heart is. Huh. I'm feeling heartless as hell today. I'm back home. From the beach. I'm pretty uphappy about that. Usually when I'm headed home I can at least get it up thinking about how freaking great my bed is. I love that bed. Eh. Not so this time. There are my littles that make me a bit homesick, but they're getting older and busier. Old Auntie Lisa ain't what she used to be when you've got friends and boyfriends and activities and in Landon's case, the vacuum. Yep, I'm in a full-blown post-vacation pity-party funk. "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." Yeah, suck it. This post is likely to be a bit disjointed. Forgive me if there is a lack of continuity. I'm not feeling particularly continuous today.
First, a big standing o for my friend Kelley who completed her first 5k run at Disney. You're such a bad ass. And another for my friend Kate who did the Disney Princess half marathon. That's 13.1094 miles in a sparkly tutu. You kicked its mother futting ass, KP. Well done girlies!
Let's catch up, shall we? That should make me feel better. I'm counting my lucky stars that I lived through the 12 hour each way drive down and back to Fort Morgan, AL. A couple of times I just had to tap out with the driving. I'd just be finished, because of the big trucks crossing the center line into my lane and the dear sweet old folks too busy checking out the scenery to remember that they were on an interstate with a speed limit of 70. Maybe their big old cars just can't go 70?
There are things I learned on the drive. Twizzlers make excellent straws. Automatic toilet flushers are no guarantee of safety. (For heaven's sake women TURN AROUND and double check that it worked!) The road construction near Effy and Marion and Mt. Vernon will never be finished. Ever. There's really nothing like driving over a slight rise in the pavement and seeing the shoreline.
There are things I learned while at the beach, too. My hair is still angry about all the humidity and salt water in the air. Even if you have to wrap yourself in a blanket to sit outside, it's still worth it to hear the waves. Beer tastes better at sea level. While it's nice to have had a break from the day-to-day normal life stress, phone calls, work, cleaning; you never really go away from yourself. Wherever you go, you take you with and all your stuff comes with you. I had a great time; I'm so grateful I was able to go; I cried when I left. But everything I left here is still here and it was there, too. Vivian was right in "Pretty Woman", sometimes it is just a matter of geography.
I started seeing a therapist the week before I left. The day I went for our first meeting I felt like I was getting ready for a blind date. Picking the perfect outfit, extra time with hair and make-up. Have to craft that perfect (or as perfect as possible for this 40 year old) facade for the new girl, you know. I don't want her to guess from onset that I'm a walking disaster area. Julie C. reminded me before I left that the entire POINT was for her to see the cracks. She also reminded me how great it feels when you first go in and get some insight. The first few meetings seem to create the most hope. She was right. I did feel better and I felt a couple of what Oprah would call "ah ha" moments. I generally think of them as "Damn it, that's right" or "Crap, I suck" moments.
But a few moments does not a life change make, usually. I'm going to be honest here, Hellions, I'm feeling like I'm without purpose. Now, if someone said that about any of my friends, I'd poke them in the nose. This isn't a statement about anyone else, it's about me, period.
I was sitting on the beach watching that water crash and crash and crash into the sand thinking how damn fruitless it seems. The ocean and water in general seems to be the stuff cheesy metaphors are made of...eventually water changes rock and sand and the shore. It just keeps marching on. That's lovely and all, but the water is soulless. It is without feeling or emotion or concept of time. It doesn't care that it takes millions of years to change things, because it has millions of years to make it happen. It doesn't get frustrated with its lack of progress or feel the panting of impatience. It doesn't feel hopeless. The water doesn't feel a sense of purpose because it doesn't feel. It just does what nature intended. It relentlessly moves; it harbors life, but it doesn't even know that's what it is doing.
People, unlike that water, need to know what they are doing has a larger purpose. We need to know that there's value in the motion. The truth about that, my friends, is that no one can give you that knowledge. People can point out this or that or the other that makes you of value to them, but you have to find it yourself. It's not the kind of thing you can simply take another's word for. Sometimes you feel hopeless and worthless and without direction. When we feel that way it seems that people want to help us so desperately. People who love us and care for us are compelled by compassion to want to do or say something, anything to give us some relief. Maybe because they know that feeling or maybe because they fear someday knowing it. But the truth is, I have to find my why. Why I need to keep relentlessly crashing into the shore, my purpose for perpetual human motion. My home that there is no place like and where my heart is, where there's a lot more fresh and a lot less hell.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
My Grandma used to say..
some people like to bitch for bitching's sake. And she knew, because she tended to be one of those people. Hell, most of us are those people from time to time. We complain about the weather or fuel prices or politics or our hectic schedule, or the jack asses who can't figure out a 4-way stop (maybe that's my personal bitch). But have you noticed the people who bitch because it seems they want to push buttons. I'm talking about folks who use a very public forum to make sure everyone knows how annoyed they are by this or that to the point at which those of us around them are thinking "me thinks thou doth protest too much". But we mean in the literal way, not the literary Bard way.
I'm on vacation at Fort Morgan beach this week, so I have very little to bitch about. Perhaps that's why I notice all the complaining going on around me. I've gotten quiet, so I can hear all those other voices. I've pulled the beam out of my eye so I can more clearly see the splinter in someone else's, right Julia?
Here's where I'm headed with this; Whitney Houston died. As of this moment, I've not seen a conclusive cause of death. We all have read about her struggles and are making assumptions. Add to that some of us watching a lot of CSI in it's various manifestations, and it seems that some of us fancy ourselves couch pathologists. This whole thing leads me in a couple of different directions, one being about the bitchers and the other being about why those bitchers don't think it is OK to mourn a chick who was part of the soundtrack of my youth simply because she at a point had a drug problem and perhaps that problem led to her end. The two do tie together, trust me. The thing I'd like for you to try to keep in mind is that this isn't exclusively about Whitney, she's my abstract inspiration. But the Negative Nellies will pick the part that they can be most offended by and roll that little nugget around until they've whipped themselves up into a frenzy and are just forced to take to Facebook and yet again bitch.
Here's the thing, I screeched out Whitney Houston songs in my shower when I was a teenager. I danced slow dances with young men wearing too much Polo or Stetson to her songs. I cried to them when my heart got broken. They were a ubiquitous part of the late eighties culture. Anytime a life is cut short it is sad. Anytime a teenage lost little girl is left motherless, it is a tragedy. Anytime a mother outlives a daughter it leaves a boulder of sorrow. No matter how someone dies, the fact that they leave innocent, grieving souls behind makes that a grievable event. The general public felt they knew her. How could you hear that National Anthem and not be moved? Now the bitchers likely wrote her off as soon as they heard that she maybe didn't think crack was so wack. Because bitchers will find any opening, any crack in perfect and shine their bitchy little lights on it (I imagine the lights are flashing yellow for some reason).
