to the Kentucky Derby, her favorite sporting event of all time?
Not one of these things was on her list of "things Renee didn't do for me." It's all on me; I know that. But they're all part of my answer to the original question: how are you?
I'm hanging in. Doing what needs to be done. I'm laughing; I'm crying. I'm not great but I guess I'm okay. I miss her.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Remember these outrages? Yeah, well - we're still all worked up, all the time. Just about different stuff now.
NOTE: I've been reading about how people want everyone to take a break from the outrage swirling around us daily and thought about a column I wrote - in 2005. There may well be no new stories; only new details filling in the same old story.
Read on for the column and feel free to substitute the 'apologist / offended party du jour.' It's kind of fun.
I’d like to propose a new official day for the public’s general approval. Let’s make every other Wednesday “give no apology / demand no apology” day. That wouldn’t be too tough, would it?
I’ve about had it with apologies being demanded by everyone from everyone else these days. I’m going to guess that the human race has been offending each other for centuries but it seems like the outcry we hear for apologies has never been more prevalent than it is today.
I did a very brief search of people making news with their demands for an apology over the past few months. Believe me, there were scores of them to choose from. Here’s a very quick list:
Al Sharpton demanded an apology from Vincente Fox, President of Mexico, for his comments regarding jobs held by illegal immigrants in this country
The G.O.P. has demanded an apology from Nancy Pelosi for her verbal attack on President Bush
Hillary Clinton has demanded an apology from Karl Rove and the G.O.P.
Islamic groups have called from an apology from evangelist Pat Robertson for his remarks that disparage American Muslims
Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist has demanded an apology from Senator Dick Durbin for his comments about prison conditions and treatment of prisoners at Guantanamo Bay
Billionaire George Soros has demanded an apology from House Speaker Dennis Hastert for implying that at least some of Soros’ money comes from illegal drug operations
Brooke Shields wants Tom Cruise to apologize for his remarks about depression and prescription drugs
Both North Korea and Iran have demanded apologies for different reasons from the United States
Estonia has demanded an apology from Russia
High school graduate Thomas Benya has requested an apology from his school’s officials after they withheld his diploma because he wore a bolo tie to his graduation ceremony.
My plea for ‘Give no / Get no apology Wednesdays’ won’t get very far. If you want to make headlines, you can try one of two things these days: do or say something that deeply offends someone or be the offended party that responds to it. I may as well join in. As the offended party, I’d like to demand the following apologies, even if they don’t earn any headlines:
From Anna Nicole Smith - I want an apology from both you and your agent for your “appearance” at the Live 8 concert in Philadelphia.
From Justice Sandra Day O’Connor for announcing her plans for retirement and giving our esteemed representatives in Washington a whole new reason to get up in the morning and snipe at each other from across the aisle in the Capitol Building. You’ve also opened the door for a whole new level of pundit diatribes for a few months. Thanks.
From Marina Bai, a Russian astrologer - an astrologer - who is suing NASA because their probe’s crash into a comet has “deformed her horoscope” and caused her “moral suffering.” Her lawsuit is causing me moral suffering. She’s asking for $300 million to restore the order in her life.
From Mark Felt - Am I the only person in America who kinda liked not knowing who Deep Throat was? What’s next? The singers from The Archies will come forward and claim responsibility for “Sugar Sugar?”
From Hyoung Won, inventor of the “fetus phone” - a device that acts as a cell phone and a portable monitor. A pregnant woman can capture and upload photos of her baby moving, and record the heartbeat while he or she grows. Just stop it. Right now. Can’t we bond with our babies without creating a website about them for God’s sake?
I can only quote French mime Marcel Marceau to try to put an end to all these pronouncements of moral outrage and the indignant requests for apologies for the same: “It’s good to shut up sometimes.” If only more people took his advice.
Read on for the column and feel free to substitute the 'apologist / offended party du jour.' It's kind of fun.
I’d like to propose a new official day for the public’s general approval. Let’s make every other Wednesday “give no apology / demand no apology” day. That wouldn’t be too tough, would it?
I’ve about had it with apologies being demanded by everyone from everyone else these days. I’m going to guess that the human race has been offending each other for centuries but it seems like the outcry we hear for apologies has never been more prevalent than it is today.
I did a very brief search of people making news with their demands for an apology over the past few months. Believe me, there were scores of them to choose from. Here’s a very quick list:
Al Sharpton demanded an apology from Vincente Fox, President of Mexico, for his comments regarding jobs held by illegal immigrants in this country
The G.O.P. has demanded an apology from Nancy Pelosi for her verbal attack on President Bush
Hillary Clinton has demanded an apology from Karl Rove and the G.O.P.
Islamic groups have called from an apology from evangelist Pat Robertson for his remarks that disparage American Muslims
Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist has demanded an apology from Senator Dick Durbin for his comments about prison conditions and treatment of prisoners at Guantanamo Bay
Billionaire George Soros has demanded an apology from House Speaker Dennis Hastert for implying that at least some of Soros’ money comes from illegal drug operations
Brooke Shields wants Tom Cruise to apologize for his remarks about depression and prescription drugs
Both North Korea and Iran have demanded apologies for different reasons from the United States
Estonia has demanded an apology from Russia
High school graduate Thomas Benya has requested an apology from his school’s officials after they withheld his diploma because he wore a bolo tie to his graduation ceremony.
My plea for ‘Give no / Get no apology Wednesdays’ won’t get very far. If you want to make headlines, you can try one of two things these days: do or say something that deeply offends someone or be the offended party that responds to it. I may as well join in. As the offended party, I’d like to demand the following apologies, even if they don’t earn any headlines:
From Anna Nicole Smith - I want an apology from both you and your agent for your “appearance” at the Live 8 concert in Philadelphia.
From Justice Sandra Day O’Connor for announcing her plans for retirement and giving our esteemed representatives in Washington a whole new reason to get up in the morning and snipe at each other from across the aisle in the Capitol Building. You’ve also opened the door for a whole new level of pundit diatribes for a few months. Thanks.
From Marina Bai, a Russian astrologer - an astrologer - who is suing NASA because their probe’s crash into a comet has “deformed her horoscope” and caused her “moral suffering.” Her lawsuit is causing me moral suffering. She’s asking for $300 million to restore the order in her life.
From Mark Felt - Am I the only person in America who kinda liked not knowing who Deep Throat was? What’s next? The singers from The Archies will come forward and claim responsibility for “Sugar Sugar?”
From Hyoung Won, inventor of the “fetus phone” - a device that acts as a cell phone and a portable monitor. A pregnant woman can capture and upload photos of her baby moving, and record the heartbeat while he or she grows. Just stop it. Right now. Can’t we bond with our babies without creating a website about them for God’s sake?
I can only quote French mime Marcel Marceau to try to put an end to all these pronouncements of moral outrage and the indignant requests for apologies for the same: “It’s good to shut up sometimes.” If only more people took his advice.
Thursday, March 08, 2012
One woman's dream: we all polish in peace. It could happen, right?
Thanks to my friend Karen, and a story she posted on Facebook, I was reminded of two incidents from my past. Yes, once again – these are flying stories.
After reading the report of this woman’s arrest and detention, I can only thank God I emerged from my own civil disobedience with my non-arrest record intact, and not all that long ago. I chalk it all up to good old-fashioned civility. Read on and let me know if you agree.
This story happened more than ten years ago; well before 9/11. As passengers, we were pretty far from the myriad restrictions and constant high-alert most of us are accustomed to these days. On this particular day, I was one of the first people on the plane for an early morning flight to Chicago, courtesy of my frequent flier status. (Attaining “elite” status earned me “priority seating,” and I could board the plane before many of the other passengers. In other words, frequent fliers get the privilege of spending more time on the plane than non-frequent fliers. This is what airlines consider a reward.)
So picture this: I’m sitting on a nearly empty plane with nothing but time plus a lowered tray table in front of me. That meant one thing: time to polish my nails. Bear in mind I had done this dozens and dozens of times before in exactly the same situation. I was also well aware of the fact that the aroma of nail polish isn’t entirely pleasant, and could possibly aggravate allergies in some passengers. But because I was usually seated early, patiently waiting for the entire plane to board, I had time to start, finish and recap the bottle well before everyone was seated and the doors were closed. While traveling, I usually opted for a pale pink to minimize obvious strokes or visible mistakes.
Everything was going as planned. I had finished nine of my fingers when a female flight attendant stopped next to me and said, “You can’t polish your nails on a plane.” I thought she meant I couldn’t do it because of turbulence or some other kind of impediment, so I cheerfully replied, “Oh, it’s no problem. I do it all the time.” But I heard her wrong. She didn’t mean “can’t” because I wasn’t skilled enough. She meant “can’t” because she wouldn’t allow it. She was clearly worked up because she said again, just a bit more (read: much more) forcefully, “You can’t polish your nails on a plane.” Now, as I said, I had done nine. I had one pinky finger left.
Nope. She would have no part of this anarchy on her watch. I capped the bottle and put it away. Note that not one passenger had complained about this activity. And also that the doors weren’t closed for at least another 15 minutes. I simply complied with her ridiculous rule, but not without registering at least a little annoyance.
Once I was in the cab in Chicago, I did the last nail. Whatever.
I am nothing if not resilient. I am not a quitter. And, in the language of the grade school play yard: “She’s not the boss of me.” Which meant that the next time I took an early morning flight – same airline by the way – I again boarded early, dropped down the tray table, and started my touch up ritual with the pale pink polish.
Oh no – not again. This time, a male flight attendant stopped by my seat and started in on what I anticipated would be “the speech.” I cut him off and said, “You’re not going to tell me I can’t polish my nails on a plane, are you? Because honestly, I’m just about done here.” He seemed surprised at my response, then smiled and said, “No, I was just going to say, ‘Nice shade.’ ”
I loved him. And this little exchange taught me two things: At least back then, this kind of “no polish” rule was completely arbitrary and random. And that the female flight attendant hated working with the public. Or hated female passengers. Or hated female passengers who used their downtime on a plane to do a little grooming.
All I know is that no one detained me when I exited the aircraft. No one questioned me or arrested me because I disagreed with the flight attendant and spoke sharply to her.
I realize times were different in 1997 or 1998. I realize the world has become a scarier place with scarier people, at that’s not even counting everyone outside of Washington. But here’s the thing: can’t we all please just have one moment of sanity, clear-thinking and common sense when it comes to this kind of faux outrage and hysteria over something as ridiculous as this story? Nail polish? She was arrested over using nail polish and having an argument with a flight attendant? Are you kidding? Are you f--king kidding me?
Everyone needs to just get the hell over themselves. The only person who thinks about you every day, and worries about everything that happens to you, and is concerned that everyone treats you fairly and honestly and kindly and nicely, and will always, always, always see your side of things, and thinks that you are absolutely right in all ways about all things at all times … is you. And possibly your mother.
But I guarantee you that even the mothers of this flight attendant, the polish-wielding passenger, and the airport security officer would tell each of them to settle down and try being polite for a change. What a concept.
After reading the report of this woman’s arrest and detention, I can only thank God I emerged from my own civil disobedience with my non-arrest record intact, and not all that long ago. I chalk it all up to good old-fashioned civility. Read on and let me know if you agree.
This story happened more than ten years ago; well before 9/11. As passengers, we were pretty far from the myriad restrictions and constant high-alert most of us are accustomed to these days. On this particular day, I was one of the first people on the plane for an early morning flight to Chicago, courtesy of my frequent flier status. (Attaining “elite” status earned me “priority seating,” and I could board the plane before many of the other passengers. In other words, frequent fliers get the privilege of spending more time on the plane than non-frequent fliers. This is what airlines consider a reward.)
So picture this: I’m sitting on a nearly empty plane with nothing but time plus a lowered tray table in front of me. That meant one thing: time to polish my nails. Bear in mind I had done this dozens and dozens of times before in exactly the same situation. I was also well aware of the fact that the aroma of nail polish isn’t entirely pleasant, and could possibly aggravate allergies in some passengers. But because I was usually seated early, patiently waiting for the entire plane to board, I had time to start, finish and recap the bottle well before everyone was seated and the doors were closed. While traveling, I usually opted for a pale pink to minimize obvious strokes or visible mistakes.
Everything was going as planned. I had finished nine of my fingers when a female flight attendant stopped next to me and said, “You can’t polish your nails on a plane.” I thought she meant I couldn’t do it because of turbulence or some other kind of impediment, so I cheerfully replied, “Oh, it’s no problem. I do it all the time.” But I heard her wrong. She didn’t mean “can’t” because I wasn’t skilled enough. She meant “can’t” because she wouldn’t allow it. She was clearly worked up because she said again, just a bit more (read: much more) forcefully, “You can’t polish your nails on a plane.” Now, as I said, I had done nine. I had one pinky finger left.
Nope. She would have no part of this anarchy on her watch. I capped the bottle and put it away. Note that not one passenger had complained about this activity. And also that the doors weren’t closed for at least another 15 minutes. I simply complied with her ridiculous rule, but not without registering at least a little annoyance.
Once I was in the cab in Chicago, I did the last nail. Whatever.
I am nothing if not resilient. I am not a quitter. And, in the language of the grade school play yard: “She’s not the boss of me.” Which meant that the next time I took an early morning flight – same airline by the way – I again boarded early, dropped down the tray table, and started my touch up ritual with the pale pink polish.
Oh no – not again. This time, a male flight attendant stopped by my seat and started in on what I anticipated would be “the speech.” I cut him off and said, “You’re not going to tell me I can’t polish my nails on a plane, are you? Because honestly, I’m just about done here.” He seemed surprised at my response, then smiled and said, “No, I was just going to say, ‘Nice shade.’ ”
I loved him. And this little exchange taught me two things: At least back then, this kind of “no polish” rule was completely arbitrary and random. And that the female flight attendant hated working with the public. Or hated female passengers. Or hated female passengers who used their downtime on a plane to do a little grooming.
All I know is that no one detained me when I exited the aircraft. No one questioned me or arrested me because I disagreed with the flight attendant and spoke sharply to her.
I realize times were different in 1997 or 1998. I realize the world has become a scarier place with scarier people, at that’s not even counting everyone outside of Washington. But here’s the thing: can’t we all please just have one moment of sanity, clear-thinking and common sense when it comes to this kind of faux outrage and hysteria over something as ridiculous as this story? Nail polish? She was arrested over using nail polish and having an argument with a flight attendant? Are you kidding? Are you f--king kidding me?
Everyone needs to just get the hell over themselves. The only person who thinks about you every day, and worries about everything that happens to you, and is concerned that everyone treats you fairly and honestly and kindly and nicely, and will always, always, always see your side of things, and thinks that you are absolutely right in all ways about all things at all times … is you. And possibly your mother.
But I guarantee you that even the mothers of this flight attendant, the polish-wielding passenger, and the airport security officer would tell each of them to settle down and try being polite for a change. What a concept.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Swimming to Antarctica...and other other thoughts on this Valentine's Day.
When Lynne Cox was a little girl on her swim team in New Hampshire, she never wanted to get out of the pool. She wasn’t the fastest on the team and she rarely won races but that didn’t matter: she was always the last to get out of the water.
In her book, Swimming to Antarctica, she tells the story of one particularly blustery morning. All the other eight-year-olds on the team were complaining loudly and energetically about the cold water, the cool air, the ominous sky and the discomfort they felt in the pool. Their coach, reluctant to give up on the practice entirely, offered them a trade: they could get out and dry off if they spent extra time on calisthenics in the locker room. They took him up on it and scurried inside. Everyone except Lynn. She asked him if she could keep swimming.
