Sad, but true, it seems that I'm officially old enough to be flirted with by younger men. It's happened three times in one week and I think that has sealed the deal for me. I'm no longer in the age group that I could possibly misconstrue their sweet comments for pick-up lines. I'm old enough that they feel safe. They can say whatever they want to say because it's cute and they're doing it to make an old lady feel good.
Maybe it's my punishment for all of the years I spoke sweetly and harmlessly (I thought) to older men. Did I make them feel the same way this guy made me feel today? Or the way the other boy made me feel last week? Or the waiter yesterday? If it's happened three times in one week, it's official, isn't it? I've crossed into a new group. So does that mean I should stop speaking that way to older men? I used to think an older man might have enjoyed hearing that I liked his super white hair. Or his bow tie. That's why I said it. But now I see that it might just make him feel sad and old, like it made me feel today when the 23-year old said that he liked my shoes.
Actually, he didn't really say that he liked my shoes. He said, "Nice shoes," to which I replied, "Are you teasing me?" I really thought he might be joking because when I put them on this morning I had questioned them myself. But he answered, "No. Really. I think it's cool that you're wearing high heels on your bike." Now, I don't think a 30-year old would say that to another 30-year old. And I don't think it would be exchanged between 46-year olds either. But, a 23-year old to a 46-year old seems like a big enough gap (in addition to the fact that I could be his mother) to give him a certain safety net from misinterpretation.
I understand that the best thing would be to accept the compliments and feel flattered that a young man took the time to say anything to an old(er) lady riding past on her bike, right? And I should be happy that a waiter even wants to call me "honey." Unfortunately, it's still a little hard to swallow. Am I going to continue to fight the fact that I'm aging or am I going to adopt the healthy attitude of Donald, my 81-year old neighbor? He thinks it's cool to be old and youthful. He told me that he's fallen three times in the past week. Most recently, he was standing on the bus for 15 minutes and felt fine, but then he got off and fell. I told him that a handsome (there I go again) 81-year old man deserves a seat on the bus and he said with a shy smile, "Well now, it hardly seems fair to accept a seat offered by a pretty young girl when I'm on my way to the gym for a workout!"
Fortunately, I have 35 more years to practice being a little more like Donald. And hopefully instead of shyly refusing an offered seat on the bus, I'll be gracefully accepting a compliment on my bike.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Better late than never
I'm seldom late. And I guess I should also say that I'm seldom early, which only means that I'm almost always on time. By on time, I mean EXACTLY on time. I fill every minute before my departure doing "something". This means I often arrive with an unbuttoned shirt under an untucked sweater, an unclasped charm bracelet stashed in a pocket, unplaced toes in toe socks (terribly uncomfortable), untied boots or unbuckled sandals and sometimes even unglossed lips (which seldom happens due to my obsession with what I refer to as "lipstuff", a term I started using when I thought lipstick sounded too grown-up, lipgloss sounded too Seventeen Magazine, and chapstick really wasn't the truth because it was obvious, albeit embarrassing, that I'd moved on to more girlie products. So, I settled on the term "lipstuff", which, by the way, has definitely outlasted all Long Stay Lipsticks.)
And one more thing about my lipstuff. Before running 50 feet to the corner mailbox the other day, I thought I'd reapply because you never know who you might bump into and you don't want to get caught with bare lips. Really! I never had a mom that insisted I "put a little lipstick on" before heading out the door, so I don't know why it's become such a habit. But I reapplied, ran to the mailbox and was happy to smile a pink smile (it wasn't shiny because I've run out of the glossy part, so I suppose it almost looked like grown-up lipstick) when I unexpectedly ran into a friend in his shiny blue car at the corner.
But I was talking about being late, right?
An hour before my lunch date I texted my friend to say that I'd be arriving at 12:29 with hopes that he could skeedaddle (I actually texted that) at 12:30. He'd sent a message several days ago when we were making the date that 12:30 was a good time, but that I should meet him at his store "a bit before then." Why should I arrive "a bit before then" if we'd actually scheduled lunch for 12:30? Was it necessary that I stood there waiting while he used his last few minutes (which could have also been MY last few minutes) to organize his employees and get his jacket? It seemed odd, so I sent the text to clarify that I'd be there at 12:29. And he said okay.
When I arrived (at 12:29) I didn't see him. When the employees asked if I needed help I told them I was waiting for the manager. When 12:34 rolled around and I still didn't see him, I started getting restless. I admit it's a bit ridiculous to get restless after only 4 minutes, but restless is so much better than mad, isn't it? Imagine if I'd arrived "a bit before" 12:30? I'd have already been waiting for 8 minutes, and then I would've been REALLY restless, but hopefully still not mad. I've been practicing this "not getting mad when people are late" for awhile and I think it's working. I've started carrying a language dictionary everywhere I go and if I find myself with a free minute or two, I learn a new word or two.