The interesting thing to me is that those who make a sport out of bitching secretly seem to get a little glee when someone falls or makes a mistake. It gives them something to point to and prattle on and on about. I also a bit wonder if they are so quick to point that flashing yellow light at other's cracks so to keep people from noticing their own bigger, deeper secrets and lies. The things from their past that they'd be ashamed about. The things they pretend no one remembers. They wave their arms and shout about banal topics to keep people from pausing to ask "didn't he ..." "I thought she...". They also seem to hope that by being so consistently aggressive, they'll frighten people off from exposing their own weaknesses. As long as they stand on their porch or sit behind their keyboards and bark big and loud, no one will come near them. And most good people won't. Most non-bitchers will talk about how absolutely pathetic s/he looks waving that flag, holding that line, bitching about Whitney's drug problem when everyone has a past, and there's always someone who knows that past.
So bitchers are going to bitch to focus the attention elsewhere or simply because they find themselves and their "witty" (not even close) retorts so monumental that all must hear and heartily agree or they don't love America, they hate soldiers, they don't love children, or animals, or trees or Jesus. Because we've decided as a society that hitting "like" on a Facebook post measures our degree of commitment and love and dedication. If you don't repost this unoriginal thought or downright wrong information, you're a bad person. If you don't bitch, you're passive and unimaginative and irrelevant. I beg to differ. Sharing a link, I get. It contains more information than a cleverly worded, often misrepresentative sound bite. Copy and paste is like not covering a sneeze to me. You're sharing, but does anyone really want it?
Back to Whitney, I get it. I don't want any of my littles to grow up to be like her entirely. It kind of goes back to the grass only being greener in patches on the other side. Would I love for one of them to have some sort of talent unsurpassed by most? Yep. Would I want it to change who they were and how they believed and behaved? Nope. Would I want them to die alone at age 48 in a bathtub where pictures of their last meal and the tub full of water, the very last thing they touched while they were alive, will be spread all over the world before their body is laid to rest? Oh my, no. Lord no.
Maybe she did take too many pills and had a drink too many. That happens every single day to other families. They get a call, they drag a loved one out of a tub, they find them in their beds after panicked phone calls. Does the fact that they had a problem make them less loved or missed? Does it make their children and parents and sisters cry less? Does that make the loss of potential that a parent saw in the eyes of that person when they were a newborn less wasted? But because it's a public figure, we all feel the need to judge and pile on and condemn. Imagine reading those things and hearing those things mere hours after your mother died? Heartless, judgemental thugs. That's who we're turning into.
Let me ask you this, would it have been more or less tragic if she died of lung cancer after being a smoker for 20 years? Or if she died of colon cancer after 50 years of a low fiber diet? Or if she died of heart disease because all she ever ate was fatty foods and sat on her couch until they rolled her out to sing? All of those are lifestyle choices that we all know increase our risk of early death. So do drugs. So does alcohol. They're lifestyle choices too? I have family members and friends who smoke. I promise you this, if any of them died of lung cancer, not for one minute would I be thinking they don't deserve to be grieved because they asked for it. I have friends who drink, if one day their liver gives out, I'm still going to be standing in line to pay my respects and my heart is going to be just as broken as if they'd died any other way. And if I read on your Facebook status that YOU judge them unworthy of grief, you and I will have words.
I'm almost done, I promise. Just one little point here, I've read much about how insulting it is that Whitney is having a huge funeral and soldiers who die in combat seem to be so ignored. The town I live in certainly doesn't ignore them. We line the streets holding flags and banners in silent solidarity with the family who has given so much only to lose it permanently. I'm with those who think the flags at half-staff was a pretty ridiculous call, but until I get elected Governor of a state, that's not my call. Here's the thing I noticed, people were posting and bitching about that, but then that was it. Their next status update was about the weather or gas prices or some other banal bitch. There were posts of music videos about drinking or rants about various sports teams. Huh.
How about this, how about if you post something about "instead of blocking off traffic for her funeral they should do it for military funerals only" or "instead of all the coverage about a celebrity's death, why aren't they showing stories about fallen soldiers?" or "instead of sending money to foreign countries to help why don't we take care of our own?" you have to share your instead. Because as I see it, YOU are posting about a celebrity death instead of a soldier. Not once have I seen some of these rabid bitchers list the name of a man or woman killed in action today. I see unsportsman-like bashing of a team that isn't even the one they cheer for (and we know who they like because they spend lots of time sharing that instead of ...). I see bitching about what musician you "hate" followed by links to videos of artists you don't, as if all the world has been waiting for you to let us know what's worthy and what's not. Why aren't you posting the names of the dead and wounded instead? Why aren't you listing local and national charities that help wounded vets and their families every single day in your status? Why aren't you traveling hundreds of miles to hold a flag at some dead kid's funeral? How about the day you die everyone completely ignores you, shares all your dirty laundry on-line and instructs everyone that anyone who feels sad about your passing is out of line, because someone somewhere doesn't like you and doesn't think you are worthy of mourning because of the mistakes you made?
How about trying to do something instead of bitching. How about you start doing what you bitch about others not doing? Maybe you think it won't get you as much attention? Maybe you just enjoy pushing buttons and starting an argument and then changing the subject when people don't blindly agree? That's cool. That's your instead and even though you don't allow others that benefit, we'll let you keep yours. Because if bitching were a sport, you might make the finals, hell you might even win. And we all know that talking about what others should do and passing judgement is what's really important. I know, because I'm maybe doing that right now. So for just a little bit, let me do something instead...
This link is a history of women who've given their lives to protect our freedom: http://userpages.aug.com/captbarb/lives.html
Scroll down and you can select to see by month and year real sacrifice, you can see their faces and read how they died, who they were and where they were from. Each face will break your heart:
http://militarytimes.com/valor/
How's this for a reality check, the very day I turned 40, the day I was lamenting aging and spending too much money on a handbag, 21 year old Army Spc. Calvin M. Pereda from Fayetteville, NC died in Afghanistan of injuries sustained from an IED.
Today, that'll be my instead. I've posted this instead of writing about what the humidity does to my hair, or how it's a little cool when the sun isn't out here at the beautiful beach. Instead, I'm going to think about how lucky I am in this moment, how the size of someone's funeral doesn't have anything to do with me, how contentment is certainly a goal. And maybe I'll wait until tomorrow to go back to competitive bitching. Hell, maybe tomorrow I'll even let you win.
I'm on vacation at Fort Morgan beach this week, so I have very little to bitch about. Perhaps that's why I notice all the complaining going on around me. I've gotten quiet, so I can hear all those other voices. I've pulled the beam out of my eye so I can more clearly see the splinter in someone else's, right Julia?