Turns out that her slower strokes, and her naturally buoyant body allowed her to remain at a comfortable temperature in cold water longer than almost anyone else. As each of her teammates would pass her and complete their laps, they’d stop swimming and linger by the side of the pool. Because of their inactivity, and because most didn’t have as much body fat, they would quickly begin to cool down. It wasn’t until one of her coaches recognized Lynne’s ability to withstand the cold and simply endure being in the water longer than most swimmers that she began to understand that her pace and her body type were assets, not liabilities. She drew on her natural gifts to train for the more challenging, longer, colder swims she came to love. Starting at age fifteen, Lynne Cox began a career where she would set and break numerous cold-water swim records. She documents the natural accommodations her body seemed to make to the water temperatures and many of her incredible achievements in her book.
So what does this have to do with love? In a word: nothing. But in another way, I keep thinking about love and marriage and Lynne and her determination to stay the course. My parents were married nearly fifty-two years before my dad died. Many of their friends have also been or will soon be married fifty years as well. I like to think of them as the long distance swimmers of love, if you will. Maybe all those couples decided, consciously or not some five decades ago, that their marriages would withstand even the coldest of times, because that’s what marriages did.
Seems to me that staying together is a choice couples make every day, year in and year out, whether they acknowledge it or not. Sure, you may have repeated the “in good times and in bad” pledge with sincere intentions but who ever imagines what “the bad” could possibly be over the next few decades? Some years, it feels so very easy to remain true to that commitment. Some days, it feels very impossible. No one ever tells you that. And even if they do, you think they can't possibly mean it.
But I’ll bet if someone asked my parents or their friends about "the bad times," they’d say, “Of course it’s hard! You have your good and your bad and that’s your marriage. It’s called being a human being; being imperfect. It's called life. Why would marriage be anything else?”
And yet, many marriages do break apart. Many of them should. They’re toxic; they’re hurtful and debilitating. The thing us, ending a marriage, even a very harmful one, is a sad time. I’ve never met a couple who were thrilled to divorce. Somewhere inside, even the most hostile partners must somehow mourn the end of their one-time hopeful story of what might have been between them, even when they know it will never be. It’s a loss for everyone around them, too.
Couples like my parents and their friends, or couples who simply stay the course, through tide and weather, and count on smoother waters ahead understand so much about marriage and partnership and loyalty and “getting through.” Maybe they know exactly what many of us haven’t figured out yet. Maybe it’s this simple: sometimes people choose to stay together because they promised they would. That’s it. Sometimes that’s enough. A strong partnership outlasts the bad times - even the bad years – because all the good they share, especially when it feels like a dim memory, is so very worth it. These champions of long time love never jump out of the pool because of a cool breeze or a cloudy sky. They don't start looking for more comfortable surroundings or another way to keep warm when they begin shivering.
They just keep swimming.
In her book, Swimming to Antarctica, she tells the story of one particularly blustery morning. All the other eight-year-olds on the team were complaining loudly and energetically about the cold water, the cool air, the ominous sky and the discomfort they felt in the pool. Their coach, reluctant to give up on the practice entirely, offered them a trade: they could get out and dry off if they spent extra time on calisthenics in the locker room. They took him up on it and scurried inside. Everyone except Lynn. She asked him if she could keep swimming.
Turns out that her slower strokes, and her naturally buoyant body allowed her to remain at a comfortable temperature in cold water longer than almost anyone else. As each of her teammates would pass her and complete their laps, they’d stop swimming and linger by the side of the pool. Because of their inactivity, and because most didn’t have as much body fat, they would quickly begin to cool down. It wasn’t until one of her coaches recognized Lynne’s ability to withstand the cold and simply endure being in the water longer than most swimmers that she began to understand that her pace and her body type were assets, not liabilities. She drew on her natural gifts to train for the more challenging, longer, colder swims she came to love. Starting at age fifteen, Lynne Cox began a career where she would set and break numerous cold-water swim records. She documents the natural accommodations her body seemed to make to the water temperatures and many of her incredible achievements in her book.
So what does this have to do with love? In a word: nothing. But in another way, I keep thinking about love and marriage and Lynne and her determination to stay the course. My parents were married nearly fifty-two years before my dad died. Many of their friends have also been or will soon be married fifty years as well. I like to think of them as the long distance swimmers of love, if you will. Maybe all those couples decided, consciously or not some five decades ago, that their marriages would withstand even the coldest of times, because that’s what marriages did.
Seems to me that staying together is a choice couples make every day, year in and year out, whether they acknowledge it or not. Sure, you may have repeated the “in good times and in bad” pledge with sincere intentions but who ever imagines what “the bad” could possibly be over the next few decades? Some years, it feels so very easy to remain true to that commitment. Some days, it feels very impossible. No one ever tells you that. And even if they do, you think they can't possibly mean it.
But I’ll bet if someone asked my parents or their friends about "the bad times," they’d say, “Of course it’s hard! You have your good and your bad and that’s your marriage. It’s called being a human being; being imperfect. It's called life. Why would marriage be anything else?”
And yet, many marriages do break apart. Many of them should. They’re toxic; they’re hurtful and debilitating. The thing us, ending a marriage, even a very harmful one, is a sad time. I’ve never met a couple who were thrilled to divorce. Somewhere inside, even the most hostile partners must somehow mourn the end of their one-time hopeful story of what might have been between them, even when they know it will never be. It’s a loss for everyone around them, too.
Couples like my parents and their friends, or couples who simply stay the course, through tide and weather, and count on smoother waters ahead understand so much about marriage and partnership and loyalty and “getting through.” Maybe they know exactly what many of us haven’t figured out yet. Maybe it’s this simple: sometimes people choose to stay together because they promised they would. That’s it. Sometimes that’s enough. A strong partnership outlasts the bad times - even the bad years – because all the good they share, especially when it feels like a dim memory, is so very worth it. These champions of long time love never jump out of the pool because of a cool breeze or a cloudy sky. They don't start looking for more comfortable surroundings or another way to keep warm when they begin shivering.
They just keep swimming.
Friday, February 03, 2012
The shriek du jour is over. Nothing to see here; move along.
I think I have this straight now.
The definition of “giving in to pressure:” Acting in a way that contradicts liberal sensibilities.
The definition of “doing the right thing:” Acting in a way that supports liberal sensibilities.
[Before we go further, let me say this: Of course! The right-leaning among us could be painted exactly the same way. Just substitute 'conservative' for 'liberal' and there you have it. Done. This is my point, by the way. But please read on.]
On one end, we have three decades of service to women fighting breast cancer by the Susan G. Komen Foundation, an organization that raised and distributed nearly $2,000,000,000 (that's BILLION) toward for their cause. Research accomplished, lives saved, treatments developed, families supported, educational materials developed. The list goes on.
On the other end, we have Foundation cutting $680,000 in funding to Planned Parenthood.
Let me understand this. Today’s outcome is the greater good? The past two days have shown us a dedicated and vocal attempt by those opposed to the Foundation’s decision regarding their funding choices; attempts that could well destroy 30 years of work and hundreds of millions of dollars in research and support because SKG chose not to support an organization the group supports. That was never stated aloud but let’s be honest: wasn’t that one of the possibilities here? Destroying an organization along with a boycott of the companies who support it? Dissent and debate: yes. All for it. It was certainly their right to do so and as of today, those outraged by SGK have achieved their goal: PP funding has been restored.
But with the battle won and the "right-wing pressure" (inaugurated by a Republican serving on a government committee who began an investigation about fiscal allocations)defeated, it might be proper to take a moment here, please. There has been a lot of outrage and shrieks of “shame on you” thrown around for the past 48 hours. All directed outward. With a moment’s clarity, perhaps at least a few of the outraged individuals will turn inward for the next 48 or so, and see what all of this has really accomplished.
Just what we need: more divisiveness. Awesome.
The definition of “giving in to pressure:” Acting in a way that contradicts liberal sensibilities.
The definition of “doing the right thing:” Acting in a way that supports liberal sensibilities.
[Before we go further, let me say this: Of course! The right-leaning among us could be painted exactly the same way. Just substitute 'conservative' for 'liberal' and there you have it. Done. This is my point, by the way. But please read on.]
On one end, we have three decades of service to women fighting breast cancer by the Susan G. Komen Foundation, an organization that raised and distributed nearly $2,000,000,000 (that's BILLION) toward for their cause. Research accomplished, lives saved, treatments developed, families supported, educational materials developed. The list goes on.
On the other end, we have Foundation cutting $680,000 in funding to Planned Parenthood.
Let me understand this. Today’s outcome is the greater good? The past two days have shown us a dedicated and vocal attempt by those opposed to the Foundation’s decision regarding their funding choices; attempts that could well destroy 30 years of work and hundreds of millions of dollars in research and support because SKG chose not to support an organization the group supports. That was never stated aloud but let’s be honest: wasn’t that one of the possibilities here? Destroying an organization along with a boycott of the companies who support it? Dissent and debate: yes. All for it. It was certainly their right to do so and as of today, those outraged by SGK have achieved their goal: PP funding has been restored.
But with the battle won and the "right-wing pressure" (inaugurated by a Republican serving on a government committee who began an investigation about fiscal allocations)defeated, it might be proper to take a moment here, please. There has been a lot of outrage and shrieks of “shame on you” thrown around for the past 48 hours. All directed outward. With a moment’s clarity, perhaps at least a few of the outraged individuals will turn inward for the next 48 or so, and see what all of this has really accomplished.
Just what we need: more divisiveness. Awesome.
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
Race for the Outrage
I’ve read dozens of Facebook posts of outrage today about the Susan. G. Komen Foundation’s decision to end their affiliation and contributions to Planned Parenthood, because according to their own standards, they will not support nor continue to support an organization undergoing federal investigation.
The outrage doesn’t surprise me because many people often take whatever opportunity possible to denigrate a political party or group for whom they feel nothing but contempt. In this case, the outrage has been directed toward a conservative politician who requested the records and reports from Planned Parenthood regarding their practices to determine if public funds were improperly spent on abortions, not cancer screenings.
His investigation has been called “politically motivated.” Well…yeah. He’s a politician. The investigation was apparently encouraged by an anti-abortion group. Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t it have been? Regardless, he is an idiot – what else could he be? He is, after all, a Republican. What does surprise me is this…well, several things to be honest:
First: Last time I checked, organizations like Planned Parenthood accept donations from private citizens. So by all means, support the non-profit groups of your choice, including Planned Parenthood. I know that’s not quite as easy as buying yogurt with a pink top but writing a check isn’t that hard, either.
Second: This isn’t a difficult a concept to understand: people who don’t support abortion on demand also don’t support organizations that do, and they really don’t want to see their own tax dollars supporting them, either. I know, I know, I know, I know - they’re all morons who hate women and they need to stay out of my body and they don’t care about any child once it’s out of the womb. And now they want women – especially women who are on the outside of the insured health care model - to be stricken with breast cancer.
Dear God. Isn’t that all just a little ridiculous??? Regardless of your personal beliefs, isn’t it reasonable to expect we have different points of view and understand that we’ll hold to them dearly?
Third: No one wants to watch more women suffer from breast cancer. It’s idiotic to twist this Komen decision into that conclusion.
Fourth: According to NPR, Planned Parenthood conducted something like 4 million breast exams over the past 5 years, and almost 170,000 of them were funded by the Komen Foundation. That’s about 4.25%. It’s not 0% - I’ll grant you – but can we stop with the hyperbole about how all women who are served by Planned Parenthood are going to be refused screening? If the NPR numbers are correct, 95.75% of them will get breast exams.
I know. That’s not 100% and women and their families will suffer as a result. But now that we have a hard-fought health care plan, maybe we can have our country’s health care providers cover that other 4.25%.
Fifth: The accounts I read indicated that the Komen Foundation donated $680,000 to Planned Parenthood last year. (Planned Parenthood lists net assets of $900.3 million and liabilities of $184 million in their 2009-2010 Annual Report.) That means the Foundation contributed .08% to the operating capital of Planned Parenthood.
As I write this, the signature count on the petition posted by MoveOn.org numbers stands at 19,852. So basically, if everyone who signed it would send Planned Parenthood $34 instead, they’d be covered. And that doesn’t count every other petition out there and the people who signed those as well. In fact, this may turn out to be the biggest fundraiser Planned Parenthood ever had. Now wouldn’t THAT show those right-wing nutjobs!!!!
My point here isn’t to try to convert anyone from one side of the aisle to another. God knows there is no more pointless task on the planet. But what I’d love to see is an end to this mindless, relentless shrieking about why everyone who doesn’t agree with this set of standards or that type of political persuasion is nothing short of an abomination to mankind, deserving of scorn, ridicule and yes, hatred.
Enough. Rodney King posed the right question, although I haven’t heard anyone answer him yet.
The outrage doesn’t surprise me because many people often take whatever opportunity possible to denigrate a political party or group for whom they feel nothing but contempt. In this case, the outrage has been directed toward a conservative politician who requested the records and reports from Planned Parenthood regarding their practices to determine if public funds were improperly spent on abortions, not cancer screenings.
His investigation has been called “politically motivated.” Well…yeah. He’s a politician. The investigation was apparently encouraged by an anti-abortion group. Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t it have been? Regardless, he is an idiot – what else could he be? He is, after all, a Republican. What does surprise me is this…well, several things to be honest:
First: Last time I checked, organizations like Planned Parenthood accept donations from private citizens. So by all means, support the non-profit groups of your choice, including Planned Parenthood. I know that’s not quite as easy as buying yogurt with a pink top but writing a check isn’t that hard, either.
Second: This isn’t a difficult a concept to understand: people who don’t support abortion on demand also don’t support organizations that do, and they really don’t want to see their own tax dollars supporting them, either. I know, I know, I know, I know - they’re all morons who hate women and they need to stay out of my body and they don’t care about any child once it’s out of the womb. And now they want women – especially women who are on the outside of the insured health care model - to be stricken with breast cancer.
Dear God. Isn’t that all just a little ridiculous??? Regardless of your personal beliefs, isn’t it reasonable to expect we have different points of view and understand that we’ll hold to them dearly?
Third: No one wants to watch more women suffer from breast cancer. It’s idiotic to twist this Komen decision into that conclusion.
Fourth: According to NPR, Planned Parenthood conducted something like 4 million breast exams over the past 5 years, and almost 170,000 of them were funded by the Komen Foundation. That’s about 4.25%. It’s not 0% - I’ll grant you – but can we stop with the hyperbole about how all women who are served by Planned Parenthood are going to be refused screening? If the NPR numbers are correct, 95.75% of them will get breast exams.
I know. That’s not 100% and women and their families will suffer as a result. But now that we have a hard-fought health care plan, maybe we can have our country’s health care providers cover that other 4.25%.
Fifth: The accounts I read indicated that the Komen Foundation donated $680,000 to Planned Parenthood last year. (Planned Parenthood lists net assets of $900.3 million and liabilities of $184 million in their 2009-2010 Annual Report.) That means the Foundation contributed .08% to the operating capital of Planned Parenthood.
As I write this, the signature count on the petition posted by MoveOn.org numbers stands at 19,852. So basically, if everyone who signed it would send Planned Parenthood $34 instead, they’d be covered. And that doesn’t count every other petition out there and the people who signed those as well. In fact, this may turn out to be the biggest fundraiser Planned Parenthood ever had. Now wouldn’t THAT show those right-wing nutjobs!!!!
My point here isn’t to try to convert anyone from one side of the aisle to another. God knows there is no more pointless task on the planet. But what I’d love to see is an end to this mindless, relentless shrieking about why everyone who doesn’t agree with this set of standards or that type of political persuasion is nothing short of an abomination to mankind, deserving of scorn, ridicule and yes, hatred.
Enough. Rodney King posed the right question, although I haven’t heard anyone answer him yet.
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
To have even half the joy and love my Mother had; what a blessing that would be.
I shared this at my mother's funeral on Saturday, December 31. An unseasonably warm day to say goodbye to warm woman who will forever claim a corner of my heart.