There's no need for every detail. I'd sent him a bit testy text asking where he was. I'd decided to leave, told the staff (whom I'm sure saw my agitation, but I really wasn't mad!) to tell him I'd be at the restaurant, stepped outside, and suddenly realized that today was Thursday and we were scheduled to meet on Friday.
My only question is this: Wouldn't you wonder why you were getting a text with a detail as specific as 12:29 a day in advance? Shouldn't that have triggered a text back saying,"Lunch is on Friday, right?"
Isn't the correct answer: Yes, you would wonder about a text with a specific detail a day in advance? Unless of course it's from Tenley, who is already worried about how she'll spend her spare 4 minutes the following day.
It was all my fault. He called. I apologized for the testy text. He asked if we were still on for Friday at 12:30 and I said that we were, but that I'd have to wait outside because I'd be too embarrassed to see his employees after I'd been so sure that it was all his fault. I knew the right thing to have done would have been to have gone back inside to admit that I'd made a mistake, but I felt ashamed for getting agitated. So, I pedaled off. A few blocks later I couldn't take the guilt. I turned around and went back to tell them that it was MY fault and I'd see them again the next day at 12:29.
I wish I could be more like Anne Shirley of Anne of Green Gables by Maud Montgomery. She says,
...And I promise I'll never do it again.
That's the one thing about me.
I never do the same wrong thing twice.
I wish I could say that. But I'm sure I'll still get a little agitated the next time someone is late and I'm sure I'll get really agitated the next time I'm a day early.
Anne Shirley's words are much better words to live by than the ones I found in my Italian dictionary while I was waiting for someone that was late.
Meglio tardi che mai. (Better late than never.)
I suppose sometimes this phrase has its place. For instance, when you reach the finish line of a marathon later than you'd hoped. When a long-awaited letter shows up. When you finally arrive at that one place in the world you've always wanted to get to. When something you've been studying for a long time sinks in. When you find peace. When you're still filled with doubts about something and it scares you, but you do it anyway. These are all definitely better late than never.
However, it wasn't appropriate tonight when I ARRIVED LATE for a Christmas dinner with two dear friends. ('Better late than never' that at least I didn't have a car accident, yes. But 'better late than never' as an answer for being late, no.) I got there 8 minutes late and was greeted by, "I was just telling her that I was shocked that you weren't here yet because you're never late." I apologized and said that it was a good thing I hadn't finished the blog I'd been working on yesterday where I proclaimed that I'm almost always on time. I hadn't finished it because I couldn't find an ending. That is, until we exchanged gifts and I received a tube of shiny new lip gloss! Better late than never. And for those of you that have been asking for the next blog, here it is. Meglio tardi che mai.
And one more thing about my lipstuff. Before running 50 feet to the corner mailbox the other day, I thought I'd reapply because you never know who you might bump into and you don't want to get caught with bare lips. Really! I never had a mom that insisted I "put a little lipstick on" before heading out the door, so I don't know why it's become such a habit. But I reapplied, ran to the mailbox and was happy to smile a pink smile (it wasn't shiny because I've run out of the glossy part, so I suppose it almost looked like grown-up lipstick) when I unexpectedly ran into a friend in his shiny blue car at the corner.
But I was talking about being late, right?
An hour before my lunch date I texted my friend to say that I'd be arriving at 12:29 with hopes that he could skeedaddle (I actually texted that) at 12:30. He'd sent a message several days ago when we were making the date that 12:30 was a good time, but that I should meet him at his store "a bit before then." Why should I arrive "a bit before then" if we'd actually scheduled lunch for 12:30? Was it necessary that I stood there waiting while he used his last few minutes (which could have also been MY last few minutes) to organize his employees and get his jacket? It seemed odd, so I sent the text to clarify that I'd be there at 12:29. And he said okay.
When I arrived (at 12:29) I didn't see him. When the employees asked if I needed help I told them I was waiting for the manager. When 12:34 rolled around and I still didn't see him, I started getting restless. I admit it's a bit ridiculous to get restless after only 4 minutes, but restless is so much better than mad, isn't it? Imagine if I'd arrived "a bit before" 12:30? I'd have already been waiting for 8 minutes, and then I would've been REALLY restless, but hopefully still not mad. I've been practicing this "not getting mad when people are late" for awhile and I think it's working. I've started carrying a language dictionary everywhere I go and if I find myself with a free minute or two, I learn a new word or two.
There's no need for every detail. I'd sent him a bit testy text asking where he was. I'd decided to leave, told the staff (whom I'm sure saw my agitation, but I really wasn't mad!) to tell him I'd be at the restaurant, stepped outside, and suddenly realized that today was Thursday and we were scheduled to meet on Friday.
My only question is this: Wouldn't you wonder why you were getting a text with a detail as specific as 12:29 a day in advance? Shouldn't that have triggered a text back saying,"Lunch is on Friday, right?"