Here's where I'm headed with this; Whitney Houston died. As of this moment, I've not seen a conclusive cause of death. We all have read about her struggles and are making assumptions. Add to that some of us watching a lot of CSI in it's various manifestations, and it seems that some of us fancy ourselves couch pathologists. This whole thing leads me in a couple of different directions, one being about the bitchers and the other being about why those bitchers don't think it is OK to mourn a chick who was part of the soundtrack of my youth simply because she at a point had a drug problem and perhaps that problem led to her end. The two do tie together, trust me. The thing I'd like for you to try to keep in mind is that this isn't exclusively about Whitney, she's my abstract inspiration. But the Negative Nellies will pick the part that they can be most offended by and roll that little nugget around until they've whipped themselves up into a frenzy and are just forced to take to Facebook and yet again bitch.
Here's the thing, I screeched out Whitney Houston songs in my shower when I was a teenager. I danced slow dances with young men wearing too much Polo or Stetson to her songs. I cried to them when my heart got broken. They were a ubiquitous part of the late eighties culture. Anytime a life is cut short it is sad. Anytime a teenage lost little girl is left motherless, it is a tragedy. Anytime a mother outlives a daughter it leaves a boulder of sorrow. No matter how someone dies, the fact that they leave innocent, grieving souls behind makes that a grievable event. The general public felt they knew her. How could you hear that National Anthem and not be moved? Now the bitchers likely wrote her off as soon as they heard that she maybe didn't think crack was so wack. Because bitchers will find any opening, any crack in perfect and shine their bitchy little lights on it (I imagine the lights are flashing yellow for some reason).
The interesting thing to me is that those who make a sport out of bitching secretly seem to get a little glee when someone falls or makes a mistake. It gives them something to point to and prattle on and on about. I also a bit wonder if they are so quick to point that flashing yellow light at other's cracks so to keep people from noticing their own bigger, deeper secrets and lies. The things from their past that they'd be ashamed about. The things they pretend no one remembers. They wave their arms and shout about banal topics to keep people from pausing to ask "didn't he ..." "I thought she...". They also seem to hope that by being so consistently aggressive, they'll frighten people off from exposing their own weaknesses. As long as they stand on their porch or sit behind their keyboards and bark big and loud, no one will come near them. And most good people won't. Most non-bitchers will talk about how absolutely pathetic s/he looks waving that flag, holding that line, bitching about Whitney's drug problem when everyone has a past, and there's always someone who knows that past.
So bitchers are going to bitch to focus the attention elsewhere or simply because they find themselves and their "witty" (not even close) retorts so monumental that all must hear and heartily agree or they don't love America, they hate soldiers, they don't love children, or animals, or trees or Jesus. Because we've decided as a society that hitting "like" on a Facebook post measures our degree of commitment and love and dedication. If you don't repost this unoriginal thought or downright wrong information, you're a bad person. If you don't bitch, you're passive and unimaginative and irrelevant. I beg to differ. Sharing a link, I get. It contains more information than a cleverly worded, often misrepresentative sound bite. Copy and paste is like not covering a sneeze to me. You're sharing, but does anyone really want it?
Back to Whitney, I get it. I don't want any of my littles to grow up to be like her entirely. It kind of goes back to the grass only being greener in patches on the other side. Would I love for one of them to have some sort of talent unsurpassed by most? Yep. Would I want it to change who they were and how they believed and behaved? Nope. Would I want them to die alone at age 48 in a bathtub where pictures of their last meal and the tub full of water, the very last thing they touched while they were alive, will be spread all over the world before their body is laid to rest? Oh my, no. Lord no.
Maybe she did take too many pills and had a drink too many. That happens every single day to other families. They get a call, they drag a loved one out of a tub, they find them in their beds after panicked phone calls. Does the fact that they had a problem make them less loved or missed? Does it make their children and parents and sisters cry less? Does that make the loss of potential that a parent saw in the eyes of that person when they were a newborn less wasted? But because it's a public figure, we all feel the need to judge and pile on and condemn. Imagine reading those things and hearing those things mere hours after your mother died? Heartless, judgemental thugs. That's who we're turning into.
Let me ask you this, would it have been more or less tragic if she died of lung cancer after being a smoker for 20 years? Or if she died of colon cancer after 50 years of a low fiber diet? Or if she died of heart disease because all she ever ate was fatty foods and sat on her couch until they rolled her out to sing? All of those are lifestyle choices that we all know increase our risk of early death. So do drugs. So does alcohol. They're lifestyle choices too? I have family members and friends who smoke. I promise you this, if any of them died of lung cancer, not for one minute would I be thinking they don't deserve to be grieved because they asked for it. I have friends who drink, if one day their liver gives out, I'm still going to be standing in line to pay my respects and my heart is going to be just as broken as if they'd died any other way. And if I read on your Facebook status that YOU judge them unworthy of grief, you and I will have words.
I'm almost done, I promise. Just one little point here, I've read much about how insulting it is that Whitney is having a huge funeral and soldiers who die in combat seem to be so ignored. The town I live in certainly doesn't ignore them. We line the streets holding flags and banners in silent solidarity with the family who has given so much only to lose it permanently. I'm with those who think the flags at half-staff was a pretty ridiculous call, but until I get elected Governor of a state, that's not my call. Here's the thing I noticed, people were posting and bitching about that, but then that was it. Their next status update was about the weather or gas prices or some other banal bitch. There were posts of music videos about drinking or rants about various sports teams. Huh.
How about this, how about if you post something about "instead of blocking off traffic for her funeral they should do it for military funerals only" or "instead of all the coverage about a celebrity's death, why aren't they showing stories about fallen soldiers?" or "instead of sending money to foreign countries to help why don't we take care of our own?" you have to share your instead. Because as I see it, YOU are posting about a celebrity death instead of a soldier. Not once have I seen some of these rabid bitchers list the name of a man or woman killed in action today. I see unsportsman-like bashing of a team that isn't even the one they cheer for (and we know who they like because they spend lots of time sharing that instead of ...). I see bitching about what musician you "hate" followed by links to videos of artists you don't, as if all the world has been waiting for you to let us know what's worthy and what's not. Why aren't you posting the names of the dead and wounded instead? Why aren't you listing local and national charities that help wounded vets and their families every single day in your status? Why aren't you traveling hundreds of miles to hold a flag at some dead kid's funeral? How about the day you die everyone completely ignores you, shares all your dirty laundry on-line and instructs everyone that anyone who feels sad about your passing is out of line, because someone somewhere doesn't like you and doesn't think you are worthy of mourning because of the mistakes you made?
How about trying to do something instead of bitching. How about you start doing what you bitch about others not doing? Maybe you think it won't get you as much attention? Maybe you just enjoy pushing buttons and starting an argument and then changing the subject when people don't blindly agree? That's cool. That's your instead and even though you don't allow others that benefit, we'll let you keep yours. Because if bitching were a sport, you might make the finals, hell you might even win. And we all know that talking about what others should do and passing judgement is what's really important. I know, because I'm maybe doing that right now. So for just a little bit, let me do something instead...