After the funeral, several people remarked, "How could you get through that?" Or, "I don't know how you did it."
My only answer - even now, days later - is "I guess it's because I couldn't not say it. It's my Mom."
I hope in some small way you feel her joy and kindness in every word. Please hug your Mom tonight, or call her or write a note. If that can never be, just think of her with all the love you can. I'll do the same.
You may not know these two things about my Mom: her bathroom closet contains dozens and dozens of bottles of lotion. A kitchen drawer has a plastic bag that holds hundreds of twist-ties. I know both of these facts seem kind of random and unimportant but you never know: she definitely has more than enough for the entire neighborhood to be well prepared for any kind of hand-lotion or twist-tie emergency.
I share this because it’s exactly what made my Mom laugh. We would come across these kinds of things from time to time and begin to comment about it and I can just hear her: “Don’t make fun!”, or “Go ahead! Make fun!” laughing while she said it, knowing that we loved her all the more for little habits like this. She made us laugh but was always in on the joke at the same time.
One of the many reasons my Mom was so easy to love was her sense of humor. Beyond her ready smile, her laugh, and her kind disposition, her good-nature meant that she accepted with incredible good-humor the teasing we all dished out to her, especially when we teased her about her household.
Look around her home for the small testaments to the woman she was and what gave her joy. A small Boyd’s Bear in a Marine Corps uniform stands at attention in her bedroom. Her jewelry box holds six or seven rosaries. Into a framed photo of her and my Dad, she had tucked a few smaller pictures: her engagement photo, my dad at about age 18 and another of them on the 50th anniversary. An entire lifetime on display with just a couple of snapshots.
But you don’t have to look very hard to see her piano. Having the piano in our home, or hearing my mom play it, even during afternoons of mayhem according to my Aunt Kay, meant her love of music found its way into the lives of each of her children. The only thing my Mom loved more than music: her family and friends. And when she could combine the two – music and people she loved – she was in her glory. She loved playing for us; playing with us, and sharing her music with friends. She adored playing Christmas music and listening to carols; she loved the concerts at the beach house every summer.
We looked at the piano this past week and noticed the stack of music nearby, about a foot high, made up a few books but mostly of single song sheet music pieces, many of them seventy years old. I like to think about my Mom buying a new song every week and then learning it and playing it for family and friends. When she bought the Marine Corps hymn, I can imagine how excited she was to play it for Dad.
I looked at that stack of music and thought:
For every sheet there, she made so many people smile throughout her life.
For every sheet, she helped scores of people feel welcome and loved in her home.
For every one, she offered friendship to strangers. Over her decades on Ferry Street, neighbors moved in and found a second mother, or second grandmother when they met my Mom. I guarantee you she hugged them goodbye the first time they met.
For every song, someone can tell a story about her endless optimism and positive thinking about almost any situation. It was remarkable. How many of us heard this? “I have faith. You’ll see. It will all work out.”
I can’t count the number of times I’ve sobbed on the phone or in her kitchen, dumping many of my life’s challenges into her always accessible lap. I wasn’t quite looking for answers or advice, although she often offered insight I valued. No, somewhere along the line I discovered that I did it for one reason: To hear her tell me, “It will work out.” The days I would cry about some situation as a wife or as a mother and she would say, “I have faith in him. And in you. I do. Everything will all be okay.”
I’m positive many people here today did the same with my Mom for the same reason.
It’s her certainty and her faith that inspire me daily. You could call this her view through “rose-colored glasses” or quite frankly, an inexplicably and relentlessly positive point of view, when almost none of the facts would seem to offer reasons for good cheer. You could say that choosing to believe in one good scrap of promise when the reality of a situation is telling you something quite the opposite gets you nowhere.
Or does it? When she learned of her cancer just two months ago, she broke down quietly with me and said, “I’m not ready.” We held each other and I just cried along with her because if I spoke it would have been to say. “I’m not either Mom. Don’t leave me.” Then she moved onto new doctors and new procedures and what could be. And also filled those two months with concerts and shows and family visits, parties and holidays.
But it was her time. She did leave us. As Rob said so beautifully on our last afternoon with her, “You’re in your living room, Mom, looking at your beautiful tree and all the lights and decorations you loved. Everyone is with you and we’re all fine. We’re safe, and together and happy. When you’re ready, turn off the lights and go to sleep. We’ll all be okay.”
Despite the enormous emptiness in our lives, in thousands of ways, she’s here and always will be. In her children and grandchildren, in the family and friends who felt her love and kindness. I’ll feel her in every fall day she used to love. I’ll find her in every concert I attend; in every bit of music that I know would bring her joy.
If there’s a celestial piano somewhere, I guarantee you God led her to it and sat her in front of the keys. And everyone who was waiting for her looked up with great joy and said, “Marge is here! Let’s start the party.”
After the funeral, several people remarked, "How could you get through that?" Or, "I don't know how you did it."
My only answer - even now, days later - is "I guess it's because I couldn't not say it. It's my Mom."
I hope in some small way you feel her joy and kindness in every word. Please hug your Mom tonight, or call her or write a note. If that can never be, just think of her with all the love you can. I'll do the same.
You may not know these two things about my Mom: her bathroom closet contains dozens and dozens of bottles of lotion. A kitchen drawer has a plastic bag that holds hundreds of twist-ties. I know both of these facts seem kind of random and unimportant but you never know: she definitely has more than enough for the entire neighborhood to be well prepared for any kind of hand-lotion or twist-tie emergency.
I share this because it’s exactly what made my Mom laugh. We would come across these kinds of things from time to time and begin to comment about it and I can just hear her: “Don’t make fun!”, or “Go ahead! Make fun!” laughing while she said it, knowing that we loved her all the more for little habits like this. She made us laugh but was always in on the joke at the same time.
One of the many reasons my Mom was so easy to love was her sense of humor. Beyond her ready smile, her laugh, and her kind disposition, her good-nature meant that she accepted with incredible good-humor the teasing we all dished out to her, especially when we teased her about her household.
Look around her home for the small testaments to the woman she was and what gave her joy. A small Boyd’s Bear in a Marine Corps uniform stands at attention in her bedroom. Her jewelry box holds six or seven rosaries. Into a framed photo of her and my Dad, she had tucked a few smaller pictures: her engagement photo, my dad at about age 18 and another of them on the 50th anniversary. An entire lifetime on display with just a couple of snapshots.
But you don’t have to look very hard to see her piano. Having the piano in our home, or hearing my mom play it, even during afternoons of mayhem according to my Aunt Kay, meant her love of music found its way into the lives of each of her children. The only thing my Mom loved more than music: her family and friends. And when she could combine the two – music and people she loved – she was in her glory. She loved playing for us; playing with us, and sharing her music with friends. She adored playing Christmas music and listening to carols; she loved the concerts at the beach house every summer.
We looked at the piano this past week and noticed the stack of music nearby, about a foot high, made up a few books but mostly of single song sheet music pieces, many of them seventy years old. I like to think about my Mom buying a new song every week and then learning it and playing it for family and friends. When she bought the Marine Corps hymn, I can imagine how excited she was to play it for Dad.
I looked at that stack of music and thought:
For every sheet there, she made so many people smile throughout her life.
For every sheet, she helped scores of people feel welcome and loved in her home.
For every one, she offered friendship to strangers. Over her decades on Ferry Street, neighbors moved in and found a second mother, or second grandmother when they met my Mom. I guarantee you she hugged them goodbye the first time they met.
For every song, someone can tell a story about her endless optimism and positive thinking about almost any situation. It was remarkable. How many of us heard this? “I have faith. You’ll see. It will all work out.”
I can’t count the number of times I’ve sobbed on the phone or in her kitchen, dumping many of my life’s challenges into her always accessible lap. I wasn’t quite looking for answers or advice, although she often offered insight I valued. No, somewhere along the line I discovered that I did it for one reason: To hear her tell me, “It will work out.” The days I would cry about some situation as a wife or as a mother and she would say, “I have faith in him. And in you. I do. Everything will all be okay.”
I’m positive many people here today did the same with my Mom for the same reason.
It’s her certainty and her faith that inspire me daily. You could call this her view through “rose-colored glasses” or quite frankly, an inexplicably and relentlessly positive point of view, when almost none of the facts would seem to offer reasons for good cheer. You could say that choosing to believe in one good scrap of promise when the reality of a situation is telling you something quite the opposite gets you nowhere.
Or does it? When she learned of her cancer just two months ago, she broke down quietly with me and said, “I’m not ready.” We held each other and I just cried along with her because if I spoke it would have been to say. “I’m not either Mom. Don’t leave me.” Then she moved onto new doctors and new procedures and what could be. And also filled those two months with concerts and shows and family visits, parties and holidays.
But it was her time. She did leave us. As Rob said so beautifully on our last afternoon with her, “You’re in your living room, Mom, looking at your beautiful tree and all the lights and decorations you loved. Everyone is with you and we’re all fine. We’re safe, and together and happy. When you’re ready, turn off the lights and go to sleep. We’ll all be okay.”
Despite the enormous emptiness in our lives, in thousands of ways, she’s here and always will be. In her children and grandchildren, in the family and friends who felt her love and kindness. I’ll feel her in every fall day she used to love. I’ll find her in every concert I attend; in every bit of music that I know would bring her joy.
If there’s a celestial piano somewhere, I guarantee you God led her to it and sat her in front of the keys. And everyone who was waiting for her looked up with great joy and said, “Marge is here! Let’s start the party.”
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Love you, my Mom. Merry Christmas.
I think it’s fair to say that there is some part of me that never quite detached from my mother. That’s not to say I didn’t leave home in my early twenties; marry a few years later, have children of my own and lead a life that included a mostly healthy relationship with her and with my Dad. I did. What I mean by not detaching is that I’ve never lost sight of the fact that no matter what I had weighing me down or causing my anxiety, I could tell my Mom and she would listen. No question.
I’m positive that over my half century + in her life, I haven’t been all that she hoped for in one way or another. Couple of highlights: The day I told her that my boyfriend and I were quite committed to each other and no, I wasn’t still a virgin – that must have kept her up for many a night, and worn out a rosary along the way. The day I told her I wasn’t going to be married in ‘The Church,’ also not a celebratory moment in her life, I’m sure. Announcements like these distressed her, and she shared that emotion honestly but kindly. But I never felt any coldness or withdrawal from her when I let her down in some way. And after my own twenty-plus years of motherhood, I call that miraculous. Because honest emotion without judgment has to be the hardest thing ever with children, right? Loving them unconditionally sure; but not holding any resentment or sadness or even anger about what they’ve done or not done; about choices they’ve made in their own lives? I know that’s hard for me.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve sobbed on the phone or in her kitchen, dumping many of my life’s challenges into her always accessible lap. I wasn’t quite looking for answers or advice, although she often offered insight I valued. No, somewhere along the line I’ve discovered that I did it for one reason: To hear her tell me, “It will work out.” The days I would cry about some situation with one or more of my sons and she would say, “I have faith in him. I do. Everything will all be okay.”
As much as we’d all like to believe in nothing but happy endings, things that trouble me may or may not “work out” as she always claims they will. But it’s her certainty and her faith that inspire me. I feel certainty about almost nothing these days but I am just a little suspicious of anyone who exists in a relative sea of calm. That is; toward anyone – except my Mom.
If I wanted to take a more cynical approach to her attitude, I could call it her view through “rose-colored glasses” or quite frankly, her inexplicably and relentlessly positive point of view, when almost none of the facts would seem to offer her reasons for good cheer. I could say that choosing to believe in one good scrap of promise when the reality of a situation is telling you something quite the opposite gets you nowhere.
Or does it? Here’s what I do know – and part of me will always have a girlhood point of view on this, that can’t be helped: She married a complex but loving man with his own personal sadness and demons to fight, and never, ever gave up on the good person he was born to be. She saw the loving man he truly was despite the many aspects of his young life that were a challenge as he grew to adulthood and found his way into the world. During the worst periods of my dad’s alcoholism, she was the one steady, reliable force in our home daily; the parent my sisters and brother and I knew we could rely on for everything, everyday.
My sister and I talked recently about the response many reasonable, intelligent people would understandably have to discovering and then enduring life with an alcoholic spouse who had yet to reach sobriety. Anger, resentment, fear, withdrawal, bitterness, unfairness, anxiety, sadness, and abandonment come to mind. Add children into the marriage and quadruple all those reactions.
We felt none of them from my mother; a testament to the strong woman she is. I expect she spent many an evening crying to her own mom who, according to the stories I heard, listened but then reminded her of my dad’s many good qualities, of the man my grandmother knew was buried inside him, trapped under decades of abuse of one kind or another. She reminded my mom that her love and support was absolutely required if anything positive was to come about. [After my dad died, I learned only a few of the sad stories about his childhood and young adulthood and knowing only a few is quite enough, thank you.]
…
I started this post a few days ago and my idea here was this: My Mom read every single word I ever wrote, and cut my columns out of the newspaper for almost ten years, saving them in an album. When the column ended, she lamented her “unwired” condition and as a result, couldn’t read my blog posts or online pieces easily. My goal with this piece was to help her understand how much her life and outlook has influenced me and given me a perspective I know I wouldn’t have had otherwise on many, many things. My plan was to read it to her, or at least print it out and share it that way.
When she learned of her cancer just two months ago, and the bleak prognosis, she broke down quietly with me and said, “Renee, I’m not ready.” We held each other and I just cried along with her because if I spoke it would have been to say. “I’m not either Mom. Don’t leave me.”
But because she was who she was, her next thought was, “What’s next? What do we do now?” And she moved on. To new specialists, a new hospitals and the procedures and a surgery that would arrest her condition.
Except it didn’t. And for the past five days, she has been in an intensive care unit, with no fewer than seven machines doing something for her. The yellow, blue, red, and turquoise lines that march across those screens look not unlike the rollercoaster I’m on inside.
She’s stable.
She’s slightly, just slightly in the littlest way improved.
We can’t expect much at this point.
She’s very, very sick.
She’s hanging in there.
She’s holding her own.
You need to be patient.
Let her know you’re supporting her.
Be positive.
We’ve heard these and more like it with all the best intentions from the medical people we talk with every day. All of them are some code for this: God knows. Truly: God knows what will happen here.
I’m tired of doctors asking me what I want to “do.” I want to talk to my Mom again. I want to hear her voice. I want to look at her, have her look at me – really see me – and smile at her. I want her to be comfortable. I want to tell her just one more time: I love you, and have her hear me.
I want her to be here. For a little while longer.
I’m positive that over my half century + in her life, I haven’t been all that she hoped for in one way or another. Couple of highlights: The day I told her that my boyfriend and I were quite committed to each other and no, I wasn’t still a virgin – that must have kept her up for many a night, and worn out a rosary along the way. The day I told her I wasn’t going to be married in ‘The Church,’ also not a celebratory moment in her life, I’m sure. Announcements like these distressed her, and she shared that emotion honestly but kindly. But I never felt any coldness or withdrawal from her when I let her down in some way. And after my own twenty-plus years of motherhood, I call that miraculous. Because honest emotion without judgment has to be the hardest thing ever with children, right? Loving them unconditionally sure; but not holding any resentment or sadness or even anger about what they’ve done or not done; about choices they’ve made in their own lives? I know that’s hard for me.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve sobbed on the phone or in her kitchen, dumping many of my life’s challenges into her always accessible lap. I wasn’t quite looking for answers or advice, although she often offered insight I valued. No, somewhere along the line I’ve discovered that I did it for one reason: To hear her tell me, “It will work out.” The days I would cry about some situation with one or more of my sons and she would say, “I have faith in him. I do. Everything will all be okay.”