Isn't the correct answer: Yes, you would wonder about a text with a specific detail a day in advance? Unless of course it's from Tenley, who is already worried about how she'll spend her spare 4 minutes the following day.
It was all my fault. He called. I apologized for the testy text. He asked if we were still on for Friday at 12:30 and I said that we were, but that I'd have to wait outside because I'd be too embarrassed to see his employees after I'd been so sure that it was all his fault. I knew the right thing to have done would have been to have gone back inside to admit that I'd made a mistake, but I felt ashamed for getting agitated. So, I pedaled off. A few blocks later I couldn't take the guilt. I turned around and went back to tell them that it was MY fault and I'd see them again the next day at 12:29.
I wish I could be more like Anne Shirley of Anne of Green Gables by Maud Montgomery. She says,
...And I promise I'll never do it again.
That's the one thing about me.
I never do the same wrong thing twice.
I wish I could say that. But I'm sure I'll still get a little agitated the next time someone is late and I'm sure I'll get really agitated the next time I'm a day early.
Anne Shirley's words are much better words to live by than the ones I found in my Italian dictionary while I was waiting for someone that was late.
Meglio tardi che mai. (Better late than never.)
I suppose sometimes this phrase has its place. For instance, when you reach the finish line of a marathon later than you'd hoped. When a long-awaited letter shows up. When you finally arrive at that one place in the world you've always wanted to get to. When something you've been studying for a long time sinks in. When you find peace. When you're still filled with doubts about something and it scares you, but you do it anyway. These are all definitely better late than never.
However, it wasn't appropriate tonight when I ARRIVED LATE for a Christmas dinner with two dear friends. ('Better late than never' that at least I didn't have a car accident, yes. But 'better late than never' as an answer for being late, no.) I got there 8 minutes late and was greeted by, "I was just telling her that I was shocked that you weren't here yet because you're never late." I apologized and said that it was a good thing I hadn't finished the blog I'd been working on yesterday where I proclaimed that I'm almost always on time. I hadn't finished it because I couldn't find an ending. That is, until we exchanged gifts and I received a tube of shiny new lip gloss! Better late than never. And for those of you that have been asking for the next blog, here it is. Meglio tardi che mai.
Friday, December 2, 2011
62 Bold Snowflakes
He told me that she was going to have it done a couple of weeks ago. He said that she's always hated her nose and she finally decided to change it. It actually didn't seem that strange to me. (Not her nose....but the idea of changing it!) She HATED it, she had the money and she thought it would make her feel better, so why not? To each his own, I thought. I really thought it! Believe it or not, this is a phrase I'm working on adopting.
The day of the surgery I sent my friend a text to pass on my good wishes to his wife. I tried to insert a smiley face with a smaller, cuter nose. I searched the keyboard to come up with something unique but ended up resorting to "options" and picked one of the readymade faces. This made me smile and wonder if you could actually google "nosejob" and there might be an "options" heading and you could pick your new nose. Probably.
Anyway, I met my friend for lunch a few days ago and he said that everything went well with the nose, but then he started talking about her jaw. Her jaw? I thought it was her nose? He said, "Yes. She had rhinoplasty, but she also had her jaw reshaped." I asked him why. I'd accepted the nose job relatively easily, but the jaw I didn't get. He told me that the doctor had proposed it and it seemed like it would really look great, so she did it. And this is where I'm still in the adoption phase of that famous phrase. Why could I "to each his own" her nosejob, but not her "jawjob"? And instead of just silently accepting the idea (which you know I find impossible) I went on for a bit about how this seemed different because she'd really hated her nose and she'd finally done something about it, but she'd never really hated her jaw and then changed it on a whim. Shouldn't we just accept what we have? Shouldn't we be strong enough to believe in ourselves "as is" with hopes that how we look shouldn't make that big of a difference? I had a lot more of those "shouldn't we..." ideas that I shared with him, but will spare you.
When I was sure that he'd had about enough of me, I went back to the studio to clean. That's when I found an envelope filled with little handcut snowflakes that I'd made a long time ago for a Christmas card. I considered throwing them away but instead, opened the envelope and took them out one by one for a closer look. It was just as I'd expected. No two were alike. They were really cool! And the fact that they were all different made them even cooler. But is it true that no two snowflakes are alike or was this another one of those things I'd been taught as a kid and was foolish enough to go on believing? I checked. According to a National Geographic article from October 2010, experts are in agreement the likelihood of two being identical is next to impossible.
As I pedaled home I thought about writing something about the nosejob. Then I thought about writing about the snowflakes. That's when it hit me that they could go together. One is about someone going to great lengths to change her differences and the other is about finding beauty in something because it's different. To each his own, I guess.