This link is a history of women who've given their lives to protect our freedom: http://userpages.aug.com/captbarb/lives.html
Scroll down and you can select to see by month and year real sacrifice, you can see their faces and read how they died, who they were and where they were from. Each face will break your heart:
http://militarytimes.com/valor/
How's this for a reality check, the very day I turned 40, the day I was lamenting aging and spending too much money on a handbag, 21 year old Army Spc. Calvin M. Pereda from Fayetteville, NC died in Afghanistan of injuries sustained from an IED.
Today, that'll be my instead. I've posted this instead of writing about what the humidity does to my hair, or how it's a little cool when the sun isn't out here at the beautiful beach. Instead, I'm going to think about how lucky I am in this moment, how the size of someone's funeral doesn't have anything to do with me, how contentment is certainly a goal. And maybe I'll wait until tomorrow to go back to competitive bitching. Hell, maybe tomorrow I'll even let you win.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Let's all be real...
Valentine's Day kind of blows. It's like the bastard child of New Year's Eve and birthdays after the age of 21; it's over-hyped, it's most often a disappointment, and you end up passed out after crying in a tub of Ben & Jerry's.
Most people don't really like the big V Day. Married or single. Men seem to really find it reprehensible. I have a friend who wished me Happy Valentine's Day; I'm pretty sure it almost killed him. I sounded like he was being waterboarded into saying it. He thinks that V Day is for young couples (gross) and kids with their little tiny paper Valentines in those cute miniature envelopes. He thinks anniversaries are for married folks and birthdays are for everyone else, so why add the pressure of a day in which you should sum up your love for someone with "pre-made bullshit". Huh. Have to admit, I agree.
Since I'm feeling a bit left out on this day of ick, I decided that I'll share things and experiences that I love with you, because those things never get it wrong for me. They never forget to call, or follow through on a promise, and don't abandon you when you need them. Bitter much, Lisa? Just a little bit, I guess. I'm 40 and single, the rules say I'm supposed to be a little pissy today.
So here they are, in no particular order, things besides my family and friends that are the loves of my life...
1. A letter in my mailbox. An honest-to-goodness, hand-written, fingerprints-on-the-page letter. It's hard not to devour it in the parking lot of the post office, but I like to wait until I'm in the quiet of my house to feel every word.
2. The way my down comforter feels when I first get into bed. How it settles around me, soft and cool. It just feels like sleep to me.
3. Moisturizer and lip balm. You know what I'm talking about girls, that feeling when you first put it on and your skin kind of just drinks it in. So good.
4. Condiment bowls. I have a thing about puddles of condiments on plates; it grosses me the hell out. Teeny tiny condiment bowls are the perfect solution, plus they are so stinking cute.
5. Lycra. I'm not talking about full on shiny biker shorts. Gross. I mean just a little bit in jeans and dresses and yoga pants. Just enough stretch to forgive that box of Valentine chocolate you just ate.
6. Yoga pants. Sweet sparkly baby, those are magical. Anyone who knew me during my youth knows I'm not a sweat pants sort of girl, I've actually never owned a pair. No judgement, just not my thing. Yoga pants are not sweat pants. See #4 for their magical properties. That wide band at the top is incapable of digging into one's tummy no matter how many carbs you eat.
7. DV mother futting Rs. How did we live before the DVR? I can watch one of my stories while recording another. And the damn thing is so smart it finds every episode of House of Lies and records all of them. I win at DVRing.
8. Being old enough to know that people are talking about me and not giving a damn, except to hope that what they are gossiping about is actually more interesting than my real life.
9. Along that whole maturity line, not being even the tiniest bit embarrassed to check out with only tampons, Midol and a Hershey's Bar.
10. Living alone. The three pairs of shoes currently piled near my front door bother no one. I always let myself know when I drink the last cup of coffee, finish the milk or use the last square of toilet paper.
11. The sound of the zipper on a suitcase. It doesn't matter if it's packing to leave or unpacking when you're finally home, it's a happy sound.
12. Watching a movie with Syd and her holding my hand so I won't be scared. Covering Delaney's eyes during Footloose (the original) because I forgot about the bare bottoms. Maddy's crazy curly hair.
13. The sound of Landon's feet flying through his house towards me when I open the front door and say hello. How he just jumps at me, no fear, trusting I'll catch him. When my big guy nephew Gavin asks me to come watch his ball games. He knows I won't cheer loudly and embarrass him. And I always think he's the star of his team, no matter what. (Of course his buddies the Jacks and Drew are too!)
14. Remembering how hard I worked in Mrs. McCrillis's third grade class to cover that shoe box with hearts and glitter to make it the perfect mailbox to hold all the corny kid Valentines from my classmates.
15. The curl by the side of my face that reminds me of my dad and now makes me think of my nieces.
16. Cleaning your house before leaving on vacation so when you return all road weary with a pile of laundry, it feels peaceful.
17. Shampoo that makes your hair smell like oranges.
18. Waking up in the middle of the night thinking it's almost morning and realizing you still have another five hours before your alarm screams at you.
19. Snow that melts off my drive before I have to leave in the morning.
20. The fact that Valentine's day, no matter how disappointing, is only one day and my list of loves can happen any day, any time.
How about you, you bitter old cynics? What are your loves, big and small? Here's hoping that there's at least a little bit of Fresh Hell on your list.
Most people don't really like the big V Day. Married or single. Men seem to really find it reprehensible. I have a friend who wished me Happy Valentine's Day; I'm pretty sure it almost killed him. I sounded like he was being waterboarded into saying it. He thinks that V Day is for young couples (gross) and kids with their little tiny paper Valentines in those cute miniature envelopes. He thinks anniversaries are for married folks and birthdays are for everyone else, so why add the pressure of a day in which you should sum up your love for someone with "pre-made bullshit". Huh. Have to admit, I agree.
Since I'm feeling a bit left out on this day of ick, I decided that I'll share things and experiences that I love with you, because those things never get it wrong for me. They never forget to call, or follow through on a promise, and don't abandon you when you need them. Bitter much, Lisa? Just a little bit, I guess. I'm 40 and single, the rules say I'm supposed to be a little pissy today.
So here they are, in no particular order, things besides my family and friends that are the loves of my life...
1. A letter in my mailbox. An honest-to-goodness, hand-written, fingerprints-on-the-page letter. It's hard not to devour it in the parking lot of the post office, but I like to wait until I'm in the quiet of my house to feel every word.
2. The way my down comforter feels when I first get into bed. How it settles around me, soft and cool. It just feels like sleep to me.
3. Moisturizer and lip balm. You know what I'm talking about girls, that feeling when you first put it on and your skin kind of just drinks it in. So good.
4. Condiment bowls. I have a thing about puddles of condiments on plates; it grosses me the hell out. Teeny tiny condiment bowls are the perfect solution, plus they are so stinking cute.