As much as we’d all like to believe in nothing but happy endings, things that trouble me may or may not “work out” as she always claims they will. But it’s her certainty and her faith that inspire me. I feel certainty about almost nothing these days but I am just a little suspicious of anyone who exists in a relative sea of calm. That is; toward anyone – except my Mom.
If I wanted to take a more cynical approach to her attitude, I could call it her view through “rose-colored glasses” or quite frankly, her inexplicably and relentlessly positive point of view, when almost none of the facts would seem to offer her reasons for good cheer. I could say that choosing to believe in one good scrap of promise when the reality of a situation is telling you something quite the opposite gets you nowhere.
Or does it? Here’s what I do know – and part of me will always have a girlhood point of view on this, that can’t be helped: She married a complex but loving man with his own personal sadness and demons to fight, and never, ever gave up on the good person he was born to be. She saw the loving man he truly was despite the many aspects of his young life that were a challenge as he grew to adulthood and found his way into the world. During the worst periods of my dad’s alcoholism, she was the one steady, reliable force in our home daily; the parent my sisters and brother and I knew we could rely on for everything, everyday.
My sister and I talked recently about the response many reasonable, intelligent people would understandably have to discovering and then enduring life with an alcoholic spouse who had yet to reach sobriety. Anger, resentment, fear, withdrawal, bitterness, unfairness, anxiety, sadness, and abandonment come to mind. Add children into the marriage and quadruple all those reactions.
We felt none of them from my mother; a testament to the strong woman she is. I expect she spent many an evening crying to her own mom who, according to the stories I heard, listened but then reminded her of my dad’s many good qualities, of the man my grandmother knew was buried inside him, trapped under decades of abuse of one kind or another. She reminded my mom that her love and support was absolutely required if anything positive was to come about. [After my dad died, I learned only a few of the sad stories about his childhood and young adulthood and knowing only a few is quite enough, thank you.]
…
I started this post a few days ago and my idea here was this: My Mom read every single word I ever wrote, and cut my columns out of the newspaper for almost ten years, saving them in an album. When the column ended, she lamented her “unwired” condition and as a result, couldn’t read my blog posts or online pieces easily. My goal with this piece was to help her understand how much her life and outlook has influenced me and given me a perspective I know I wouldn’t have had otherwise on many, many things. My plan was to read it to her, or at least print it out and share it that way.
When she learned of her cancer just two months ago, and the bleak prognosis, she broke down quietly with me and said, “Renee, I’m not ready.” We held each other and I just cried along with her because if I spoke it would have been to say. “I’m not either Mom. Don’t leave me.”
But because she was who she was, her next thought was, “What’s next? What do we do now?” And she moved on. To new specialists, a new hospitals and the procedures and a surgery that would arrest her condition.
Except it didn’t. And for the past five days, she has been in an intensive care unit, with no fewer than seven machines doing something for her. The yellow, blue, red, and turquoise lines that march across those screens look not unlike the rollercoaster I’m on inside.
She’s stable.
She’s slightly, just slightly in the littlest way improved.
We can’t expect much at this point.
She’s very, very sick.
She’s hanging in there.
She’s holding her own.
You need to be patient.
Let her know you’re supporting her.
Be positive.
We’ve heard these and more like it with all the best intentions from the medical people we talk with every day. All of them are some code for this: God knows. Truly: God knows what will happen here.
I’m tired of doctors asking me what I want to “do.” I want to talk to my Mom again. I want to hear her voice. I want to look at her, have her look at me – really see me – and smile at her. I want her to be comfortable. I want to tell her just one more time: I love you, and have her hear me.
I want her to be here. For a little while longer.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Saint Monica would be weeping all over again. And I wouldn't blame her.
Let’s start today’s incrankulous thoughts with some context, shall we?
From Santa Monica.com:
1769: Father Juan Crespi -- a Franciscan in Gaspar de Portola’s expedition party -- inspired by a free-flowing natural spring names the area after Saint Monica, who wept for her wayward son.
“The city of Santa Monica's story began when a Franciscan monk, inspired by the region's natural springs, named the area after Saint Monica. The rest, as they say, is history, and a rich history at that.” Ho Nguyen - Santa Monica Historical Society
From The Catholic Encyclopedia and marypages.com, and I’m absolutely paraphrasing here; the prose the sites offer is much more complete and sober. But this is a blog, after all:
Turns out, St. Monica (b. 333) was a never-say-die kind of woman. The kind who refused to give up, no matter the circumstances. She and her husband, Patricius, had two sons, Navigius and Augustine, and a daughter, Perpetua. Old Pat, he was a pagan, an explosive man who wasn’t a complete joy let’s just say. Oh, he also despised Christians. As a bonus for Monica, her mother-in-law was not unlike her son in temperament. For thirty years, (that’s three zero) Monica lived with this tyrant/husband, always praying for his conversion.
Her example and piety finally prevailed. Patricius eventually converted to the faith, then up and died a year later.
Monica, not unlike other widows, said, “Never again” regarding marriage and moved in with her son Augustine in Italy. Now Augustine, being extremely bright and a young man of a certain age, had abandoned the faith of his youth and “subscribed to Manichaeism.” (Nope, of course I didn't know what that was either. According to the Catholic Encyclopedia, Manichaeism is a religion founded by the Persian Mani in the latter half of the third century. It purported to be the true synthesis of all the religious systems then known, and actually consisted of Zoroastrian Dualism, Babylonian folklore, Buddhist ethics, and some small and superficial additions of Christian elements. The theory of two eternal principles, good and evil is predominant and gives color to the whole. Manichæism is classified as a form of religious Dualism.)
So there was Monica. Devout, but sadly tormented. First by a husband who treated her like crap for thirty years before he turned over a new leaf, largely as a result of her never losing faith in him and the man he could become. Then by a son who turned to the new age religion of the day while away at school, and eventually moved in with his mistress, disappointing her in a different way.
Like any mother would, she tried to find help for him. When the Bishop himself intervened but struck out, he basically told Monica, “Sorry, he’s pretty stubborn. You better just keep praying.” More on the record, he encouraged her by saying something like, “It is impossible that the son of so many tears should perish.” Much more poetic, right?
So she did. She prayed and never gave up, and just seventeen short years later, it paid off. Augustine was baptized at the age of 28, and went on to become a priest.
When Monica died at the age of 56, Augustine had returned to the faith and her daughter had become a nun. (No word on Navigius. He may have been the boring but faithful son who never got headlines.)
Why this walk down St. Monica lane today? Because of the story in the news about the atheist group in Santa Monica that has prevailed this year and gained exposure for their philosophy this Winter Solstice Season in Santa Monica’s Palisades Park. Through a city lottery, they earned 18 of the 21 plots available to city groups for seasonal displays. The remaining three spots contain one Jewish display and two Christian ones.
Truthfully, none of this makes sense to me because it would appear that for at least 45 weeks a year, the Jewish and Christian groups in and around Santa Monica don’t angle for space to display scenes or symbols of their beliefs. The idea of offering space to them at this time of year makes sense to me but I’m not an atheist. In fact, I’m even going to allow that if I were, it might bug me to see enormous displays of something I believed to be fantasy on public display.
But here’s the part of the story that made me insane. According to Annie Laurie Gaylor, co-president of the Madison Wisconsin based Freedom From Religion Foundation, “[Christmas displays are] littering – literally littering – these spaces…[and are a] territorial attempt by Christians to impose their beliefs in this season. That creates an atmosphere of intimidation. Christians are the insiders, and everyone else is an outsider.”
Well…yeah. If you’re not a Christian, Christmas decorations and celebrations are irrelevant, and yes, possibly offensive, to you as an observer, although ‘imposing beliefs’ sounds a bit much to me.
In fact, it’s possible the displays feel not unlike the billboard from atheist.org that feature images of Poseidon, Jesus, and Santa Claus and labels them all as mythical figures. Wouldn't the same standards apply here? One could say “it is a territorial attempt by atheists to impose their beliefs in this season. That creates an atmosphere of intimidation. Atheists are the insiders, and everyone else is an outsider.” The billboard might very well offend Christians, or followers of ancient Greek religion for that matter.
We could go back and forth all day here so I'll move onto this: The other insane moment in the article I read was courtesy of Santa Monica atheist, Damon Vix. He remarked that the display “defines Santa Monica as a Christian city, and I feel excluded by that.” That’s unfortunate but at least his feelings are confined to the Christmas season.
Or are they? If he wants to feel excluded 52-weeks a year, I would respectfully direct Mr. Vix to SantaMonica.com, where he can stop on the history page. The city itself welcomes visitors to the site with references to a Franciscan monk and a Christian saint. Maybe the local atheists should leave the Hanukkah display and Christmas tableau alone and contact the city webmaster if they have a problem with the town, its tolerance of religion and its presence in their lives. I think their concerns go back almost 250 years.
From Santa Monica.com:
1769: Father Juan Crespi -- a Franciscan in Gaspar de Portola’s expedition party -- inspired by a free-flowing natural spring names the area after Saint Monica, who wept for her wayward son.
“The city of Santa Monica's story began when a Franciscan monk, inspired by the region's natural springs, named the area after Saint Monica. The rest, as they say, is history, and a rich history at that.” Ho Nguyen - Santa Monica Historical Society
From The Catholic Encyclopedia and marypages.com, and I’m absolutely paraphrasing here; the prose the sites offer is much more complete and sober. But this is a blog, after all:
Turns out, St. Monica (b. 333) was a never-say-die kind of woman. The kind who refused to give up, no matter the circumstances. She and her husband, Patricius, had two sons, Navigius and Augustine, and a daughter, Perpetua. Old Pat, he was a pagan, an explosive man who wasn’t a complete joy let’s just say. Oh, he also despised Christians. As a bonus for Monica, her mother-in-law was not unlike her son in temperament. For thirty years, (that’s three zero) Monica lived with this tyrant/husband, always praying for his conversion.
Her example and piety finally prevailed. Patricius eventually converted to the faith, then up and died a year later.
Monica, not unlike other widows, said, “Never again” regarding marriage and moved in with her son Augustine in Italy. Now Augustine, being extremely bright and a young man of a certain age, had abandoned the faith of his youth and “subscribed to Manichaeism.” (Nope, of course I didn't know what that was either. According to the Catholic Encyclopedia, Manichaeism is a religion founded by the Persian Mani in the latter half of the third century. It purported to be the true synthesis of all the religious systems then known, and actually consisted of Zoroastrian Dualism, Babylonian folklore, Buddhist ethics, and some small and superficial additions of Christian elements. The theory of two eternal principles, good and evil is predominant and gives color to the whole. Manichæism is classified as a form of religious Dualism.)
So there was Monica. Devout, but sadly tormented. First by a husband who treated her like crap for thirty years before he turned over a new leaf, largely as a result of her never losing faith in him and the man he could become. Then by a son who turned to the new age religion of the day while away at school, and eventually moved in with his mistress, disappointing her in a different way.
Like any mother would, she tried to find help for him. When the Bishop himself intervened but struck out, he basically told Monica, “Sorry, he’s pretty stubborn. You better just keep praying.” More on the record, he encouraged her by saying something like, “It is impossible that the son of so many tears should perish.” Much more poetic, right?
So she did. She prayed and never gave up, and just seventeen short years later, it paid off. Augustine was baptized at the age of 28, and went on to become a priest.
When Monica died at the age of 56, Augustine had returned to the faith and her daughter had become a nun. (No word on Navigius. He may have been the boring but faithful son who never got headlines.)
Why this walk down St. Monica lane today? Because of the story in the news about the atheist group in Santa Monica that has prevailed this year and gained exposure for their philosophy this Winter Solstice Season in Santa Monica’s Palisades Park. Through a city lottery, they earned 18 of the 21 plots available to city groups for seasonal displays. The remaining three spots contain one Jewish display and two Christian ones.
Truthfully, none of this makes sense to me because it would appear that for at least 45 weeks a year, the Jewish and Christian groups in and around Santa Monica don’t angle for space to display scenes or symbols of their beliefs. The idea of offering space to them at this time of year makes sense to me but I’m not an atheist. In fact, I’m even going to allow that if I were, it might bug me to see enormous displays of something I believed to be fantasy on public display.
But here’s the part of the story that made me insane. According to Annie Laurie Gaylor, co-president of the Madison Wisconsin based Freedom From Religion Foundation, “[Christmas displays are] littering – literally littering – these spaces…[and are a] territorial attempt by Christians to impose their beliefs in this season. That creates an atmosphere of intimidation. Christians are the insiders, and everyone else is an outsider.”
Well…yeah. If you’re not a Christian, Christmas decorations and celebrations are irrelevant, and yes, possibly offensive, to you as an observer, although ‘imposing beliefs’ sounds a bit much to me.
In fact, it’s possible the displays feel not unlike the billboard from atheist.org that feature images of Poseidon, Jesus, and Santa Claus and labels them all as mythical figures. Wouldn't the same standards apply here? One could say “it is a territorial attempt by atheists to impose their beliefs in this season. That creates an atmosphere of intimidation. Atheists are the insiders, and everyone else is an outsider.” The billboard might very well offend Christians, or followers of ancient Greek religion for that matter.
We could go back and forth all day here so I'll move onto this: The other insane moment in the article I read was courtesy of Santa Monica atheist, Damon Vix. He remarked that the display “defines Santa Monica as a Christian city, and I feel excluded by that.” That’s unfortunate but at least his feelings are confined to the Christmas season.
Or are they? If he wants to feel excluded 52-weeks a year, I would respectfully direct Mr. Vix to SantaMonica.com, where he can stop on the history page. The city itself welcomes visitors to the site with references to a Franciscan monk and a Christian saint. Maybe the local atheists should leave the Hanukkah display and Christmas tableau alone and contact the city webmaster if they have a problem with the town, its tolerance of religion and its presence in their lives. I think their concerns go back almost 250 years.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
I made it. So why do I feel this way?
I've been neglectful of my running tally and the ongoing virtual journey to Toronto. The good news is it wasn’t for lack of progress. Quite the opposite. In fact, Thanksgiving Day turned out to be auspicious. It was the day I reached my goal: 450 miles on the record this year, which places me somewhere north of Ontario, Canada. That means I made it. I did it. With my usual clarity and forethought, I based this whole program on exactly nothing and completed the journey one month earlier than I had planned.
The numbers look something like this (so far):
Average mileage per month: 42.5
Average mileage per run: just under 3 miles
Average number of days run / month: slightly more than 15
I found myself looking at the number at the end of November and thinking: well, I can’t stop now, right? I can run about 49 miles in December and hit 500, right? Right? I had logged that many miles (and more) in a month already. I could do it again, this time for the big payoff; the ‘extra’ mileage I never imagined I’d be able to claim.
Well, I might. But I might not. The month started off slowly and I have another 30 miles to go before the ball drops in Times Square again. Sure, I could do it. Sure I could.
The good news is I can always fall back on my “go to” movies to make the time pass more comfortably on the treadmill. For the record, these movies make my all-time, top eleven, always watchable, always distracting list. That means I’ll stop on them, knowing them well enough to not need every word; knowing they will engage me to the point where I can disengage from the numbers that are moving way, WAY too slowly on the mileage tracker or the timer, depending on how I’m running that night:
11 The Hangover
10 The Break Up
9 Leap Year
8 Tropic Thunder
7 The Muse
6 Rudy
5 Wedding Crashers
4 Along Came Polly
3 Forgetting Sarah Marshall
2 The Princess Bride
1 Groundhog Day
Three Vince Vaughn and two Jennifer Aniston? Why not – never said I was looking for deep while I run. I can barely manage it when I’m sitting still.
The thing is: I should be celebrating this accomplishment with a little more enthusiasm than I feel right now, shouldn’t I? Maybe it’s because my right knee is starting to ache a tiny little bit. (It does, really.) Maybe it’s because I wish it all felt more effortless than it did a year ago. (It doesn’t. Really.) I think it may be because I want to feel like a runner and I don’t. I’m not even sure what that means. Or maybe – and this is closer to my typical truth about lots and lots of things in life – actually accomplishing something might just mean it couldn’t have been that hard. More positively stated, I could say that my passion lies in the journey, not in the arrival.