So I started writing and putting the two together and thinking about how it made me feel. It really hadn't dawned on me earlier when I'd delivered my "shouldn't we accept" monologue, but here's something that makes me think I owe someone an apology. I color my hair. I do it because I think it makes me look better and I like how it makes me feel. Sound familiar? I didn't accept what I had. And apparently I wasn't strong enough to believe in myself "as is" with hopes that how I look shouldn't make that big of a difference. It seemed to me like I was coloring my hair for the same reasons that she was having plastic surgery.
I've run this idea by a few people (including my hairstylist) and no one agrees with me. They say that a nosejob and reshaping your jaw are much bigger deals than coloring your hair. Okay. I agree that a nosejob is major surgery and risky and permanent (at least until you google nosejob and click on "options" again) and changing your hair color isn't any of that. However, my rant on the jaw reshaping had nothing to do with the idea of the risk of major surgery. It was merely a rant on how crazy I thought it was that someone would consider changing something about their appearance instead of accepting it. And if I make it that basic, I think I'm guilty of the same offense. It seems like now's the time to sign the adoption papers on that phrase and own it. (so to speak!)
To each his own.
Who would've thought that finding a little envelope full of snowflakes would lead to my acceptance of plastic surgery? Some of you may be reading this thinking that I'm the last person in the world to say, "To each his own." It's funny, as much as I like to use it on myself or have it used on me (living in an apartment in Paris with the bathroon in the hall, wearing miniskirts on my bike, buying secondhand clothes, eating Big Boy hot fudge cake for breakfast) it's true (but sad) that I'm not always the first to accept those differences in others. But, this whole "rhinoplasty hair coloring comparison" has really started to make me think before I speak and with enough practice I'll stop speaking and then eventually hopefully I won't even think the judgmental thought!
And last but not least, in my research for this blog (you're right, it's not really worthy of research) I googled the phrase. Then I did my usual cross-referencing in Italian. I decided to see if there was something similar in my Dictionary of 1000 Italian Proverbs. It seemed rather unlikely that I'd find anything under the word "own" but I tried it. It lead me to the word "pasta" (don't all roads lead to pasta in my life?!) and here's the proverb:
Ognuno puo' far della sua pasta gnocchi.
My amateur translation of that is, "Everyone can make gnocchi from their pasta." The English equivalent that appears below it is, "Be bold with what is your own." That's my kind of phrase, no? But doesn't that really mean that I shouldn't be coloring my hair?
Friday, October 7, 2011
Face it, communication is difficult
Back to the chalk faces. They got me thinking. And it's always nice to have something to think about when you're doing sit-ups. Where did the smiley face symbol come from? It really doesn't look like a face, but we all know it when we see it. And at what age do we start to recognize it?
It reminded me of when I was teaching English to an entry level class of refugees. First I taught them the words for bird and tree and house using real photographs of these things. Then, we moved on to a little drawing and they had to identify how many of each of the items were in each drawing. That's when I learned that not every 40-year old man in the world knows that the little "m" floating around in the background of a drawing is a bird. And he didn't know what the tree was either. When I asked him how many birds there were in drawing number 9, he couldn't answer. He quickly went to the correct drawing, which proved to me that he knew his numbers. But then he just sat there silently looking at the little house with two chimneys, the sidewalk, three trees and 4 birds. In Africa, if you don't go to school and you don't have crayons and paper to color with, you don't learn that little "m's" are birds. And maybe you don't learn that a circle with a couple of dots with another half circle inside is a smiley face.
Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately for a nut like me, I didn't grow up in Africa. I learned that the circle around the two dots with the other half circle meant happiness. I also learned that a cowboy with a few big letters in the background (but some blocked out so you really couldn't read anything) stood for Marlboro cigarettes. And luckily I knew that a giant golden M in the sky wasn't a big bird. Sometimes we have to extrapolate. Now, ask me to extrapolate with words and I can't do it. We have plenty of words to link a few of them together, make a coherent sentence and say what we really mean. I think it's a dangerous business to say something with hopes or assumptions that your listener will understand. Immature on my part? Taking things too literally? Maybe. But why risk it? You might be making a big mistake thinking that your audience has understood your obvious, or sometimes hidden, meaning.
Now for a girl who loves foreign languages, this presents a bit of a problem. I certainly can't be sure that I know what I'm saying or that I'm really understanding what I'm hearing. My boss in France almost always spoke English with me. But when he really wanted it to be clear, he spoke French and I had to extrapolate! It might have made him feel more comfortable to try to get his point across in his own language,
but his audience was left with a giant cowboy in front of a few of the letters and it made no sense at all.
Sometimes even when we're speaking the same language we still only hear what we want to hear. Take yesterday as an example. As I pulled up to the studio on my bike one of my neighbors yelled out, "You look great today." I quickly accepted the compliment with, "Thank you." Only to realize a few minutes later that he actually said, "You were late today."