5. Lycra. I'm not talking about full on shiny biker shorts. Gross. I mean just a little bit in jeans and dresses and yoga pants. Just enough stretch to forgive that box of Valentine chocolate you just ate.
6. Yoga pants. Sweet sparkly baby, those are magical. Anyone who knew me during my youth knows I'm not a sweat pants sort of girl, I've actually never owned a pair. No judgement, just not my thing. Yoga pants are not sweat pants. See #4 for their magical properties. That wide band at the top is incapable of digging into one's tummy no matter how many carbs you eat.
7. DV mother futting Rs. How did we live before the DVR? I can watch one of my stories while recording another. And the damn thing is so smart it finds every episode of House of Lies and records all of them. I win at DVRing.
8. Being old enough to know that people are talking about me and not giving a damn, except to hope that what they are gossiping about is actually more interesting than my real life.
9. Along that whole maturity line, not being even the tiniest bit embarrassed to check out with only tampons, Midol and a Hershey's Bar.
10. Living alone. The three pairs of shoes currently piled near my front door bother no one. I always let myself know when I drink the last cup of coffee, finish the milk or use the last square of toilet paper.
11. The sound of the zipper on a suitcase. It doesn't matter if it's packing to leave or unpacking when you're finally home, it's a happy sound.
12. Watching a movie with Syd and her holding my hand so I won't be scared. Covering Delaney's eyes during Footloose (the original) because I forgot about the bare bottoms. Maddy's crazy curly hair.
13. The sound of Landon's feet flying through his house towards me when I open the front door and say hello. How he just jumps at me, no fear, trusting I'll catch him. When my big guy nephew Gavin asks me to come watch his ball games. He knows I won't cheer loudly and embarrass him. And I always think he's the star of his team, no matter what. (Of course his buddies the Jacks and Drew are too!)
14. Remembering how hard I worked in Mrs. McCrillis's third grade class to cover that shoe box with hearts and glitter to make it the perfect mailbox to hold all the corny kid Valentines from my classmates.
15. The curl by the side of my face that reminds me of my dad and now makes me think of my nieces.
16. Cleaning your house before leaving on vacation so when you return all road weary with a pile of laundry, it feels peaceful.
17. Shampoo that makes your hair smell like oranges.
18. Waking up in the middle of the night thinking it's almost morning and realizing you still have another five hours before your alarm screams at you.
19. Snow that melts off my drive before I have to leave in the morning.
20. The fact that Valentine's day, no matter how disappointing, is only one day and my list of loves can happen any day, any time.
How about you, you bitter old cynics? What are your loves, big and small? Here's hoping that there's at least a little bit of Fresh Hell on your list.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
There are times...
that try men's souls. Thomas Paine said something like that. He was talking about the start of the Revolutionary War. I think we can all think of times that have tried our souls. We're all supposed to come out the other side "better" or "stronger". We're supposed to see greater meaning and purpose and if we don't, we're not looking hard enough or we're bitter. That's the label we get saddled with. We're told when we lose someone that "God has a reason" or that someday, someway we'll see the bigger plan. To not believe those things makes us feel like we're perhaps betraying the person we've lost. Watching someone fight their way through hell is the most powerless place to be, because ultimately it's their fight and we're just pacing the sideline.
It's been a hell of a week with the Susan G. Koeman Foundation taking what they believed was the right stand and then quickly reversing that decision after a huge backlash from the public. On the day funding was taken from Planned Parenthood, two of my dearest friends' Grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer. And just this week, a beautiful strong woman's long fight ended. The community in which I was raised is grieving that loss, because she became a light to us. She was and still is a symbol of hope and peace and fight and joy in the journey, no matter how that journey ends. We hoped and prayed and feared and cried for her. Now we have to pick up her banner and continue to make a difference and support others still fighting.
No matter how invested in her life and her battle we became, no matter how much a symbol of the war she was fighting with cancer, (make no mistake it was a war not a battle) she was most importantly a mother and a wife, a daughter and a sister, an aunt and a friend. We, the community will feel her loss in this moment. We will think of her fondly and sadly when we hear a story of another young mother fighting, or winning or ending her war with cancer, but we will more easily step out of that grief. For her family and her friends who really knew her, they will wear all of it in their hearts until their last breath. Time does not seem to truly heal, it just moves us away from the immediacy we feel after such a loss. It just gives us, well, time to learn to live with it.
I'm going to touch on this briefly because this paragraph is not what this blog is about, but I feel strongly that it needs to be said. I met this lovely woman once, I've followed her fight through her on-line journal, my friends who were close to her and her family have cried and worried and been strong and shared some of that with those of us who are not part of the inner circle. My heart is broken for her family and her friends and the community. Because I do not have any claim on what they are truly going through, it behooves me to watch my mouth. To not inflict further harm by posting nosey questions on Facebook. By not texting or calling those close to her who are at a loss because of her loss to find out who and what and where and why, so they can be the first to tell, the first to know. If you're calling or texting or posting, it should be asking who can we help, what can we do, where do we go to make a difference, and why don't you who are broken just come to us when you need us; otherwise, we're in the background waiting to do what we can. Social media makes it easy to say things we wouldn't dream of saying to someone's face, so stop and think and then stop and think again and then do or say with a clear heart only filled with compassion.
Disease of any kind is a son of a bitch. MS, cancer, Alzheimer's, mental illness, all of them and all those I didn't call by name fight dirty. They change everything in the amount of time it takes to hear the news. They move you to action; they pin you in your spot with fear and disbelief and grief; they humble and embolden; they break you and they build you up. They take and they give. They show you profound strength and beauty and love and they show you darkness and anger and fear. In the end, they either continue doing what they set out to do or something alters their course and they are stopped. There is no rhyme or reason to the getting and the curing. While there are diets and lifestyles and behaviors that seem to attract them, and there are drugs and therapies that defeat them; they simply begin, and where they'll end with each individual, no one knows.
Fight and believe and hope, that's all one can do. And perhaps in the end, we adjust our definition of "miracle". Maybe it's getting better and living a long beautiful life, and maybe it becomes all the lives touched before moving on to their rest and reward after the fight. Because leaving a lasting mark on someone's heart and mind IS a miracle, you know. Just think of all the people who've passed by you and you've forgotten moments after they left. Now think of the ones who just as briefly were in your life, perhaps simply by reading or hearing about them and not even meeting them, whom you long remember. Those people, those stories and lives, those are miraculous.