The support I've felt – from personal friends and blog friends - all year long has inspired me to keep it up; to keep moving; to keep believing this is not at all insane. I can’t explain the kindness of so many, who wanted to help me succeed and meet my goals. Thank you doesn’t begin to cover it but thank you. You were my virtual pace group, keeping me on the road and focused.
So here I sit, or run, as the case may be, just about 31 miles away from hitting a total of 500 for the year. I have about 15 days to do it but let’s face it: they’re in the second half of December, when I just happen to have a couple of (dozen) other things to do. So I’ll aim for a nice round 475. That’s only six more miles. And then 480. And then, well, who can’t find time for 20 miles? Honestly, who? Me, probably, but you can see where this kind of thinking has gotten me: Just 468 miles from Allentown in eleven short months.
Who would’ve believed it? Certainly not I.
The numbers look something like this (so far):
Average mileage per month: 42.5
Average mileage per run: just under 3 miles
Average number of days run / month: slightly more than 15
I found myself looking at the number at the end of November and thinking: well, I can’t stop now, right? I can run about 49 miles in December and hit 500, right? Right? I had logged that many miles (and more) in a month already. I could do it again, this time for the big payoff; the ‘extra’ mileage I never imagined I’d be able to claim.
Well, I might. But I might not. The month started off slowly and I have another 30 miles to go before the ball drops in Times Square again. Sure, I could do it. Sure I could.
The good news is I can always fall back on my “go to” movies to make the time pass more comfortably on the treadmill. For the record, these movies make my all-time, top eleven, always watchable, always distracting list. That means I’ll stop on them, knowing them well enough to not need every word; knowing they will engage me to the point where I can disengage from the numbers that are moving way, WAY too slowly on the mileage tracker or the timer, depending on how I’m running that night:
11 The Hangover
10 The Break Up
9 Leap Year
8 Tropic Thunder
7 The Muse
6 Rudy
5 Wedding Crashers
4 Along Came Polly
3 Forgetting Sarah Marshall
2 The Princess Bride
1 Groundhog Day
Three Vince Vaughn and two Jennifer Aniston? Why not – never said I was looking for deep while I run. I can barely manage it when I’m sitting still.
The thing is: I should be celebrating this accomplishment with a little more enthusiasm than I feel right now, shouldn’t I? Maybe it’s because my right knee is starting to ache a tiny little bit. (It does, really.) Maybe it’s because I wish it all felt more effortless than it did a year ago. (It doesn’t. Really.) I think it may be because I want to feel like a runner and I don’t. I’m not even sure what that means. Or maybe – and this is closer to my typical truth about lots and lots of things in life – actually accomplishing something might just mean it couldn’t have been that hard. More positively stated, I could say that my passion lies in the journey, not in the arrival.
The support I've felt – from personal friends and blog friends - all year long has inspired me to keep it up; to keep moving; to keep believing this is not at all insane. I can’t explain the kindness of so many, who wanted to help me succeed and meet my goals. Thank you doesn’t begin to cover it but thank you. You were my virtual pace group, keeping me on the road and focused.
So here I sit, or run, as the case may be, just about 31 miles away from hitting a total of 500 for the year. I have about 15 days to do it but let’s face it: they’re in the second half of December, when I just happen to have a couple of (dozen) other things to do. So I’ll aim for a nice round 475. That’s only six more miles. And then 480. And then, well, who can’t find time for 20 miles? Honestly, who? Me, probably, but you can see where this kind of thinking has gotten me: Just 468 miles from Allentown in eleven short months.
Who would’ve believed it? Certainly not I.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Kind and generous doesn't do this reunion justice. But it's a start.
The only thing more surprising than having a 35th High School reunion – that feels like it can’t be true, but it is – was learning that not only did our class have a “theme song,” apparently we sang it at graduation. No memory of that. Zip. It was the almost inevitable “You’ve Got a Friend,” a title that will always aggravate the English major in me.
But my legendary, terrible memory skills aside - and they were in full view last night as I said at least a dozen times to various friends, “Sorry, I have no memory of that. Nope, don’t remember that either. What? We did that? We went where? How can you remember that?” - seeing everyone last night was a gift. These friendships, formed so many years ago when we had our entire lives filled with dreams, when we were facing decades of discovery about just who we would become, felt renewed, fresh and alive, even as we’ve all indisputably entered what I’ve heard someone call the youth of old age. Yes, we’re all 50 + but we’re also the ‘kids’ in AARP.
Seeing someone after thirty-five years: how do you even begin that conversation? First, you get past that nano-second in your brain going, “Name? NAME? NAME!! Oh – got it…Hi!!! How are you? Whew.” (Maybe that was just me because everyone else knew everyone else immediately. See the notes about memory or lack thereof above.) But back to the conversation. Sure, a glass of wine helps, just as it helps with many things in life. And in a way, I felt very humbled and blessed to have many old friends already feel a connection because of my writing over the years. We inevitably caught up on kids, marriage(s), jobs, and life. I loved hearing about the paths we’ve taken, and meeting their partners, who, like my own, played heroic and indefatigable “good sport” roles by patiently meeting dozens of people and then nodding, smiling and saying where they were from or what they did for a living dozens of times as well.
But what I really wanted to say was something like this: ‘Remember us? Remember when we were 17? Remember what we thought was important or life-altering back then? We’re different now but then again, maybe we’re not…in a good way. Maybe we’re still almost exactly who we used to be in the hundreds of small ways that really matter, and despite everything that’s different about us and who we've become, we can still share a hug and a kiss, a smile, a kind word.’
I didn’t, of course.
Seeing old classmates, vibrant, fun, accomplished and caring people, was a moment of restoration for me. These last few months, which have been some of the most challenging in my life, took a back seat to the realization that friendships from our youth may grow hazy but they never quite leave our consciousness. They make up huge parts of the ‘glory days’ Springsteen sings so energetically about in his song. They’re part of us - of who we turned out to be. It’s impossible to know whom we would have become without the people who sat right beside us, everyday in our classes, our clubs, our activities, some of whom we’ve known almost our entire lives. Yes, decades have passed and yes, we’ve long since ‘grown up.’ But some part of us still imagines each other as we were, standing on the brink of our lives; waiting to join the adults and really begin our lives.
And thirty-five years ago, not one of us could have predicted what that would mean. The intervening years may have seen some of us grow wealthy or fulfilled by a career. They have included heartache and pain as a result of lost marriages, long walks down Green Day's boulevard of broken dreams or challenging circumstances of many kinds. We’ve lost spouses, parents, siblings, and children. We’ve lost some classmates. But for those of us who gathered for the evening, we rediscovered this one true thing: we're here; and we’re all better people for having known each other. I believe that now, maybe more than I ever could have imagined in 1976.
So like everyone there, I shared my story and listened and just loved the moment. The unassailable fact is that we will always have our history as classmates. We can live six blocks from our childhood homes or across the world, and we’ll always be part of that group of people who formed a little community for that particular moment in time.
I joined the circle of my classmates, holding hands and singing along with James to close out the evening. But as the song played on, I sang more softly and just looked at the group, thinking: this is one of those images that will linger; the legendary tie that binds. But not a heavy, cumbersome chain; more like a strong silky thread that connects us; loose and flexible but unbreakable.
I’m not a poet but Natalie Merchant is and the lyrics of Kind and Generous seem more than appropriate here. To the Class of ’76, I thank you for who you were then, who you are now, and for sharing the ride.
Kind and Generous
You've been so kind and generous
I don't know how you keep on giving
For your kindness I'm in debt to you
For your selflessness, my admiration
And for everything you've done
You know I'm bound...I'm bound to thank you for it
You've been so kind and generous
I don't know how you keep on giving
For your kindness I'm in debt to you
And I never could have come this far without you
So for everything you've done
You know I'm bound...I'm bound to thank you for it
I want to thank you for so many gifts you gave with love and tenderness
I want to thank you
I want to thank you for your generosity
The love and the honesty that you gave me
I want to thank you; show my gratitude
My love and my respect for you; I want to thank you
I want to...
Thank you
But my legendary, terrible memory skills aside - and they were in full view last night as I said at least a dozen times to various friends, “Sorry, I have no memory of that. Nope, don’t remember that either. What? We did that? We went where? How can you remember that?” - seeing everyone last night was a gift. These friendships, formed so many years ago when we had our entire lives filled with dreams, when we were facing decades of discovery about just who we would become, felt renewed, fresh and alive, even as we’ve all indisputably entered what I’ve heard someone call the youth of old age. Yes, we’re all 50 + but we’re also the ‘kids’ in AARP.
Seeing someone after thirty-five years: how do you even begin that conversation? First, you get past that nano-second in your brain going, “Name? NAME? NAME!! Oh – got it…Hi!!! How are you? Whew.” (Maybe that was just me because everyone else knew everyone else immediately. See the notes about memory or lack thereof above.) But back to the conversation. Sure, a glass of wine helps, just as it helps with many things in life. And in a way, I felt very humbled and blessed to have many old friends already feel a connection because of my writing over the years. We inevitably caught up on kids, marriage(s), jobs, and life. I loved hearing about the paths we’ve taken, and meeting their partners, who, like my own, played heroic and indefatigable “good sport” roles by patiently meeting dozens of people and then nodding, smiling and saying where they were from or what they did for a living dozens of times as well.
But what I really wanted to say was something like this: ‘Remember us? Remember when we were 17? Remember what we thought was important or life-altering back then? We’re different now but then again, maybe we’re not…in a good way. Maybe we’re still almost exactly who we used to be in the hundreds of small ways that really matter, and despite everything that’s different about us and who we've become, we can still share a hug and a kiss, a smile, a kind word.’
I didn’t, of course.
Seeing old classmates, vibrant, fun, accomplished and caring people, was a moment of restoration for me. These last few months, which have been some of the most challenging in my life, took a back seat to the realization that friendships from our youth may grow hazy but they never quite leave our consciousness. They make up huge parts of the ‘glory days’ Springsteen sings so energetically about in his song. They’re part of us - of who we turned out to be. It’s impossible to know whom we would have become without the people who sat right beside us, everyday in our classes, our clubs, our activities, some of whom we’ve known almost our entire lives. Yes, decades have passed and yes, we’ve long since ‘grown up.’ But some part of us still imagines each other as we were, standing on the brink of our lives; waiting to join the adults and really begin our lives.
And thirty-five years ago, not one of us could have predicted what that would mean. The intervening years may have seen some of us grow wealthy or fulfilled by a career. They have included heartache and pain as a result of lost marriages, long walks down Green Day's boulevard of broken dreams or challenging circumstances of many kinds. We’ve lost spouses, parents, siblings, and children. We’ve lost some classmates. But for those of us who gathered for the evening, we rediscovered this one true thing: we're here; and we’re all better people for having known each other. I believe that now, maybe more than I ever could have imagined in 1976.
So like everyone there, I shared my story and listened and just loved the moment. The unassailable fact is that we will always have our history as classmates. We can live six blocks from our childhood homes or across the world, and we’ll always be part of that group of people who formed a little community for that particular moment in time.
I joined the circle of my classmates, holding hands and singing along with James to close out the evening. But as the song played on, I sang more softly and just looked at the group, thinking: this is one of those images that will linger; the legendary tie that binds. But not a heavy, cumbersome chain; more like a strong silky thread that connects us; loose and flexible but unbreakable.
I’m not a poet but Natalie Merchant is and the lyrics of Kind and Generous seem more than appropriate here. To the Class of ’76, I thank you for who you were then, who you are now, and for sharing the ride.
Kind and Generous
You've been so kind and generous
I don't know how you keep on giving
For your kindness I'm in debt to you
For your selflessness, my admiration
And for everything you've done
You know I'm bound...I'm bound to thank you for it
You've been so kind and generous
I don't know how you keep on giving
For your kindness I'm in debt to you
And I never could have come this far without you
So for everything you've done
You know I'm bound...I'm bound to thank you for it
I want to thank you for so many gifts you gave with love and tenderness
I want to thank you
I want to thank you for your generosity
The love and the honesty that you gave me
I want to thank you; show my gratitude
My love and my respect for you; I want to thank you
I want to...
Thank you
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Appropo of nothing: one women's perspective on men.
I was looking for an old email and came across this one instead. It started out as an internet note that was passed from person to person for fun - you remember those days; in the time before everyone posted everything that crossed our path or our minds on Facebook or sent tweets every nineteen minutes?
So without much further ado, and with great affection for the many wonderful men I know and love, while you're feeling properly grateful for those you love, here's a little perspective on why men and women might not ever quite sync up. And why that's mostly funny, not fatal.
Note: The list is the original email list; my comments on the list are in italics below each item.
Here are the rules from the male side. Please note: these are all numbered "1" ON PURPOSE!
# 1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.
Maybe that's because you'd feel pretty uncomfortable trying to....oh , never mind.
# 1. Sometimes we are not thinking about you. Live with it.
OK, that makes sense. But I guess most of us would like to believe you'd be thinking about us at least twice a year, say - on our birthday or anniversary without us hitting you over the head???? See # 1 below.
# 1. Sunday = sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.
Fine by me. What day of the week is our day? I forget.
# 1. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.
Except when we're shopping for electronics.
# 1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it! We'll get it for you, but just LET US KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!!!
We want men who ignore these rules.
# 1. We don't remember dates. Mark birthdays and anniversaries on the calendar. Remind us frequently beforehand.
We don't remember the last time we put oil in the car, or when your next dentist appointment is, or what time the cable guy is supposed to come, or when the permission slip and field trip money is due, or when the dog needs to go to the vet. I guess we should write it down. Please remind us frequently.
# 1. Most guys own three pairs of shoes. What makes you think we'd be any good at choosing which pair, out of thirty, would look good with your dress?
Just trying to please the one we love.
# 1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question. Please pick one.
Please see the question #1 below about being fat. The answer is NO. Use it please.
# 1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.
And apparently, they're also to help us find something to do on Sundays.
# 1. A headache that lasts for seventeen months is a problem. See a doctor.
A cold is not necessarily life threatening. Take a Tylenol.
# 1. Let us know about that funny noise in your car engine as soon as you hear it.
And put that new roll on as soon as the old one is empty.
# 1. Anything we said six months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after seven days.
Except the wedding vows, right?????
# 1. If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't expect us act like soap opera guys.
We might if we got the right answer to the next question.
# 1. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us. We refuse to answer, but still love you.
See above re yes and no questions.
# 1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.
We did, too.
# 1. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.
Got it. It would probably be something like: I'm leaving to go shopping with my girlfriends and talk about our relationship, get some sympathy and celebrate my birthday. And by the way, the car is smoking a little bit every time I hit the brakes and your mom’s birthday is on Tuesday.
# 1. Christopher Columbus did not need directions, and neither do we.
Yeah, but he was on his way to India for God's sake!! He ended up somewhere else as I recall.
# 1. The relationship is never going to be like it was the first two months we were going out. Get over it. And quit whining to your girlfriends.
You don't have to tell me! I live here, remember? Besides, didn’t you just tell me that's what my girlfr….forget it.
# 1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what Mauve is.
And we have no idea what "special teams" do and why if they're on every football team on the planet they're so freakin' special to begin with.
# 1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.
Except on Sunday, right??
# 1. We are not mind readers and we never will be. Our lack of mind-reading ability is not proof of how little we care about you.
How come everybody knows what Lee Corso is thinking?
# 1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine. Really, you look fine!!
Change "fine" to "beautiful" and you've got a deal.
# 1. NASCAR is as exciting for us as handbags are for you.
Handbags??? Try SHOES.