Back to the chalk under the canopy in the park. I had to choose between a smiley face and a frown. Or I could've chosen a part of the ground that hadn't been drawn on, but why live in no-man's land? I had a choice to make and it seemed like doing sit-ups on a giant smiley face would be a great way to start my day. Especially because the artist really made himself clear. In addition to the drawings, he'd labeled them with words. One said "happy face" and the other said "mad face." Without the words I would've taken it as a sad face. Who thinks of the frown as a mad face? This artist does. And instead of making me extrapolate, he spelled it out. There's a big difference between SAD and MAD and as I momentarily considered doing the sit-ups on the sad face because it's okay to be sad and sometimes one should embrace their sadness, I never would've considered plopping myself down on the mad face. I applaud this artist for making it clear.
Some people say a picture paints a thousand words. I say words paint a thousand pictures. Either way, things aren't always clear. And I think it's okay to ask for a thousand more words if that's what it takes to get the picture. :-)
Friday, September 30, 2011
I never thought I'd miss elevator music
Is it possible to find good ol' elevator music anymore? It seems like my past several rides have been shared with a little TV screen instead of bad music. I prefer the bad music. At least there was a chance you might have a short conversation with a fellow rider. Now everyone is so engrossed in the screen that I'm afraid to make idle chit-chat for fear of interrupting. I admit that it was just idle chit-chat. But at least it was human contact. In fact, I've learned some interesting things in elevators. One elevator in Chicago held three out of four riders with summer homes in Michigan. Once I was told for the fourth time that I had the look of a Kennedy. (Which I'd always taken as a compliment until I saw pictures in a special article on the Kennedys in Newsweek Magazine. Oh well.) In elevators, I've collected names of new perfumes, told dapper gentlemen that I liked their bow ties and learned how to say some numbers in Arabic. All of which I find much more interesting than the weather on the little TV screen.
Instead of absorbing myself in the screen on my last elevator ride, I started thinking about all of the other things I'm missing due to modern technology. I'm sure there are plenty of modern things that I use everyday and never think about how much I appreciate them. But they're here now and maybe I'll be mourning them in 20 years when they're gone. Here are a few of the things that I wish were still around.
-The smell of bacon coming from open windows on summer mornings, instead of sealed up houses full of air conditioning.
-Wondering who's calling, instead of deciding if I want to answer.
-Kids with grass stains from real grass playgrounds.
-Not paying extra for the guy to pump my gas.
-Small, messy bookstores, instead of huge bookstores or worse yet, no bookstores at all.
-Wool sweaters that got stinky when they got wet, instead of fleece. (Do cheerleaders still wear wool?)
-The anticipation of checking the real mailbox when I get home.
-Kids carrying their books to school, girls held to their chests and boys to their sides, instead of wheeling their backpacks.
-Hearing people's conversations in their cars at red lights because they had their windows down.
-Dressing up for flights.
-Bird songs outside my window, instead of the neighbor's air conditioner.
-Photo albums, instead of computer screens.
-Seeing how people so precisely fold their newspapers to read them in public places. Does anyone read the newspaper anymore?
-Learning something about strangers at a bus stop based on the titles of their books, instead of their titleless Readers, Nooks and iPads.
-Square ice cubes from real ice cube trays, instead of automatic ice makers.
-Passing houses on the sidewalk and hearing plates and silverware clank in the kitchen. Strange, but it's one of my favorites, and I'm afraid air conditioners have robbed that one, too.
-Brown lunch bags with potato chip grease stains, instead of colorful, nylon insulated bags.
-Chalkboards. Green ones with yellow chalk and black ones with white chalk.
-The swishing of brooms and scraping of rakes, instead of noisy leaf blowers.
-Ladies with curlers in their hair.
I guess I shouldn't have shrugged my shoulders when my parents used to talk about the good old days. Eventually we all mourn them. But they must be good enough to appreciate while we have them, or we wouldn't miss them when they're gone. So I thought I might suggest that on your next elevator ride you could pass the time thinking about what you miss about the good old days and what you appreciate about the present days. Unless, of course, you find the weather more interesting.
Instead of absorbing myself in the screen on my last elevator ride, I started thinking about all of the other things I'm missing due to modern technology. I'm sure there are plenty of modern things that I use everyday and never think about how much I appreciate them. But they're here now and maybe I'll be mourning them in 20 years when they're gone. Here are a few of the things that I wish were still around.
-The smell of bacon coming from open windows on summer mornings, instead of sealed up houses full of air conditioning.
-Wondering who's calling, instead of deciding if I want to answer.
-Kids with grass stains from real grass playgrounds.
-Not paying extra for the guy to pump my gas.
-Small, messy bookstores, instead of huge bookstores or worse yet, no bookstores at all.
-Wool sweaters that got stinky when they got wet, instead of fleece. (Do cheerleaders still wear wool?)
-The anticipation of checking the real mailbox when I get home.
-Kids carrying their books to school, girls held to their chests and boys to their sides, instead of wheeling their backpacks.