The difference between those diseases and all of us is that we are alive. No matter what color a ribbon you put on it, it's still ugly and unfair, yet we are still stronger. We are living and breathing and loving and laughing and fighting. Diseases like cancer don't succeed in their mission because we didn't fight or believe or pray or hope enough. They're just doing what they are programmed to do. Multiplying and morphing and destroying. You see, cancer does not have a soul. You and I do, and because of that, we always win. What takes someone away from us, from this life, is simply the footnote. It's something that unites us and gives us a further purpose, to find a way to stop it, to find a cure. It's not who we are or how we lived; it's simply and horribly how we die. It is not our middle and it is not even our end, because those who have moved past this life here leave behind more than what took them. No matter how they leave us, by choice or circumstance or blessed old age, even if their being here was brief, every single life touches another. So you see, even in the most trying times of our souls, we aren't alone, someone else is always in the trial with us or standing just outside waiting and hoping and loving us to the other side of it. That's what keeps us walking through the hell and into the beautiful.
It's been a hell of a week with the Susan G. Koeman Foundation taking what they believed was the right stand and then quickly reversing that decision after a huge backlash from the public. On the day funding was taken from Planned Parenthood, two of my dearest friends' Grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer. And just this week, a beautiful strong woman's long fight ended. The community in which I was raised is grieving that loss, because she became a light to us. She was and still is a symbol of hope and peace and fight and joy in the journey, no matter how that journey ends. We hoped and prayed and feared and cried for her. Now we have to pick up her banner and continue to make a difference and support others still fighting.
No matter how invested in her life and her battle we became, no matter how much a symbol of the war she was fighting with cancer, (make no mistake it was a war not a battle) she was most importantly a mother and a wife, a daughter and a sister, an aunt and a friend. We, the community will feel her loss in this moment. We will think of her fondly and sadly when we hear a story of another young mother fighting, or winning or ending her war with cancer, but we will more easily step out of that grief. For her family and her friends who really knew her, they will wear all of it in their hearts until their last breath. Time does not seem to truly heal, it just moves us away from the immediacy we feel after such a loss. It just gives us, well, time to learn to live with it.
I'm going to touch on this briefly because this paragraph is not what this blog is about, but I feel strongly that it needs to be said. I met this lovely woman once, I've followed her fight through her on-line journal, my friends who were close to her and her family have cried and worried and been strong and shared some of that with those of us who are not part of the inner circle. My heart is broken for her family and her friends and the community. Because I do not have any claim on what they are truly going through, it behooves me to watch my mouth. To not inflict further harm by posting nosey questions on Facebook. By not texting or calling those close to her who are at a loss because of her loss to find out who and what and where and why, so they can be the first to tell, the first to know. If you're calling or texting or posting, it should be asking who can we help, what can we do, where do we go to make a difference, and why don't you who are broken just come to us when you need us; otherwise, we're in the background waiting to do what we can. Social media makes it easy to say things we wouldn't dream of saying to someone's face, so stop and think and then stop and think again and then do or say with a clear heart only filled with compassion.
Disease of any kind is a son of a bitch. MS, cancer, Alzheimer's, mental illness, all of them and all those I didn't call by name fight dirty. They change everything in the amount of time it takes to hear the news. They move you to action; they pin you in your spot with fear and disbelief and grief; they humble and embolden; they break you and they build you up. They take and they give. They show you profound strength and beauty and love and they show you darkness and anger and fear. In the end, they either continue doing what they set out to do or something alters their course and they are stopped. There is no rhyme or reason to the getting and the curing. While there are diets and lifestyles and behaviors that seem to attract them, and there are drugs and therapies that defeat them; they simply begin, and where they'll end with each individual, no one knows.
Fight and believe and hope, that's all one can do. And perhaps in the end, we adjust our definition of "miracle". Maybe it's getting better and living a long beautiful life, and maybe it becomes all the lives touched before moving on to their rest and reward after the fight. Because leaving a lasting mark on someone's heart and mind IS a miracle, you know. Just think of all the people who've passed by you and you've forgotten moments after they left. Now think of the ones who just as briefly were in your life, perhaps simply by reading or hearing about them and not even meeting them, whom you long remember. Those people, those stories and lives, those are miraculous.
The difference between those diseases and all of us is that we are alive. No matter what color a ribbon you put on it, it's still ugly and unfair, yet we are still stronger. We are living and breathing and loving and laughing and fighting. Diseases like cancer don't succeed in their mission because we didn't fight or believe or pray or hope enough. They're just doing what they are programmed to do. Multiplying and morphing and destroying. You see, cancer does not have a soul. You and I do, and because of that, we always win. What takes someone away from us, from this life, is simply the footnote. It's something that unites us and gives us a further purpose, to find a way to stop it, to find a cure. It's not who we are or how we lived; it's simply and horribly how we die. It is not our middle and it is not even our end, because those who have moved past this life here leave behind more than what took them. No matter how they leave us, by choice or circumstance or blessed old age, even if their being here was brief, every single life touches another. So you see, even in the most trying times of our souls, we aren't alone, someone else is always in the trial with us or standing just outside waiting and hoping and loving us to the other side of it. That's what keeps us walking through the hell and into the beautiful.
Friday, February 3, 2012
If you knew...
how little hell I go through at my work, you'd challenge me to a duel for it. (Dance off or runway walk only. Bring it bitches!) I don't talk much about my job here for several reasons. We have a very strict confidentiality policy, Big D is a pretty private person, it would bore the hell out of you, and I'm afraid you'd try to take it from me.
I have worked here since I was 18 years and 4 months old. That will be 22 years on March 1. It's more than half my life. I've grown up here, really, and it has been a pretty freaking great place to do that. I'm lucky; I know it.
Briefly what happens here is Big D helps public school employees save money for retirement. I do whatever I have to do to make his job easy. Sometimes that means fetching him a glass of water, sometimes that means making copies or doing the bookkeeping. Sometimes that means making him laugh. He laughs loudly. Really loudly. Loud enough to hurt my ears. Maybe I should be less funny.
Big D taught middle school music in the seventies for about 5 years, so our office is always full of music. Dear Lord help me. Usually it's a streaming PBS jazz station, but often he'll come barrelling in with some song stuck in his head and then it'll be a Beatles Day or a Military Bands Day or heaven forbid Wayne Cochran (Google him, it's a good times). The impromptu concerts are amusing and maddening all at once. He sings along to the music, not the lyrics, THE MUSIC! Son of a... I'm getting annoyed just thinking about it!
Big D is often my foil in stories I tell and even in this blog, because he's a pretty good target. He's 60, an ex-musician who may or may not have been a late sixties/early seventies stereotype. He is firmly who he is, which I admire. He doesn't think much about what people think about him. What a great head space that must be. He's pushy and intrusive and brilliant and frustratingly consistent. Truth is, Big D is one of my best friends.
We've kind of been through a lot of good and bad together. Since we've been the only two people in the office for 17ish of those 22 years, we've had to figure out how to like each other. I'm always going to be 20 years behind him maturity wise, plus we have all that different gender - different planet baggage to contend with. He makes me futting nuts sometimes and hurts my feelings (like not noticing the new dress yesterday thus making me think it looked bad - girl logic, you know), he's mean and pissy and not nearly funny enough, but he has been here for every single adult thing I've been through.