# 1. I AM in shape. ROUND is a shape
Me too.
# 1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight, but did you know we really don't mind that? It's like camping.
We don't mind, either. We get the remote in the bedroom.
So without much further ado, and with great affection for the many wonderful men I know and love, while you're feeling properly grateful for those you love, here's a little perspective on why men and women might not ever quite sync up. And why that's mostly funny, not fatal.
Note: The list is the original email list; my comments on the list are in italics below each item.
Here are the rules from the male side. Please note: these are all numbered "1" ON PURPOSE!
# 1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.
Maybe that's because you'd feel pretty uncomfortable trying to....oh , never mind.
# 1. Sometimes we are not thinking about you. Live with it.
OK, that makes sense. But I guess most of us would like to believe you'd be thinking about us at least twice a year, say - on our birthday or anniversary without us hitting you over the head???? See # 1 below.
# 1. Sunday = sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.
Fine by me. What day of the week is our day? I forget.
# 1. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.
Except when we're shopping for electronics.
# 1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it! We'll get it for you, but just LET US KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!!!
We want men who ignore these rules.
# 1. We don't remember dates. Mark birthdays and anniversaries on the calendar. Remind us frequently beforehand.
We don't remember the last time we put oil in the car, or when your next dentist appointment is, or what time the cable guy is supposed to come, or when the permission slip and field trip money is due, or when the dog needs to go to the vet. I guess we should write it down. Please remind us frequently.
# 1. Most guys own three pairs of shoes. What makes you think we'd be any good at choosing which pair, out of thirty, would look good with your dress?
Just trying to please the one we love.
# 1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question. Please pick one.
Please see the question #1 below about being fat. The answer is NO. Use it please.
# 1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.
And apparently, they're also to help us find something to do on Sundays.
# 1. A headache that lasts for seventeen months is a problem. See a doctor.
A cold is not necessarily life threatening. Take a Tylenol.
# 1. Let us know about that funny noise in your car engine as soon as you hear it.
And put that new roll on as soon as the old one is empty.
# 1. Anything we said six months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after seven days.
Except the wedding vows, right?????
# 1. If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't expect us act like soap opera guys.
We might if we got the right answer to the next question.
# 1. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us. We refuse to answer, but still love you.
See above re yes and no questions.
# 1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.
We did, too.
# 1. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.
Got it. It would probably be something like: I'm leaving to go shopping with my girlfriends and talk about our relationship, get some sympathy and celebrate my birthday. And by the way, the car is smoking a little bit every time I hit the brakes and your mom’s birthday is on Tuesday.
# 1. Christopher Columbus did not need directions, and neither do we.
Yeah, but he was on his way to India for God's sake!! He ended up somewhere else as I recall.
# 1. The relationship is never going to be like it was the first two months we were going out. Get over it. And quit whining to your girlfriends.
You don't have to tell me! I live here, remember? Besides, didn’t you just tell me that's what my girlfr….forget it.
# 1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what Mauve is.
And we have no idea what "special teams" do and why if they're on every football team on the planet they're so freakin' special to begin with.
# 1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.
Except on Sunday, right??
# 1. We are not mind readers and we never will be. Our lack of mind-reading ability is not proof of how little we care about you.
How come everybody knows what Lee Corso is thinking?
# 1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine. Really, you look fine!!
Change "fine" to "beautiful" and you've got a deal.
# 1. NASCAR is as exciting for us as handbags are for you.
Handbags??? Try SHOES.
# 1. I AM in shape. ROUND is a shape
Me too.
# 1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight, but did you know we really don't mind that? It's like camping.
We don't mind, either. We get the remote in the bedroom.
Friday, November 04, 2011
Just say no, thank you. And send Kim down the street to the next house.
An Open Letter to every book publisher on the planet:
Please, for the love of everything we hold sacred, take a breath. I guarantee you – absolutely guarantee you – that if none of you choose to publish Kim Kardashian’s soon to be shopped around tell-all about her 72 days of wedding hell, you won’t receive nor read even one letter, email, tweet, fax, facebook post, text or voice mail from the book-buying public, demanding that you give poor Kim the platform she needs to tell her story.
To publishers who have all the money and confidence in the world that book will rack up record-breaking sales, please put the money to better use. Take the advance you were going to pay Ms. Kardashian to bear her wounded soul to the world and donate it to women’s shelters, reforestation efforts or your favorite rehab center. It may do some actual good and reach people or causes that need financial support.
To the editors who have held meetings since Wednesday about how to approach Kim’s very busy agent and put together the best deal for everyone: please stop right now. Promise yourself that if anyone in your entire building is still talking about Kim and the seemingly inconsequential Kris in two weeks, you’ll make that phone call and begin negotiations. Wait – make that one week.
To marketing teams who apparently have pictures of endcaps, table displays and book signings that are all but scheduled dancing in their heads, stop being so lazy. Commit to marketing good but unknown writers who have an actual voice and talent. Use all your efforts and good old-fashioned sell-in skills (remember those?) to help them find the readers they deserve.
I don’t expect this will make one bit of difference to anyone who makes these decisions. Times are hard and easy money is easy money. But what I will never understand is how the same publishing industry that participates in the erudite National Book Awards annually and nominates mostly obscure, literary writers for lofty awards and virtually dismisses “popular” fiction as too base and tawdry for consideration, could also be the same publishers who compete for a book from the likes of Kim or any number of “famous for being famous” people like her. It makes no sense. Who are you?
Once again, the genius of Ricky Gervais / Andy Millman on “Extras” rings true. To update his final episode, brilliant observation slightly, I have to agree: “The Victorian freak show never went away. But now it’s called Kim Kardashian or Lindsay Lohan or Snooki or Chaz.”
God help us, we’re still lining up for tickets. The question is: do we blame the ticket seller or ourselves?
Please, for the love of everything we hold sacred, take a breath. I guarantee you – absolutely guarantee you – that if none of you choose to publish Kim Kardashian’s soon to be shopped around tell-all about her 72 days of wedding hell, you won’t receive nor read even one letter, email, tweet, fax, facebook post, text or voice mail from the book-buying public, demanding that you give poor Kim the platform she needs to tell her story.
To publishers who have all the money and confidence in the world that book will rack up record-breaking sales, please put the money to better use. Take the advance you were going to pay Ms. Kardashian to bear her wounded soul to the world and donate it to women’s shelters, reforestation efforts or your favorite rehab center. It may do some actual good and reach people or causes that need financial support.
To the editors who have held meetings since Wednesday about how to approach Kim’s very busy agent and put together the best deal for everyone: please stop right now. Promise yourself that if anyone in your entire building is still talking about Kim and the seemingly inconsequential Kris in two weeks, you’ll make that phone call and begin negotiations. Wait – make that one week.
To marketing teams who apparently have pictures of endcaps, table displays and book signings that are all but scheduled dancing in their heads, stop being so lazy. Commit to marketing good but unknown writers who have an actual voice and talent. Use all your efforts and good old-fashioned sell-in skills (remember those?) to help them find the readers they deserve.
I don’t expect this will make one bit of difference to anyone who makes these decisions. Times are hard and easy money is easy money. But what I will never understand is how the same publishing industry that participates in the erudite National Book Awards annually and nominates mostly obscure, literary writers for lofty awards and virtually dismisses “popular” fiction as too base and tawdry for consideration, could also be the same publishers who compete for a book from the likes of Kim or any number of “famous for being famous” people like her. It makes no sense. Who are you?
Once again, the genius of Ricky Gervais / Andy Millman on “Extras” rings true. To update his final episode, brilliant observation slightly, I have to agree: “The Victorian freak show never went away. But now it’s called Kim Kardashian or Lindsay Lohan or Snooki or Chaz.”
God help us, we’re still lining up for tickets. The question is: do we blame the ticket seller or ourselves?
Monday, October 24, 2011
Why no! You won't be surprised to hear my costume isn't ready.
Top 5 US Holidays according to a survey of American men and women:
1. Christmas
2. Thanksgiving
3. Well, let's hold on this one for a moment...
4. Independence Day
5. Easter
Number Three is the tricky one here; that's where the survey takes a bit of a turn. In fact, depending on who is answering, the list changes from group to group.
For a few groups (Echo Boomers, age 18 - 34; Generation X, age 35 - 46 and women), HALLOWEEN ranks third.
For Baby Boomers (47 - 65), Matures (66 +) and men, INDEPENDENCE DAY comes in third.
Let's translate, shall we?
Women are fans of gifts (giving and receiving), food (preparing and eating) and candy + costumes.
Men appear to be fans of gifts (giving and receiving), food (preparing and eating) and food + fire.
I guess many women feel this way: if I get to buy and eat candy and dress like a slutty nurse or a witch while I do, well, that works for me. Personally, I can't quite relate because while I am an enormous fan of candy of almost any kind, dressing up for Halloween never did much for me. In fact, regular readers of my now departed newspaper column will remember that every single year, I was always the mother who was stunned year after year when the end of October arrived and it was Halloween again. Not only was I the one who bought the boys' costumes from catalogs, I paid FedEx for overnight delivery.
Thankfully, they had their dad. He could somehow coordinate three reasonably good costumes for them out of nothing in a matter of hours; I'm not kidding. Give him an old coat, a tennis racquet and a hardhat and he'd turn random accessories into costumes that were somehow pretty good. God knows how he did it.
Back to the survey: It's not that women don't like celebrating Fourth of July; we do. It's just fifth in a list of five. You'll note it comes in after another religious-with-heavy-candy-overtones-holiday: Easter.
Number 5 for men? New Year's Eve.
Personal sidebar: Yet another holiday that never did much for me. Over-rated; too many expectations. When I was younger and single, I either worried about the date I had or the date I didn't have. When I was younger and in love, I appreciated the sure-thing-of-it all. When I married and realized I'd never have to think about New Year's Eve in a certain way again, I was relieved. These days, the holiday arrives and it's become the perfect opportunity for me to brood about the year that has passed and the year to come.
Many men - not all certainly - may like Thanksgiving and New Year's because of the football games that take place on those holidays. That means food, drink and sports. Some might call it the trifecta of a perfect day. (I wouldn't, but some might.)
Maybe men also think this on December 31: festive party + drinks = maybe I'll get lucky. With my wife. Maybe.
You know what women are thinking? Only about six weeks until another national holiday built around candy.
Sunday, October 09, 2011
G'night everybody! Tip your waiters and waitresses!!!
Sometimes it takes one comment from one reader to remind me that it’s not all a drag. That not everything is as bleak as I might imagine it is, and that’s on my good days. Thank you, c.c.!
Coincidentally, I just finished a book called Heidegger and a Hippo Walk Through Those Pearly Gates, by Thomas Cathcart and Daniel Klein. Now, before everyone gets worked up, I fully admit I’m not nearly smart enough to understand at least two-thirds of this book but in terms of philosophy, debating philosophers and trying to figure out why we’re on this planet, it’s about as close as I’ll ever get.
And in that spirit, I share the following with you. Made me smile and once again, reminded me that a little perspective and a good dose of humor can really help smooth out a path that feels a little rocky these days. Enjoy.
So Heidegger and a hippo stroll up to the Pearly Gates and St. Peter says, “Listen, we’ve only got room for one more today. So whoever of the two of you gives me the best answer to the question, ‘what is the meaning of life,’ gets to come in.”
And Heidegger says, “To think Being itself explicitly requires disregarding Being to the extent that it is only grounded and interpreted in terms of beings and for beings as their ground, as in all metaphyics.”
But before the hippo can grunt one word, Saint Peter says to him, “Today’s your lucky day, Hippy!”
Coincidentally, I just finished a book called Heidegger and a Hippo Walk Through Those Pearly Gates, by Thomas Cathcart and Daniel Klein. Now, before everyone gets worked up, I fully admit I’m not nearly smart enough to understand at least two-thirds of this book but in terms of philosophy, debating philosophers and trying to figure out why we’re on this planet, it’s about as close as I’ll ever get.
And in that spirit, I share the following with you. Made me smile and once again, reminded me that a little perspective and a good dose of humor can really help smooth out a path that feels a little rocky these days. Enjoy.
So Heidegger and a hippo stroll up to the Pearly Gates and St. Peter says, “Listen, we’ve only got room for one more today. So whoever of the two of you gives me the best answer to the question, ‘what is the meaning of life,’ gets to come in.”
And Heidegger says, “To think Being itself explicitly requires disregarding Being to the extent that it is only grounded and interpreted in terms of beings and for beings as their ground, as in all metaphyics.”
But before the hippo can grunt one word, Saint Peter says to him, “Today’s your lucky day, Hippy!”
Monday, October 03, 2011
Grimsby Ontario feels anything but grim.
I made it I made it I made it I made it. On screen anyway.
I've "arrived" in Canada and am now near a town called Grimsby, Ontario. As of September 30, I'm in pretty good shape to complete my virtual run from Pennsylvania to Canada, which may put me significantly ahead of my goal of running 450 miles this year. If I keep up my pace, I'll complete about 500 miles for the year. In fact, September was my best month ever. I ran about fifty miles, and on several days ran longer distances than I had run previously.
For those who need the numbers (AKA Capricorns):
375 down
75 more to go
3 months to do it...
which means...
25 miles a month
or about 6.25 miles a week
or about 1.5 miles / run, 4 times a week
Since my monthly goal at the outset was 37.5 miles, you can see where I may, in fact, overshoot Toronto.
No, I have no explanation for that.
No, I would have never anticipated that come the beginning of October, I would still find myself on track to reach my goal. The fact is I can’t quite believe I’ve been running every week for about a year and half now.
As I think about this, it occurs to me that I can’t remember the last long term commitment I made to anything. That’s kind of troubling. I’ve made plenty of false starts and plenty of resolutions about doing something differently, trying something new, or even believing in something more fervently than I ever had before. All resolutions that meant something to me and flickered brightly for a short time and then burned out.
So what's that about? When I find myself in this kind of mood I think about the speech Andy Millman (the character Ricky Gervais brilliantly embodied in his show, Extras) gave when he described his lack of initiative or dedication on camera: “I would have loved to have been a doctor. Too hard. Didn’t want to put the work in. I’d have loved to have been a war hero. I’m too scared. So I go [referring to his career as an entertainer]: ‘Oh, it’s what I do.’ ”
I’m not saying I wanted a medical or military career and that I am sorely disappointed in myself. It’s more about the frustration I often feel about trying to be ...hmmmm...more than I really am? Or maybe a better version of myself? In my head, I’m always open to new ideas and new experiences; open to the ways I can explore what's possible and where that might take me. But in reality: not so much.
I'm going to stick with my "professional" life for now and list a couple of the plans I make in my head regularly to give you a sense of my immobility.
Today is always the day I’m going to register that amazing domain name for the website I thought about starting something like nine years ago. Which means that by now it should probably be an app, not a website. Which would mean so much more to me if I ever used any apps.
It’s the day I’m going to begin writing the business plan for the Shoe-of-the-Month Club (and idea I had circa 1995) that it's now too late to do: Kim or Khloe or some other Kardashian attached her name to the idea already and it's up and running.
It’s the week I’m going to start submitting weekly columns to the websites who have published my work. (Immediately following this resolution, while staring at a blank screen, I begin to wonder how in the world I wrote and submitted weekly newspaper columns for something like eight or nine years.)
It’s the week I’m going to find a new agent and figure out how to refresh the well-received but unpublished book that sits on top of the trunk in my bedroom. (Summary of every rejection letter my now retired agent shared with me: "Love this!! Love the writing, love the voice. Who is she?? Does she have a show on NPR, CNN, MSNBC, a national column, a reality show appearance or a syndicated deal??") Note to self: find a place for that manuscript and put it away.
Oh wait, no, it’s the day I’m going to figure out that “i-universe” thing and self-publish the book.