-Hearing people's conversations in their cars at red lights because they had their windows down.
-Dressing up for flights.
-Bird songs outside my window, instead of the neighbor's air conditioner.
-Photo albums, instead of computer screens.
-Seeing how people so precisely fold their newspapers to read them in public places. Does anyone read the newspaper anymore?
-Learning something about strangers at a bus stop based on the titles of their books, instead of their titleless Readers, Nooks and iPads.
-Square ice cubes from real ice cube trays, instead of automatic ice makers.
-Passing houses on the sidewalk and hearing plates and silverware clank in the kitchen. Strange, but it's one of my favorites, and I'm afraid air conditioners have robbed that one, too.
-Brown lunch bags with potato chip grease stains, instead of colorful, nylon insulated bags.
-Chalkboards. Green ones with yellow chalk and black ones with white chalk.
-The swishing of brooms and scraping of rakes, instead of noisy leaf blowers.
-Ladies with curlers in their hair.
I guess I shouldn't have shrugged my shoulders when my parents used to talk about the good old days. Eventually we all mourn them. But they must be good enough to appreciate while we have them, or we wouldn't miss them when they're gone. So I thought I might suggest that on your next elevator ride you could pass the time thinking about what you miss about the good old days and what you appreciate about the present days. Unless, of course, you find the weather more interesting.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
If you know you'll be happy, just do it
I've never gone to bed telling myself that I wished I hadn't run that day, but I often go to bed telling myself that I wish I had.
Why is it so hard to do what we KNOW will make us feel happier in the end? I suppose there are a thousand self-help books on this subject. Don't worry. This isn't a chapter from one of those. If I'd read one, maybe I wouldn't keep making the same mistakes. Then again, I suppose I probably would or there wouldn't be quite as many books published because we all would've kicked this bad habit of not doing what we know we really want to be doing day after day, or more likely, year after year.
Take running for example. (And remember it's only one example. I could talk about eating McDonald's, cleaning my closet, watching some stupid TV show, finding myself a dinner date when I'd rather be alone, staying in one town when I'm traveling and really getting to know it instead of listening to the little voice that tells me to move on and see it all....or wait a minute. I've kicked that one, haven't I?)
Anyway, back to running. I love to run. I love how I feel when I'm running. I love seeing people that I know on the running path. I love seeing people that I don't know yet and wondering if one day I'll know them. I love hearing my GPS watch beep every time I finish a mile. I love how my running shoes feel. I even love how they feel when it's raining and my hot feet keep the water inside my shoes warm. I love feeling the breeze go through my sweaty hair on the days I'm not too embarrassed to take the ponytail out. (It's kind of like skinny dipping.) I love running in the snow. I love running on super hot days and stopping to stretch and having my own real beads of sweat fall from my elbows and hit the ground. The first time I felt it I was surprised. I thought it only happened to the athletes in Gatorade commercials. Anyway, you get the point. I love to run. So, why is it a struggle nearly every morning to get up and go when I know it's the thing that will make me happy?
I've never gone to bed telling myself that I wished I would've wasted more time lying awake in bed in the morning. And I've never said that I'm in such great shape that an extra mile or so would have just put me over the perfection edge. I've never told myself that I'm glad I didn't see if the lake was calm or wavy or ferocious like those cold mornings I catch the waves crashing on the corrugated breakwall one indentation at a time like hammers in a grand piano hitting string after string to play a scale. (That sounds like a bad attempt at poetry which, if you've been following this blog, is nothing that I ever do. But it really happens like that. Just stop and picture it for a second. They crash, but not all at once. They really do fill each section one at a time, first really tall and loud and little by little shorter and quieter and it's like notes are playing. There is no less-flowery way to explain it. And speaking of flowers....) I know I'd be sad to miss the day that the daffodils had bloomed. And I'm certainly never happy to have missed a morning that the lion stood roaring for a few minutes in the zoo.
Get the picture? I love running. I actually can't think of one thing to say about running that I don't like. Well, lately there has been one thing. I've wasted my whole run trying to remember all the verses to "Twas the Night Before Christmas" because the only line that seems to keep repeating itself is the one about the bowl full of jelly shaking when Santa laughs. At least mine only shakes when I run, something Santa probably wishes he could do.
So, you've heard it all. I've said it a thousand times, now I've written it and I've reread it. Do you think it will be any easier to get out of bed tomorrow morning? Shouldn't yesterday's deliberation while looking out at the rain and finally deciding to just go and then being greeted by a rainbow and the only 30 minutes of blue skies for the whole day be enough to remind me that in the end I'm definitely going to be happier if I run? I don't really need a self-help book, do I? I may not be lucky enough to catch the rainbow everyday, but I almost always find the pot of gold.