The day my dad's cancer was diagnosed terminal, he sat on the couch in our conference room with a towel on his shoulder (practical man that he is, he didn't want my mascara to stain his white button down shirt) and let me ugly cry. He's told me to "Shut the fuck up and LISTEN" when I was being ridiculous. When my grandma died he was at the funeral in the very back. Since I don't have a living father, he's presence gave me some bit of peace. So when I lost my mind and then thought I'd drive myself to the cemetery, I didn't even see him coming until he opened my drivers door and said he'd take me.
He helped move fence when my dad was too weak to do it. Although my dad sat in the window and laughed at him because that city kid pounded the electric fence posts too far into the ground, Big D at least made an effort. He hauled water for our well, he was with me when my sister told me my dad was dead. He's often near the top of my "good news" or "bad news" call list.
He sent me to Alabama when I lost the babies. He checks my tire pressure (even though I am ABSOLUTELY capable of it) and windshield fluid. He knows what good shoes look like. He makes fun my the PMS pimple I always get on my right cheekbone. He nags me about letting my hair go gray (not one freaking chance in hell of that!) and tells me to quit rubbing my eyebrows or I won't have any. He gets in my face when I need it. He's let me miss a lot of work lately without me having to explain why. Sometimes he'll just come to my house and sit on my couch and let me not talk to him, but he's there if I need to say something.
I try to be a good friend to him. I hope I have been. Right now I'm too self-absorbed trying to get to OK that I don't have much to give as a friend, and he understands that too. I was here for him during his long drawn out divorce. That was hell for sure. I helped build his business when his mentor died. I went through several of his attempts to quit smoking, when he was such a dick I wanted to beg him to cheat. He's now been smoke free for 3 years, no cheating at all. I took care of him when he had major dental work done. I was rewarded for that by getting to see him on Valium. Oh damn that was so worth it!
I thought you should know that he's not a push-over or a jerk. OK, sometimes he's both of those things. He was a huge pain for a lot of years and still often is. He's one of my biggest cheerleaders now. He lets me write this blog during work hours; he reads it and edits it for errors and clarity (not this one though). He's supportive and horrible and generous and exhausting. He's a man after all, of course he's all those things. He's my dear friend whom at least once daily I want to suffocate.
I'm writing this because I need to say thanks out loud so he hears it and can't just wave it away. He's been one of the voices in my dark days calling me home. I've written blogs about my amazingly wonderful girlfriends; I thought I should write one about one of my best guy friends, who just happens to also be my boss. I got lucky as hell when I walked into the job interview almost 22 years ago to the day, and I know it. Now you know it too.
P.S. Big D, can I pretty please have Monday off? I swear I didn't write this trying to influence you at all!
I have worked here since I was 18 years and 4 months old. That will be 22 years on March 1. It's more than half my life. I've grown up here, really, and it has been a pretty freaking great place to do that. I'm lucky; I know it.
Briefly what happens here is Big D helps public school employees save money for retirement. I do whatever I have to do to make his job easy. Sometimes that means fetching him a glass of water, sometimes that means making copies or doing the bookkeeping. Sometimes that means making him laugh. He laughs loudly. Really loudly. Loud enough to hurt my ears. Maybe I should be less funny.
Big D taught middle school music in the seventies for about 5 years, so our office is always full of music. Dear Lord help me. Usually it's a streaming PBS jazz station, but often he'll come barrelling in with some song stuck in his head and then it'll be a Beatles Day or a Military Bands Day or heaven forbid Wayne Cochran (Google him, it's a good times). The impromptu concerts are amusing and maddening all at once. He sings along to the music, not the lyrics, THE MUSIC! Son of a... I'm getting annoyed just thinking about it!
Big D is often my foil in stories I tell and even in this blog, because he's a pretty good target. He's 60, an ex-musician who may or may not have been a late sixties/early seventies stereotype. He is firmly who he is, which I admire. He doesn't think much about what people think about him. What a great head space that must be. He's pushy and intrusive and brilliant and frustratingly consistent. Truth is, Big D is one of my best friends.
We've kind of been through a lot of good and bad together. Since we've been the only two people in the office for 17ish of those 22 years, we've had to figure out how to like each other. I'm always going to be 20 years behind him maturity wise, plus we have all that different gender - different planet baggage to contend with. He makes me futting nuts sometimes and hurts my feelings (like not noticing the new dress yesterday thus making me think it looked bad - girl logic, you know), he's mean and pissy and not nearly funny enough, but he has been here for every single adult thing I've been through.
The day my dad's cancer was diagnosed terminal, he sat on the couch in our conference room with a towel on his shoulder (practical man that he is, he didn't want my mascara to stain his white button down shirt) and let me ugly cry. He's told me to "Shut the fuck up and LISTEN" when I was being ridiculous. When my grandma died he was at the funeral in the very back. Since I don't have a living father, he's presence gave me some bit of peace. So when I lost my mind and then thought I'd drive myself to the cemetery, I didn't even see him coming until he opened my drivers door and said he'd take me.
He helped move fence when my dad was too weak to do it. Although my dad sat in the window and laughed at him because that city kid pounded the electric fence posts too far into the ground, Big D at least made an effort. He hauled water for our well, he was with me when my sister told me my dad was dead. He's often near the top of my "good news" or "bad news" call list.
He sent me to Alabama when I lost the babies. He checks my tire pressure (even though I am ABSOLUTELY capable of it) and windshield fluid. He knows what good shoes look like. He makes fun my the PMS pimple I always get on my right cheekbone. He nags me about letting my hair go gray (not one freaking chance in hell of that!) and tells me to quit rubbing my eyebrows or I won't have any. He gets in my face when I need it. He's let me miss a lot of work lately without me having to explain why. Sometimes he'll just come to my house and sit on my couch and let me not talk to him, but he's there if I need to say something.
I try to be a good friend to him. I hope I have been. Right now I'm too self-absorbed trying to get to OK that I don't have much to give as a friend, and he understands that too. I was here for him during his long drawn out divorce. That was hell for sure. I helped build his business when his mentor died. I went through several of his attempts to quit smoking, when he was such a dick I wanted to beg him to cheat. He's now been smoke free for 3 years, no cheating at all. I took care of him when he had major dental work done. I was rewarded for that by getting to see him on Valium. Oh damn that was so worth it!
I thought you should know that he's not a push-over or a jerk. OK, sometimes he's both of those things. He was a huge pain for a lot of years and still often is. He's one of my biggest cheerleaders now. He lets me write this blog during work hours; he reads it and edits it for errors and clarity (not this one though). He's supportive and horrible and generous and exhausting. He's a man after all, of course he's all those things. He's my dear friend whom at least once daily I want to suffocate.
