Set the Alarm for Life

One thing I can't get off my mind is time. You'd think it's because I'm getting wiser and more aware of the fact that it's running out. Of course the getting wiser part is true, but according to an old friend my obsession is nothing new. She told me that at pre-teen sleepovers if we got up at an hour I'd considered too late, I spent the rest of the day first announcing the real time and following it up with the time it would have been if we'd gotten up three hours earlier.

I wonder what the parents hosting those slumber parties thought when they heard me. They probably barely wondered why a 12-year-old kid had such worries. If I'd been the mom and come upon a kid like me I'd have said to the rest of the slumberers, "She's right." And after the party I'd have told my daughter that the girl in the polka dot pajamas with the ringlets wasn't going to waste her life.
 
Fortunately I seldom make that time calculation anymore. I'm usually a relatively early riser; probably the result of all those times I got up late and missed the extra hours on the back porch changing Barbie's clothes or in the swimming pool searching for marbles. But now, those rare times that I accidently or willingly sleep late, the mantra returns. It's normally not said to my friends (we don't have a lot of sleepovers) and it's only said out loud if I'm walking alone in the mountains in absolute panic that when it's 2:30pm it should really only be 11:30am. You can imagine the stress when in addition to the loss of hours I'm also in the next meridien before I should be.

I don't think that girl in the polka dot pajamas has wasted her life (yet), but she needs to wake up and remember how lucky she was that they weren't striped pajamas. We should all spend more time counting our blessings. Tomorrow is another day. And whether you call it breakfast or lunch, when it's 1pm it's really going to be 1pm.
 

Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word

According to Elton John, sorry seems to be the hardest word. But not for me. I don't think too much apologizing means I'm not confident or I have low self-esteem or any of the other tags given to over-apologizers. I also don't think it means I'm always at fault or excessively mean. I say I'm sorry when I do something I wish I hadn't done. (Or in the case of not having chocolate chip cookies when you stop by, for something I wish I had done).

I find it hard not to ask for pardon if I'm late, I've misunderstood, I've forgotten something or I have to cancel an appointment. I think things that have the tiniest negative effect on someone else deserve at least a small apology. And if I realize I've made someone sad or I've disappointed them (even when I don't feel at fault) I apologize for that, too.

I've been accused of excessive sorries when things aren't perfect. In addition to no chocolate chip cookies I apologize if the dinner isn't great, the bed is uncomfortable, plans don't go as planned and a lot of other things that most of you don't find so important. That doesn't mean I lack confidence, it means I care and I didn't do as well as I'd hoped.

I'd rather be accused of over-apologizing than living my life with the awful taste of those two unspoken words left in limbo behind my lips. I know people who find it impossible to spit them out even when I'm sure they want to. I can see it in their eyes and hear it on the tip of their tongue. To those folks I say I'm sorry because they must leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

Forgive me if I remind you that Elton John didn't say sorry is the hardest word, he said sorry seems to be the hardest word; but the truth is, it really isn't. When the response to an apology is an accepting smile and a Beatles 'let it be', it's enough to leave you speechless. 

Go ahead. You've got nothing to lose but your pride.

 

It's Time to Act

I'm lucky enough to have seen a professional ballet at La Scala in Milan, the Black Swan at its home in Moscow and a Nutcracker or two in Chicago, but nothing compares to what I call the '4-H Fair of dance' in a small town in Italy.

Last week's show was called Il Bel Paese (The Beautiful Country). The music was Italian, they used Vespas for props and the stage was lit with the red, white and green stripes of the flag (which always reminds me more of Christmas than Italy). I chose a seat in the last row of the balcony. It was hot and I wanted to be alone so I could uncross my legs and fan myself with the unevenly-folded, photocopied program the ballerina had handed me at the door.  

Like a proud parent, I always take videos and enthusiastically share them the next day with the same friends that have no interest in coming with me; the ones that have kids and ask why I'd go to a dance recital if I didn't have to.

The ballerinas come in all shapes and sizes and the bigger ones are never hidden in the back. Short-haired, pudgy ones get the same stage time as thin ones with buns. The audience 'aws' at the tiny ones in tu-tus and applauds those not quite on their toes in toe shoes. But this year the loudest cheers came for the four boys that wore baggy pants in the hip-hop routine and black tights and t-shirts to the arias of Andrea Bocelli.

In the glow of the Christmas lights I looked at the sea of heads separating me from the stage and wondered what thoughts were swimming in the minds of the small-town dads, grandpas and brothers watching the spettacolo (show). I'm sure there were some wannabee-dancers envious and proud of those four courageous boys doing what they really want to do.

If my students don't have homework I try to get them to talk about life. When I ask the guys about their dream job they usually hem and haw. Then, I fill in the blank with a professional soccer player and finally get an embarrassing nod. Next time, the open-minded, non-judjmental (albeit a little slow) teacher will be smart enough to fill in that blank with a professional soccer player OR a dancer.

Getting back to the question of why I go if I don't have to; because doing things you don't have to might remind you that all the world's a stage and you're free to pick the role you want. So, if you're tired of being a spectator and applauding someone else for something you'd like to be doing, it's time to grab your dancing shoes (or paintbrush or pen) and start performing.