Why is it so hard to do what we KNOW will make us feel happier in the end? I suppose there are a thousand self-help books on this subject. Don't worry. This isn't a chapter from one of those. If I'd read one, maybe I wouldn't keep making the same mistakes. Then again, I suppose I probably would or there wouldn't be quite as many books published because we all would've kicked this bad habit of not doing what we know we really want to be doing day after day, or more likely, year after year.
Take running for example. (And remember it's only one example. I could talk about eating McDonald's, cleaning my closet, watching some stupid TV show, finding myself a dinner date when I'd rather be alone, staying in one town when I'm traveling and really getting to know it instead of listening to the little voice that tells me to move on and see it all....or wait a minute. I've kicked that one, haven't I?)
Anyway, back to running. I love to run. I love how I feel when I'm running. I love seeing people that I know on the running path. I love seeing people that I don't know yet and wondering if one day I'll know them. I love hearing my GPS watch beep every time I finish a mile. I love how my running shoes feel. I even love how they feel when it's raining and my hot feet keep the water inside my shoes warm. I love feeling the breeze go through my sweaty hair on the days I'm not too embarrassed to take the ponytail out. (It's kind of like skinny dipping.) I love running in the snow. I love running on super hot days and stopping to stretch and having my own real beads of sweat fall from my elbows and hit the ground. The first time I felt it I was surprised. I thought it only happened to the athletes in Gatorade commercials. Anyway, you get the point. I love to run. So, why is it a struggle nearly every morning to get up and go when I know it's the thing that will make me happy?
I've never gone to bed telling myself that I wished I would've wasted more time lying awake in bed in the morning. And I've never said that I'm in such great shape that an extra mile or so would have just put me over the perfection edge. I've never told myself that I'm glad I didn't see if the lake was calm or wavy or ferocious like those cold mornings I catch the waves crashing on the corrugated breakwall one indentation at a time like hammers in a grand piano hitting string after string to play a scale. (That sounds like a bad attempt at poetry which, if you've been following this blog, is nothing that I ever do. But it really happens like that. Just stop and picture it for a second. They crash, but not all at once. They really do fill each section one at a time, first really tall and loud and little by little shorter and quieter and it's like notes are playing. There is no less-flowery way to explain it. And speaking of flowers....) I know I'd be sad to miss the day that the daffodils had bloomed. And I'm certainly never happy to have missed a morning that the lion stood roaring for a few minutes in the zoo.
Get the picture? I love running. I actually can't think of one thing to say about running that I don't like. Well, lately there has been one thing. I've wasted my whole run trying to remember all the verses to "Twas the Night Before Christmas" because the only line that seems to keep repeating itself is the one about the bowl full of jelly shaking when Santa laughs. At least mine only shakes when I run, something Santa probably wishes he could do.
So, you've heard it all. I've said it a thousand times, now I've written it and I've reread it. Do you think it will be any easier to get out of bed tomorrow morning? Shouldn't yesterday's deliberation while looking out at the rain and finally deciding to just go and then being greeted by a rainbow and the only 30 minutes of blue skies for the whole day be enough to remind me that in the end I'm definitely going to be happier if I run? I don't really need a self-help book, do I? I may not be lucky enough to catch the rainbow everyday, but I almost always find the pot of gold.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
It's in the bag.
My mom's purse that I remember the best was the white one that looked like a basket. It had a gold clasp and I used to like to turn it and pull the top part off of the bottom part. They would only come apart when they were lined up perfectly. Then the two pieces would flop back and the bag would be open. The lining was blue fabric with little white flowers on it. It wasn't attached at the bottom, so you could turn it inside-out and really get it clean. That's the only time I'd see the one red flower that my mom said had been colored in by an uncapped, red felt-tipped pen. I loved the artistic accident.
She kept her purses in the sweater closet. It was half-filled with handknit sweaters and half-filled with purses, but it was still only named the sweater closet. The "changing of the purses" (as my brothers and I called the process of emptying the contents of, for example, the brown vinyl one that looked like a bowling bag into the red corduroy one with chain handles) usually took a little while. If it was REALLY time to get out of the house, she wouldn't make the change. It always involved emptying the unwanted junk from the bottom of the purse that had been stashed in the closet, and then refilling it with only the essentials from the one currently in use. What this meant was that the one being retired to the closet would be tucked away with all of the unwanted stuff that didn't make the transfer. And then, when she wanted that purse again, it had to be emptied for the next change. I always wondered why she didn't just throw the junk out in the first transfer, but she never did. It wasn't until the next time that she had the courage to part with the paperclips, safety pins, gritty pennies, kleenex with pink lipstick blots and leaky red pens.
Before my trip to Ecuador last week I did a "changing of the wallets." The stuff that got changed? An Italian stamp, the 5k race times of my Ethiopian friends scribbled on a six and a half year old tiny sheet of paper now as soft as kleenex, two rupees and a fortune which read, "Get your mind set....confidence will lead you on." (I HAD TO transfer that! Pulling it out of the tiny inner pocket of the wallet was like pulling it out of a cookie again. Only this time, I swore I was going to live it).