I'm writing this because I need to say thanks out loud so he hears it and can't just wave it away. He's been one of the voices in my dark days calling me home. I've written blogs about my amazingly wonderful girlfriends; I thought I should write one about one of my best guy friends, who just happens to also be my boss. I got lucky as hell when I walked into the job interview almost 22 years ago to the day, and I know it. Now you know it too.
P.S. Big D, can I pretty please have Monday off? I swear I didn't write this trying to influence you at all!
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Damn, I'm whiny...
as hell. Last night I got in a pissing contest with a friend about whose life is "worse". Really? How messed up is that? What I learned, quickly, is the whole yard is never greener on the other side of the fence, only sections of it.
I have a fatalist attitude about my life. I used to be annoyingly optimistic, but I think that lessened around age 25. When you start seeing that blind luck is for children, and as an adult you make your own it's hard to hope for the best without expecting the worst. I often worry when something positive happens, because I'm afraid I'll have it ripped away just as I start to be really happy. The truth is, that has happened. But because I feel that way, I fail to feel the good, to smell the roses, to just freaking be happy. (This is where my cousin Matt is laughing at me.)
Sometimes I worry that saying what makes me happy outloud will call attention to some negative force that will come and snatch it away. I also think that mentioning a good thing might hurt people who are going through something really tough. Like I'm waving a banner in their faces saying "ha ha! My life is better than yours." Trouble is, I think that is a self-fulfilling prophesy. You keep good news from someone thinking you're protecting them, because they've had some bad news and all you're really doing is insulting them thinking they can't rejoice with your good fortune. We're all so good at being there for each other in bad times, we forget that we're also there in the good times. People who are wholly on your team aren't just fair weather friends, of course, but they also aren't just foul weather friends. I think I almost forgot that.
Guilt is a mother futter. Guilt about something or someone you've done wrong is really shame because you know better and you're choosing to not do better. Guilt about things that are out of your control is fruitless, but seems to be unavoidable. Now guilt about being happy, that's just ridiculous.
Here's the thing that clicked just this morning for me, good is not a zero sum game. My being happy does not take joy from someone else. Or at least it shouldn't, not from those who truly love me. You being happy shouldn't bring anything to your friends or family but a smile and perhaps a few seconds of "I wish that were me too!" Jealousy is natural. I hate to admit that, because I don't like to think of myself as jealous or natural, but I am. When it crosses over to full-on jackass stage is when you want to take away from someone else in order for you to have. Hijacking happy is seriously low down.
It's hard to not take it personally when you feel like you're about to get something you've always wanted and then it's taken away. It seems to be even harder when you see someone else get it. Hell it's hard to find a dress you love and then not be able to get it in your size and the next day you see your best friend looking all hot in it. Wanting wears you down, so you start to want less so you don't have to be disappointed. That's good and bad. Want can make us mean and angry and aggressive. That's good when you're working towards something, when it feeds your drive to succeed. It's bad when it makes you push people aside and ignore what you already have. Doesn't it just figure when it's a noble want that you get through perseverence and hard work, it feels freaking perfect, but when it's a hurtful want that you get, it is never as pretty or shiny as you thought it would be. Damn it.
Happy or unhappy isn't a competition. Always looking around to see who has what and who feels what keeps me from seeing the things I have. Don't get me wrong, taking a vacation isn't the same as having a new baby, but it also isn't the same as being homeless. Someone will always have more than you and someone will always have less. But the deeper truth about that statement is even those who have more in some areas than you have less in others. And you, yes you, have less of this but more of that than everyone else. Since there is no clear winner or loser, it simply can't be a competition.
You know how everything seems to offer participation ribbons anymore? You get a trophy for simply showing up. Ugh. Don't get me started on that silliness. Truth is, in my opinion, the only thing you really get out of Life is acknowledgement of participation. Hopefully it's a little plaque pointing out the patches of your story that were green as hell.
I have a fatalist attitude about my life. I used to be annoyingly optimistic, but I think that lessened around age 25. When you start seeing that blind luck is for children, and as an adult you make your own it's hard to hope for the best without expecting the worst. I often worry when something positive happens, because I'm afraid I'll have it ripped away just as I start to be really happy. The truth is, that has happened. But because I feel that way, I fail to feel the good, to smell the roses, to just freaking be happy. (This is where my cousin Matt is laughing at me.)
Sometimes I worry that saying what makes me happy outloud will call attention to some negative force that will come and snatch it away. I also think that mentioning a good thing might hurt people who are going through something really tough. Like I'm waving a banner in their faces saying "ha ha! My life is better than yours." Trouble is, I think that is a self-fulfilling prophesy. You keep good news from someone thinking you're protecting them, because they've had some bad news and all you're really doing is insulting them thinking they can't rejoice with your good fortune. We're all so good at being there for each other in bad times, we forget that we're also there in the good times. People who are wholly on your team aren't just fair weather friends, of course, but they also aren't just foul weather friends. I think I almost forgot that.
Guilt is a mother futter. Guilt about something or someone you've done wrong is really shame because you know better and you're choosing to not do better. Guilt about things that are out of your control is fruitless, but seems to be unavoidable. Now guilt about being happy, that's just ridiculous.
Here's the thing that clicked just this morning for me, good is not a zero sum game. My being happy does not take joy from someone else. Or at least it shouldn't, not from those who truly love me. You being happy shouldn't bring anything to your friends or family but a smile and perhaps a few seconds of "I wish that were me too!" Jealousy is natural. I hate to admit that, because I don't like to think of myself as jealous or natural, but I am. When it crosses over to full-on jackass stage is when you want to take away from someone else in order for you to have. Hijacking happy is seriously low down.
It's hard to not take it personally when you feel like you're about to get something you've always wanted and then it's taken away. It seems to be even harder when you see someone else get it. Hell it's hard to find a dress you love and then not be able to get it in your size and the next day you see your best friend looking all hot in it. Wanting wears you down, so you start to want less so you don't have to be disappointed. That's good and bad. Want can make us mean and angry and aggressive. That's good when you're working towards something, when it feeds your drive to succeed. It's bad when it makes you push people aside and ignore what you already have. Doesn't it just figure when it's a noble want that you get through perseverence and hard work, it feels freaking perfect, but when it's a hurtful want that you get, it is never as pretty or shiny as you thought it would be. Damn it.
Happy or unhappy isn't a competition. Always looking around to see who has what and who feels what keeps me from seeing the things I have. Don't get me wrong, taking a vacation isn't the same as having a new baby, but it also isn't the same as being homeless. Someone will always have more than you and someone will always have less. But the deeper truth about that statement is even those who have more in some areas than you have less in others. And you, yes you, have less of this but more of that than everyone else. Since there is no clear winner or loser, it simply can't be a competition.
You know how everything seems to offer participation ribbons anymore? You get a trophy for simply showing up. Ugh. Don't get me started on that silliness. Truth is, in my opinion, the only thing you really get out of Life is acknowledgement of participation. Hopefully it's a little plaque pointing out the patches of your story that were green as hell.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)