And one more, semi-professionally related:
It’s the day I’m absolutely going to call my old therapist and beg him to see me. (Luckily, this would be an easy appointment for him. As you’ve already no doubt concluded, not much has changed since the last time we spoke.)
I’m ignoring the list of the day-to-day projects large and small I seem to think I’ll begin any minute now, but don’t. In reality, describing myself as someone who is ‘risk averse’ is like calling Tiger Woods someone who flirts a lot. The positive spin is to imagine that I’m basically “content.” Another word that springs to mind: lazy. And yet another: fearful. God knows.
I envy – okay, I admit it – I envy the energy and activity I see so many people exhibiting in so many parts of their lives. Friends who are discovering their Act 2, or even Act 3 in some cases; trying something kind of scary but rewarding. They believe in something I would quietly see as “impossible” and then they make it possible, and positive.
How does everyone else do this? How do you ignore the small but relentless voice inside that says with enormous conviction, "You can't do this," without succumbing to the b-s voice that cheers and screams, "You're awesome! You can do anything you want!!!" Is there a middle ground, where realism meets creativity?
Maybe all of this reinvention and resolve to drive ourselves to the next level of success is a technology-driven phenomenon. As I've said before, we're way beyond Thoreau at this point: we're living lives of strident desperation. We seem to want to be seen, heard, and adored by everyone. Our parents seemed to live satisfying lives. They were mostly content to be the co-stars of their own stories; to be part of an ensemble cast in the local theater company. These days, many of us want to be the star on a worldwide tour.
As Andy Millman put it, "The Victorian freak show never went away. But now it's called Big Brother or American Idol...." This may be one of those "careful what you wish for" moments.
All this to say, my partial paralysis in so many parts of my life is probably the only reason I’ve refused to give up on my annual resolution. I've stated my intentions and am determined to see it through. Given my history, it’s a minor miracle that I actually started the run and it's even more astounding that I’m still on it. I’m proud of my tenacity. I’m almost to the point where even I believe I’m going to make it and feel proud of taking on the challenge and meeting it.
Now I just need to figure out how to translate that into the rest of my life, without entering the freak show.
I've "arrived" in Canada and am now near a town called Grimsby, Ontario. As of September 30, I'm in pretty good shape to complete my virtual run from Pennsylvania to Canada, which may put me significantly ahead of my goal of running 450 miles this year. If I keep up my pace, I'll complete about 500 miles for the year. In fact, September was my best month ever. I ran about fifty miles, and on several days ran longer distances than I had run previously.
For those who need the numbers (AKA Capricorns):
375 down
75 more to go
3 months to do it...
which means...
25 miles a month
or about 6.25 miles a week
or about 1.5 miles / run, 4 times a week
Since my monthly goal at the outset was 37.5 miles, you can see where I may, in fact, overshoot Toronto.
No, I have no explanation for that.
No, I would have never anticipated that come the beginning of October, I would still find myself on track to reach my goal. The fact is I can’t quite believe I’ve been running every week for about a year and half now.
As I think about this, it occurs to me that I can’t remember the last long term commitment I made to anything. That’s kind of troubling. I’ve made plenty of false starts and plenty of resolutions about doing something differently, trying something new, or even believing in something more fervently than I ever had before. All resolutions that meant something to me and flickered brightly for a short time and then burned out.
So what's that about? When I find myself in this kind of mood I think about the speech Andy Millman (the character Ricky Gervais brilliantly embodied in his show, Extras) gave when he described his lack of initiative or dedication on camera: “I would have loved to have been a doctor. Too hard. Didn’t want to put the work in. I’d have loved to have been a war hero. I’m too scared. So I go [referring to his career as an entertainer]: ‘Oh, it’s what I do.’ ”
I’m not saying I wanted a medical or military career and that I am sorely disappointed in myself. It’s more about the frustration I often feel about trying to be ...hmmmm...more than I really am? Or maybe a better version of myself? In my head, I’m always open to new ideas and new experiences; open to the ways I can explore what's possible and where that might take me. But in reality: not so much.
I'm going to stick with my "professional" life for now and list a couple of the plans I make in my head regularly to give you a sense of my immobility.
Today is always the day I’m going to register that amazing domain name for the website I thought about starting something like nine years ago. Which means that by now it should probably be an app, not a website. Which would mean so much more to me if I ever used any apps.
It’s the day I’m going to begin writing the business plan for the Shoe-of-the-Month Club (and idea I had circa 1995) that it's now too late to do: Kim or Khloe or some other Kardashian attached her name to the idea already and it's up and running.
It’s the week I’m going to start submitting weekly columns to the websites who have published my work. (Immediately following this resolution, while staring at a blank screen, I begin to wonder how in the world I wrote and submitted weekly newspaper columns for something like eight or nine years.)
It’s the week I’m going to find a new agent and figure out how to refresh the well-received but unpublished book that sits on top of the trunk in my bedroom. (Summary of every rejection letter my now retired agent shared with me: "Love this!! Love the writing, love the voice. Who is she?? Does she have a show on NPR, CNN, MSNBC, a national column, a reality show appearance or a syndicated deal??") Note to self: find a place for that manuscript and put it away.
Oh wait, no, it’s the day I’m going to figure out that “i-universe” thing and self-publish the book.
And one more, semi-professionally related:
It’s the day I’m absolutely going to call my old therapist and beg him to see me. (Luckily, this would be an easy appointment for him. As you’ve already no doubt concluded, not much has changed since the last time we spoke.)
I’m ignoring the list of the day-to-day projects large and small I seem to think I’ll begin any minute now, but don’t. In reality, describing myself as someone who is ‘risk averse’ is like calling Tiger Woods someone who flirts a lot. The positive spin is to imagine that I’m basically “content.” Another word that springs to mind: lazy. And yet another: fearful. God knows.
I envy – okay, I admit it – I envy the energy and activity I see so many people exhibiting in so many parts of their lives. Friends who are discovering their Act 2, or even Act 3 in some cases; trying something kind of scary but rewarding. They believe in something I would quietly see as “impossible” and then they make it possible, and positive.
How does everyone else do this? How do you ignore the small but relentless voice inside that says with enormous conviction, "You can't do this," without succumbing to the b-s voice that cheers and screams, "You're awesome! You can do anything you want!!!" Is there a middle ground, where realism meets creativity?
Maybe all of this reinvention and resolve to drive ourselves to the next level of success is a technology-driven phenomenon. As I've said before, we're way beyond Thoreau at this point: we're living lives of strident desperation. We seem to want to be seen, heard, and adored by everyone. Our parents seemed to live satisfying lives. They were mostly content to be the co-stars of their own stories; to be part of an ensemble cast in the local theater company. These days, many of us want to be the star on a worldwide tour.
As Andy Millman put it, "The Victorian freak show never went away. But now it's called Big Brother or American Idol...." This may be one of those "careful what you wish for" moments.
All this to say, my partial paralysis in so many parts of my life is probably the only reason I’ve refused to give up on my annual resolution. I've stated my intentions and am determined to see it through. Given my history, it’s a minor miracle that I actually started the run and it's even more astounding that I’m still on it. I’m proud of my tenacity. I’m almost to the point where even I believe I’m going to make it and feel proud of taking on the challenge and meeting it.
Now I just need to figure out how to translate that into the rest of my life, without entering the freak show.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Looking for "the one?" Or just a date? Your calendar is your friend.
From the studies I’ve come across that give me pause, I relate the following for your consideration:
According to a study from researchers at the University of Toronto and Tufts University, there is something to be said for the fertility cycle a woman experiences on a monthly basis and her ability to perceive a likely mate. Not unlike my most recent post, the idea that we’re wired somewhat similarly to animals is not lost on me. Here’s the story:
Three different kinds of experiments were conducted. In the first, forty women were shown individual photographs of eighty men. The pictures showed men of similar attractiveness, all with similar emotional expressions. The only question the women had to answer – based on intuition and perception alone - was to identify the sexual orientation of each man. (Half of the subjects in the photos were self-identified gay men; the other half were straight.) The results: women who were nearest to their peak ovulation time could more accurately assess each man’s sexual orientation.
Next up: this time, women viewed individual photographs of two hundred women, half of whom self-identified as lesbians; the other half as straight. Surprise! (Or not.) There was no relationship found between a woman’s fertility cycle and her ability to identify the sexual orientation of the women in the photos.
Finally, forty women were again asked to view photos of men and identify the subject’s sexual orientation. This time, half of the women read a story that described a romantic encounter and the other half did not. Priming the pump, so to speak, seemed to help. Turns out the women who read the story could more accurately identify the gay men and straight men in the images.
So what have we learned? That biology – in straight women anyway - is formidable and undeniable. And that a good romance story is not to be taken lightly. I wish the researchers had conducted the same three tests with lesbians viewing all the images. I wonder if the results would change or if biology – irrespective of sexual orientation – would result in more accurate assessments of men at least, by every woman at a certain point in her fertility cycle.
I love this kind of stuff. Science has given us thermometers and ovulation kits that will help us conceive a child. Science has helped sell millions of boxer shorts to men who want to keep the boys cool on a daily basis while trying to father a child. It has developed early pregnancy tests that will help us start tracking a pregnancy from Day 9.
But who could have imagined this? Something as natural as a released or about to be released egg could help women identify a potentially willing candidate for fatherhood from an array of photographs. Conversely, it also somehow helps women determine which men would be disinclined to show any interest in her fertile state. And, not for nothing, turns out to be absolutely inconsequential when viewing women and trying to identify sexual orientation.
Let’s sum up – I’ve said this before and I stand by it. Women just aren’t that complicated. When we’re ready to conceive a child, biology can help us identify a likely partner which is kind of awesome. It can help us dismiss those men who are disinterested in our sexual selves, which - let's face it - can save us a lot of heartache in the long run.
And maybe best of all: it proves that a sister is a sister is a sister. : )
According to a study from researchers at the University of Toronto and Tufts University, there is something to be said for the fertility cycle a woman experiences on a monthly basis and her ability to perceive a likely mate. Not unlike my most recent post, the idea that we’re wired somewhat similarly to animals is not lost on me. Here’s the story:
Three different kinds of experiments were conducted. In the first, forty women were shown individual photographs of eighty men. The pictures showed men of similar attractiveness, all with similar emotional expressions. The only question the women had to answer – based on intuition and perception alone - was to identify the sexual orientation of each man. (Half of the subjects in the photos were self-identified gay men; the other half were straight.) The results: women who were nearest to their peak ovulation time could more accurately assess each man’s sexual orientation.
Next up: this time, women viewed individual photographs of two hundred women, half of whom self-identified as lesbians; the other half as straight. Surprise! (Or not.) There was no relationship found between a woman’s fertility cycle and her ability to identify the sexual orientation of the women in the photos.
Finally, forty women were again asked to view photos of men and identify the subject’s sexual orientation. This time, half of the women read a story that described a romantic encounter and the other half did not. Priming the pump, so to speak, seemed to help. Turns out the women who read the story could more accurately identify the gay men and straight men in the images.
So what have we learned? That biology – in straight women anyway - is formidable and undeniable. And that a good romance story is not to be taken lightly. I wish the researchers had conducted the same three tests with lesbians viewing all the images. I wonder if the results would change or if biology – irrespective of sexual orientation – would result in more accurate assessments of men at least, by every woman at a certain point in her fertility cycle.
I love this kind of stuff. Science has given us thermometers and ovulation kits that will help us conceive a child. Science has helped sell millions of boxer shorts to men who want to keep the boys cool on a daily basis while trying to father a child. It has developed early pregnancy tests that will help us start tracking a pregnancy from Day 9.
But who could have imagined this? Something as natural as a released or about to be released egg could help women identify a potentially willing candidate for fatherhood from an array of photographs. Conversely, it also somehow helps women determine which men would be disinclined to show any interest in her fertile state. And, not for nothing, turns out to be absolutely inconsequential when viewing women and trying to identify sexual orientation.
Let’s sum up – I’ve said this before and I stand by it. Women just aren’t that complicated. When we’re ready to conceive a child, biology can help us identify a likely partner which is kind of awesome. It can help us dismiss those men who are disinterested in our sexual selves, which - let's face it - can save us a lot of heartache in the long run.
And maybe best of all: it proves that a sister is a sister is a sister. : )
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Men will be women. Kinda sorta. : (
As regular readers of this blog know – go ahead, raise your hands, all nineteen of you!! – I tend to collect bits of information I come across in my everyday reading, scanning, stumbling across kind of way (in other words, random facts) with the goal being that they will somehow coalesce into some reasonable commentary or response that feels somewhat cogent and thought-provoking. I don’t promise this will be one of those times but here we go.
In May, I read the summary of a study about the “precarious” status of manhood today. Researchers at the University of South Florida found out the following: It’s important to men that they look like and are perceived as men by everyone around them. And the more they care about this, the more horrible they’ll feel when they’re perceived otherwise.
Psychologists Jennifer K. Bosson and Joseph A. Vandello conducted research that included the following: One group of men was “forced” to exhibit a feminine behavior; one group was not. The task at hand: Braids. The “feminine” group was forced to braid hair; the other more gender-neutral group braided rope. Fine. Lovely.
When the tasks were completed the two groups were given a choice of what to do next: hit a punching bag or do a puzzle. You know what’s coming, right? The results were tabulated in a few ways. The hair-braiders “overwhelmingly chose the punching bag.” Even better, when all the men (both hair and rope-braiders) had to punch the bag, the hair-braiders hit it harder. Finally, when everyone had to braid hair but not everyone got to punch the bag, the ones who didn’t get the chance “evinced more anxiety on a subsequent test.”
Fascinating. Why the activity of braiding hair meant that men chose to not only hit a punching bag to validate their testosterone, but hit it even harder than others when they did so is mystifying to me.
The authors’ conclusion? “Aggression is a manhood-restoring tactic.” Which seems to beg the question: is participation in “feminine” activities a manhood-robbing tactic?
In fact, further research indicated that gender is not biologically based, but more of a social circumstance. Men can “lose” their manhood by social transgressions. Women lose their womanhood by menopause.
You know what I mean. Think about it. How about the man couch? Or the man chairs?? The ones outside dressing rooms in department stores where men sit and look appropriately bored and uncomfortable and out of place while shopping with their wives or girlfriends? The one where the looks on their faces says:
“Idon’twanttobehere -
Ican’tstandbeinghere –
Shemademebehere - IfitwereuptomeI’dbeplayingrugbyorfootballorpokeranddrinkingjackandcoke - No,Ididn’twanttoholdherpursebutshemademedothat,too.”
Those seats are like fabric-covered estrogen drips.
Other tests and measurement tools used by the researchers concluded that the harshest critics of men were other men, not women. In other words, women don’t care how often you braid your daughter’s hair: you’re still a man. And a helpful one at that. Men – not so much.
In fact, turns out that being around his daughter – or his son for that matter – makes a man just a little more feminine. It’s true. A Northwestern University study, co-authored by Professor Chrisopher W. Kuzawa and doctoral candidate Lee Gettler (along with several other contributors) concluded that fatherhood lowers a man’s testosterone levels. Put another way: proving you can be a dad makes you more of a mom. Weird, right?
I’ll pause here so everyone can take a breath.
We can thank nature for this. In other species – maybe in humans, too - the male needs testosterone in huge quantities to compete with the other males for a mate. The winner gets the female, then they mate, then they have offspring. Following that blessed event, what the researchers call the “mating related” activities – it’s been too long; I can’t even remember what these are in men - may conflict with being responsible for the brand new litter, so the testosterone level of the new animal dad drops.
I get it. This happens in the animal kingdom, not during happy hour at Dave and Buster’s. In the immortal words of Joseph (not John) Merrick and Jerry Seinfeld: I am NOT an animal!! Since men don’t have to smash into each other with their horns, or drive off competitors for a female’s affection with aggression using paws and jaws – not overtly anyway - here’s a question for human males: do testosterone levels drop because men become fathers or do men become fathers because they have low testosterone levels to begin with?