And today, as I finally accepted the fact that the straw summer bags should be tucked away and the leather ones pulled to the front, I had a "changing of the bags." Unlike my mother (and my practices with my wallet) I always empty my bags before they're stashed. The thought of finding the chewed gum wadded up in a napkin or a couple of stray Sugar Babies with sand and hair stuck to them has been enough to keep me emptying! The only problem is, this prevents surprises. Unless, of course, you have a bag with 8 diffferent pockets and compartments. And that's the one I had with me at the restaurant tonight when I was madly searching for a pen.
I knew I hadn't put one in the bag this morning, but I was sure that there must have been one that was overlooked in last year's emptying frenzy. Nope. No pen. But, I discovered a treat in the inside back pocket with the smaller zipped pocket inside that one. I found a clipping from the New York Times of February 2005. It was an article about Paris with a photo of the carousel on Place des Abbesses. Someone had given it to me before I ran the 2005 Paris Marathon. It didn't mean anything to me at the time. I was going to Paris to run a marathon, not ride a carousel. But for some reason, it got stashed in the bag and never emptied. And there it was today to remind me that in 2005 I'd had no idea that I'd be living in Paris in 2010 and take my own photo of the carousel in Place des Abbesses.
So, as I struggle with decisions of just what to do with my life in 2011, who knows what I might have absentmindedly stashed away to be discovered in 2016. Maybe I'd better go back to the trash can and dig out the instruction manual for my new camera lense and the brochure for the fall session of writing classes at Newberry Library. Wouldn't it be fun to discover those in the bottom of a bag in 5 years and be able to smile? And why does the fortune stay with the stuff that gets transferred instead of the stuff that gets emptied? What's it going to take to make me believe in that one little cookie from 1999?
She kept her purses in the sweater closet. It was half-filled with handknit sweaters and half-filled with purses, but it was still only named the sweater closet. The "changing of the purses" (as my brothers and I called the process of emptying the contents of, for example, the brown vinyl one that looked like a bowling bag into the red corduroy one with chain handles) usually took a little while. If it was REALLY time to get out of the house, she wouldn't make the change. It always involved emptying the unwanted junk from the bottom of the purse that had been stashed in the closet, and then refilling it with only the essentials from the one currently in use. What this meant was that the one being retired to the closet would be tucked away with all of the unwanted stuff that didn't make the transfer. And then, when she wanted that purse again, it had to be emptied for the next change. I always wondered why she didn't just throw the junk out in the first transfer, but she never did. It wasn't until the next time that she had the courage to part with the paperclips, safety pins, gritty pennies, kleenex with pink lipstick blots and leaky red pens.
Before my trip to Ecuador last week I did a "changing of the wallets." The stuff that got changed? An Italian stamp, the 5k race times of my Ethiopian friends scribbled on a six and a half year old tiny sheet of paper now as soft as kleenex, two rupees and a fortune which read, "Get your mind set....confidence will lead you on." (I HAD TO transfer that! Pulling it out of the tiny inner pocket of the wallet was like pulling it out of a cookie again. Only this time, I swore I was going to live it).
And today, as I finally accepted the fact that the straw summer bags should be tucked away and the leather ones pulled to the front, I had a "changing of the bags." Unlike my mother (and my practices with my wallet) I always empty my bags before they're stashed. The thought of finding the chewed gum wadded up in a napkin or a couple of stray Sugar Babies with sand and hair stuck to them has been enough to keep me emptying! The only problem is, this prevents surprises. Unless, of course, you have a bag with 8 diffferent pockets and compartments. And that's the one I had with me at the restaurant tonight when I was madly searching for a pen.
I knew I hadn't put one in the bag this morning, but I was sure that there must have been one that was overlooked in last year's emptying frenzy. Nope. No pen. But, I discovered a treat in the inside back pocket with the smaller zipped pocket inside that one. I found a clipping from the New York Times of February 2005. It was an article about Paris with a photo of the carousel on Place des Abbesses. Someone had given it to me before I ran the 2005 Paris Marathon. It didn't mean anything to me at the time. I was going to Paris to run a marathon, not ride a carousel. But for some reason, it got stashed in the bag and never emptied. And there it was today to remind me that in 2005 I'd had no idea that I'd be living in Paris in 2010 and take my own photo of the carousel in Place des Abbesses.
So, as I struggle with decisions of just what to do with my life in 2011, who knows what I might have absentmindedly stashed away to be discovered in 2016. Maybe I'd better go back to the trash can and dig out the instruction manual for my new camera lense and the brochure for the fall session of writing classes at Newberry Library. Wouldn't it be fun to discover those in the bottom of a bag in 5 years and be able to smile? And why does the fortune stay with the stuff that gets transferred instead of the stuff that gets emptied? What's it going to take to make me believe in that one little cookie from 1999?
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