The former. The same study showed that men who had higher levels of testosterone were more likely to become fathers, but like physics tells us: for every action there is an equal reaction, or something like that. Once these guys are dads, their testosterone drops – by a lot. And even more if they are really involved dads.
That’s super, right? “Nope. Not changing the baby, honey. It makes me feel too weird.” Good lord – just what women need. A husband who feels like his manhood gets threatened by a newborn’s diaper.
And just to make the whole situation more acute, the biggest drop in testosterone is right after the newborn baby comes home with the parents. Sure, the drop is temporary but everything makes more sense now. How many new moms have ever had the feeling that they have two new babies at home? The researchers state that men are preoccupied with the “many emotional, psychological, and physical adjustments” that come with being a parent. Unfortunately, women don’t have that kind of time. We're preoccupied with wondering if we’ll pee just a teeny little bit every time we sneeze for the rest of our lives. Oh, and caring for a newborn.
The silver lining? (Yes, guys, there is one.) A lower testosterone level means you’re better protected against chronic diseases as you age. So the good news is you’ll live longer. The bad news is you may feel like your grandmother while you do.
In conclusion, ...I know – you’re confused. “How can she reach a conclusion without really saying anything yet?” It’s a gift, what can I tell you. I turn to someone much more eloquent than I; someone who knows whereof he speaks: Adam Carolla. In his hilarious book, In Fifty Years We’ll All Be Chicks, he writes:
“It used to be that a fella would at least have the dignity that when he was driving with the missus and the car wouldn’t start, even though he didn’t know what the f--- to look for, he’d say, “Pop the hood.” He’d stand there and stare at the engine for a while, set his cigarette on top of the air cleaner, and yell, “Try it now.” Of course the engine wouldn’t start, but at least he looked like a man. Now the guy says, ‘Call Triple-A. I don’t want to get my cuticles dirty.”
“It’s the same thing with fighting. Guys used to have stories where they said, “This SOB spilled a drink on my old lady [Renee aside – old lady is annoying but sadly accurate and the thing is, you know the guy who said it meant it with great affection somehow] at the bar, so I got in his face and said, “ ‘If you’re looking for trouble, you found it. You’re in for a world of hurt.’ ” Now dudes tell stories that go, “I honked at a guy and he got out of his car so I called 911. But I got a busy signal, so I locked myself in and hit the OnStar button.”
I guess what I’m wondering is this: if it’s true that testosterone drops when a man becomes a father…if it’s true that doing something that feels and looks “feminine” makes men want to hit a punching bag…where does that leave us? Doesn’t this prove that it’s both biological or societal? Maybe men are much more sensitive than any of us ever imagined and women are much tougher and less prone to psychological influences than any of us ever imagined. Maybe we’re all just ‘evolving’ into gender- neutral versions of humanity.
Yuck.
PS Thanks for visiting and if you enjoyed this post, and felt a moment of connection, you can read more like it by "following" the blog (upper right) or joining me on Facebook here. If you didn't enjoy it, and felt I needed a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, you can do the same and continue to shake your head in disbelief. : )
In May, I read the summary of a study about the “precarious” status of manhood today. Researchers at the University of South Florida found out the following: It’s important to men that they look like and are perceived as men by everyone around them. And the more they care about this, the more horrible they’ll feel when they’re perceived otherwise.
Psychologists Jennifer K. Bosson and Joseph A. Vandello conducted research that included the following: One group of men was “forced” to exhibit a feminine behavior; one group was not. The task at hand: Braids. The “feminine” group was forced to braid hair; the other more gender-neutral group braided rope. Fine. Lovely.
When the tasks were completed the two groups were given a choice of what to do next: hit a punching bag or do a puzzle. You know what’s coming, right? The results were tabulated in a few ways. The hair-braiders “overwhelmingly chose the punching bag.” Even better, when all the men (both hair and rope-braiders) had to punch the bag, the hair-braiders hit it harder. Finally, when everyone had to braid hair but not everyone got to punch the bag, the ones who didn’t get the chance “evinced more anxiety on a subsequent test.”
Fascinating. Why the activity of braiding hair meant that men chose to not only hit a punching bag to validate their testosterone, but hit it even harder than others when they did so is mystifying to me.
The authors’ conclusion? “Aggression is a manhood-restoring tactic.” Which seems to beg the question: is participation in “feminine” activities a manhood-robbing tactic?
In fact, further research indicated that gender is not biologically based, but more of a social circumstance. Men can “lose” their manhood by social transgressions. Women lose their womanhood by menopause.
You know what I mean. Think about it. How about the man couch? Or the man chairs?? The ones outside dressing rooms in department stores where men sit and look appropriately bored and uncomfortable and out of place while shopping with their wives or girlfriends? The one where the looks on their faces says:
“Idon’twanttobehere -
Ican’tstandbeinghere –
Shemademebehere - IfitwereuptomeI’dbeplayingrugbyorfootballorpokeranddrinkingjackandcoke - No,Ididn’twanttoholdherpursebutshemademedothat,too.”
Those seats are like fabric-covered estrogen drips.
Other tests and measurement tools used by the researchers concluded that the harshest critics of men were other men, not women. In other words, women don’t care how often you braid your daughter’s hair: you’re still a man. And a helpful one at that. Men – not so much.
In fact, turns out that being around his daughter – or his son for that matter – makes a man just a little more feminine. It’s true. A Northwestern University study, co-authored by Professor Chrisopher W. Kuzawa and doctoral candidate Lee Gettler (along with several other contributors) concluded that fatherhood lowers a man’s testosterone levels. Put another way: proving you can be a dad makes you more of a mom. Weird, right?
I’ll pause here so everyone can take a breath.
We can thank nature for this. In other species – maybe in humans, too - the male needs testosterone in huge quantities to compete with the other males for a mate. The winner gets the female, then they mate, then they have offspring. Following that blessed event, what the researchers call the “mating related” activities – it’s been too long; I can’t even remember what these are in men - may conflict with being responsible for the brand new litter, so the testosterone level of the new animal dad drops.
I get it. This happens in the animal kingdom, not during happy hour at Dave and Buster’s. In the immortal words of Joseph (not John) Merrick and Jerry Seinfeld: I am NOT an animal!! Since men don’t have to smash into each other with their horns, or drive off competitors for a female’s affection with aggression using paws and jaws – not overtly anyway - here’s a question for human males: do testosterone levels drop because men become fathers or do men become fathers because they have low testosterone levels to begin with?
The former. The same study showed that men who had higher levels of testosterone were more likely to become fathers, but like physics tells us: for every action there is an equal reaction, or something like that. Once these guys are dads, their testosterone drops – by a lot. And even more if they are really involved dads.
That’s super, right? “Nope. Not changing the baby, honey. It makes me feel too weird.” Good lord – just what women need. A husband who feels like his manhood gets threatened by a newborn’s diaper.
And just to make the whole situation more acute, the biggest drop in testosterone is right after the newborn baby comes home with the parents. Sure, the drop is temporary but everything makes more sense now. How many new moms have ever had the feeling that they have two new babies at home? The researchers state that men are preoccupied with the “many emotional, psychological, and physical adjustments” that come with being a parent. Unfortunately, women don’t have that kind of time. We're preoccupied with wondering if we’ll pee just a teeny little bit every time we sneeze for the rest of our lives. Oh, and caring for a newborn.
The silver lining? (Yes, guys, there is one.) A lower testosterone level means you’re better protected against chronic diseases as you age. So the good news is you’ll live longer. The bad news is you may feel like your grandmother while you do.
In conclusion, ...I know – you’re confused. “How can she reach a conclusion without really saying anything yet?” It’s a gift, what can I tell you. I turn to someone much more eloquent than I; someone who knows whereof he speaks: Adam Carolla. In his hilarious book, In Fifty Years We’ll All Be Chicks, he writes:
“It used to be that a fella would at least have the dignity that when he was driving with the missus and the car wouldn’t start, even though he didn’t know what the f--- to look for, he’d say, “Pop the hood.” He’d stand there and stare at the engine for a while, set his cigarette on top of the air cleaner, and yell, “Try it now.” Of course the engine wouldn’t start, but at least he looked like a man. Now the guy says, ‘Call Triple-A. I don’t want to get my cuticles dirty.”
“It’s the same thing with fighting. Guys used to have stories where they said, “This SOB spilled a drink on my old lady [Renee aside – old lady is annoying but sadly accurate and the thing is, you know the guy who said it meant it with great affection somehow] at the bar, so I got in his face and said, “ ‘If you’re looking for trouble, you found it. You’re in for a world of hurt.’ ” Now dudes tell stories that go, “I honked at a guy and he got out of his car so I called 911. But I got a busy signal, so I locked myself in and hit the OnStar button.”
I guess what I’m wondering is this: if it’s true that testosterone drops when a man becomes a father…if it’s true that doing something that feels and looks “feminine” makes men want to hit a punching bag…where does that leave us? Doesn’t this prove that it’s both biological or societal? Maybe men are much more sensitive than any of us ever imagined and women are much tougher and less prone to psychological influences than any of us ever imagined. Maybe we’re all just ‘evolving’ into gender- neutral versions of humanity.
Yuck.
PS Thanks for visiting and if you enjoyed this post, and felt a moment of connection, you can read more like it by "following" the blog (upper right) or joining me on Facebook here. If you didn't enjoy it, and felt I needed a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, you can do the same and continue to shake your head in disbelief. : )
Sunday, September 11, 2011
The surprising aftermath: comfort
I can't quite think about this day yet - and as much as part of me wanted to watch and remember the events of ten years ago, another part of me didn't. Not sure how many other people felt that way.
Ten years ago, they were 10, 10 and 11. Old enough to be aware, ask perplexing questions, witness our own confusion and retain the memories of a country in shock. And now at 20, 20 and 21, they have virtually grown up recognizing and living with the reality of a world of terrorist activity.
As I cherish and recognize the amazing young men my sons have grown into, I recall this piece they inspired, written in November, 2001. I hope it offers a moment of comfort.
Thank you, boys.
Over the past few weeks, a time that will be forever mourned in our nation and around the world, you’ve taught me that innocence still exists, that understanding and compassion do not come with an age requirement and that life does indeed go on.
This year, on a Thanksgiving that will take on a very different tone across the country, I’m especially grateful for you, my sons. You held my hand, rubbed my arm, or simply inched a little closer on the sofa, not completely understanding the depth of my sadness on September 11 and the days that followed. You served as silent witnesses to my own pain and confusion.
But somehow you knew that touch was a good thing, that closeness would matter. You felt my tears as I hugged you a little more tightly than I had the days before, and you offered 10- and 10- and 11-year-old comfort. You couldn’t know how many nights following September 11 I looked in on you as you slept, silently thanking God for the miracle of you.
Through you, I can still see hope where grownups feel despair. A promise of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, while the world swirls in seemingly endless threats and anxiety. I sense innocence and uncertainty about what happened and what’s to come; surprisingly mixed with an unceasingly kid-like attitude of frivolity and optimism. Is it possible to remind someone of the future? That’s what you do everyday.
When you’re my age, will you talk about this event with your own children and add: “I have a clear memory of your grandmother crying, watching TV and trying to explain it to me.”
Will you remember your teachers, quietly gathering in the hallways of school, trying so desperately not to betray their horror and anxiety to their students? Will you tell the story of one teacher, returning to the classroom with her eyes red, looking at her class and saying, “Do you all know how much you mean to me?”
Will you forever hold the mental image of your father and me, leaning on each other in church on Sunday, September 16, as we ended Mass with ‘The Star-Spangled Banner?”
Through the endless, hysterical quotes you throw at each other from your many “Calvin and Hobbes” books, your enthusiasm for football and basketball practices for the Christmas concert coming up, the almost-every-Saturday morning “can we ride our bikes to…?” questions, and your restless anticipation of the Harry Potter movie and the half-dread you feel in case it’s not quite “right,” you remind me that the world goes on and we will somehow help each other through.
You helped me understand that sometimes “Shrek,” not CNN, is what we need to get through the evening.
The good stuff has not disappeared. Thank you, boys, for helping me appreciate that "stuff" for the gift it truly is. Babies are born and new parents praise their miracles. Young couples marry and celebrate with family and friends. And sometimes, just sometimes, you have glorious fall Sunday afternoon come along for the perfect flag football game.
When you confronted me with the “What happened today?” question on September 11, I had no ready answer. I’m not sure who did. But maybe I do now.
What happened was this: September 11 gave me the chance to tell you again how much I love you. How thankful I am to have you in my life. How simply by being here, you’ve helped restore my perspective and my priorities, and have reminded me each day about what matters.
Ten years ago, they were 10, 10 and 11. Old enough to be aware, ask perplexing questions, witness our own confusion and retain the memories of a country in shock. And now at 20, 20 and 21, they have virtually grown up recognizing and living with the reality of a world of terrorist activity.
As I cherish and recognize the amazing young men my sons have grown into, I recall this piece they inspired, written in November, 2001. I hope it offers a moment of comfort.
Thank you, boys.
Over the past few weeks, a time that will be forever mourned in our nation and around the world, you’ve taught me that innocence still exists, that understanding and compassion do not come with an age requirement and that life does indeed go on.
This year, on a Thanksgiving that will take on a very different tone across the country, I’m especially grateful for you, my sons. You held my hand, rubbed my arm, or simply inched a little closer on the sofa, not completely understanding the depth of my sadness on September 11 and the days that followed. You served as silent witnesses to my own pain and confusion.
But somehow you knew that touch was a good thing, that closeness would matter. You felt my tears as I hugged you a little more tightly than I had the days before, and you offered 10- and 10- and 11-year-old comfort. You couldn’t know how many nights following September 11 I looked in on you as you slept, silently thanking God for the miracle of you.
Through you, I can still see hope where grownups feel despair. A promise of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, while the world swirls in seemingly endless threats and anxiety. I sense innocence and uncertainty about what happened and what’s to come; surprisingly mixed with an unceasingly kid-like attitude of frivolity and optimism. Is it possible to remind someone of the future? That’s what you do everyday.
When you’re my age, will you talk about this event with your own children and add: “I have a clear memory of your grandmother crying, watching TV and trying to explain it to me.”
Will you remember your teachers, quietly gathering in the hallways of school, trying so desperately not to betray their horror and anxiety to their students? Will you tell the story of one teacher, returning to the classroom with her eyes red, looking at her class and saying, “Do you all know how much you mean to me?”
Will you forever hold the mental image of your father and me, leaning on each other in church on Sunday, September 16, as we ended Mass with ‘The Star-Spangled Banner?”
Through the endless, hysterical quotes you throw at each other from your many “Calvin and Hobbes” books, your enthusiasm for football and basketball practices for the Christmas concert coming up, the almost-every-Saturday morning “can we ride our bikes to…?” questions, and your restless anticipation of the Harry Potter movie and the half-dread you feel in case it’s not quite “right,” you remind me that the world goes on and we will somehow help each other through.
You helped me understand that sometimes “Shrek,” not CNN, is what we need to get through the evening.
The good stuff has not disappeared. Thank you, boys, for helping me appreciate that "stuff" for the gift it truly is. Babies are born and new parents praise their miracles. Young couples marry and celebrate with family and friends. And sometimes, just sometimes, you have glorious fall Sunday afternoon come along for the perfect flag football game.
When you confronted me with the “What happened today?” question on September 11, I had no ready answer. I’m not sure who did. But maybe I do now.
What happened was this: September 11 gave me the chance to tell you again how much I love you. How thankful I am to have you in my life. How simply by being here, you’ve helped restore my perspective and my priorities, and have reminded me each day about what matters.
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