On the Road Again

I spent a lot of this past summer on the road. I mean – A LOT. And, I’m not even counting the beautiful trip abroad that warrants its own entry.

Late in June we drove from Georgia to Iowa to spend some days finding a place to live here. In that trip, we went from Cedar Rapids to Iowa City to Des Moines to Iowa City to Cedar Rapids. Then back to Georgia. In July, we moved from Georgia to Iowa. In early August, we went from Iowa to Kentucky and back to pick up youngest son. The end of August found me on the road taking middle son to college in Pennsylvania; then, back home and back to work. 

Just today, as a function of my job, I put over two hundred miles on my car driving to two schools and to one of the agency facilities from which I work. 

Yes, I’ve seen lots of roads this summer.  You know what I’ve noticed? 

There’s construction out there. I believe the reports that our infrastructure is crumbling, but while it crumbles there are groups of men and women all over the nation trying to gird it up. Here’s the thing I noticed about construction and driving: I don’t mind waiting in construction traffic if work is actually being done. I understand the need for road cordoned off for no apparent reason until you approach the crew, and you note that the long stretch where nothing was being done is actually a buffer for people who are doing a job I would never want to do much less be able to do: repairing bridges and roads.

The same is true in life. There are times when we cordon off parts of our lives because we need to repair them.  We need to recover from a bad relationship; we quit dating. We need to nurture ourselves after a loss; we don’t go out much. We need to focus energy on building up a skill set; we go to the gym lots or garden lots or write lots. Precious else gets done when we shut down our roads to repair or build ourselves up. Eventually, though, our roads are repaired and they reopen.

The thing that pisses me off is when you’re driving down the road, as I was this past weekend, and the two lane highway becomes a one lane highway. There were cones tall and skinny and short and fat blocking three four-mile stretches on I-80 between Iowa City and Des Moines. I waited for it. 

I knew that workers need their space for safety. I also knew it was the weekend, and it was likely that there weren’t actually any workers, but I would see where they were shoring up the highways and byways that I had used so much this year. 

Nope.

There was no machinery. No workers. No sandy gravelly area where cement or asphalt would soon be poured and smoothed. Nothing. Just a blank, empty lane of a highway. No work being done. No activity whatsoever.

Have you ever met such people? They are shut down and tuned out. Whole avenues in their lives have been blocked off, but there’s no evidence of work being done. Everything appears usable. It seems like it all works.  But they have this shut-off area that may or may not ever reopen.

Such people are traveling through life, but perhaps not traveling well. Maybe they put up the cones for defense.  Maybe they guard their cones jealously, afraid others will trample them. Perhaps they put up the cones so long ago that they forgot all about them. 

I am thankful for the travels I had this summer. I am thankful that middle son drove most of them. (I miss you!) I am thankful for the travels I am having now. But more than all of that, I look around, and I realize while sometimes I’ve had cones up because things were being repaired, there have been time when the road has simply been closed – for no good reason. And, in those instances, I’m thankful for friends and family (you know who you are) who stopped their cars, got out, and helped me reopen those stretches of road.

The metaphor has gone a bit stale at this point, so I’ll leave you with this lyric from Rascal Flatts: “Life is a highway; I wanna ride it all night long. If you’re going my way, I wanna drive it all night long.”

Take down the unnecessary cones. Open up the possibilities. Use both lanes. Keep going.

Flying

The summer just flew by!  So many of us are thinking, if not saying that right now.  Friends who teach in Columbia county, Georgia are back at school today for pre-planning.  Other teacher friends will return next week.  Back to school sales have been happening since July 4.

Perhaps your summer has been and continues to be filled with cookouts, lake trips, and pool time.  You have attended weddings and family reunions.  Maybe time has flown this summer because someone you love is ill or friends have been in dire straits.  Home improvements, jobs, swimming lessons, and summer camps may have filled up your calendar.  Whatever the case, maybe you are like me - just now looking up and thinking "What? It can't be July 31."

When a writer takes a three month hiatus, you might think it is to go on retreat or participate in a workshop.  My unintended break ended up to be to:

 1.  Watch my middle son graduate
 2.  Travel to Italy and Austria
 3.  Resign my job in Georgia
 4.  Pack my house
 5.  Move to Iowa
 6.  Unpack into a new house
 7.  Start a new job
 8. Begin navigating a new town

In a sense, this has been both a retreat and a workshop.  I felt overwhelmed at times by the emotions of packing up fourteen years of life and love.  Saying goodbye to friends to move somewhere new is astonishingly difficult even in the digital age.

No one means to let time fly past, but it does.  Most of us talk about seizing the day, being mindful, making the most of every minute.  And we try.  And sometimes we succeed.

You may be like me - experiencing a big change over the course of a season.  Your season may not be shifting for a while.  Maybe the impending start of school dictates adjustments in your routine.

No matter when life shifts and changes, I am reminded of something I used to say to incoming freshmen:  "Remember that this is not a means to an end.  You don't do high school to get into college to go to grad school to get a good job to make money so that you can retire and grow old and die."

It really is the journey.

Airplanes and Drinks

I have been absent.  For a month to the day.  I’d like to say that I’ve been off doing wonderful things and being fascinating, but that would be a stretch of the truth.  I have had some experiences that got me thinking, judging, and thinking about judging.

During my hiatus, I had an airplane trip which included a layover in the early morning.  As I sat in a sports bar-turned-half-breakfast-joint having toast and diet coke, the question occurred to me:  what kind of people drink hard liquor at eight in the morning?  Evidently, quite a few on this particular day.

A ten dollar pint well before noon? Sure!  A low ball of Jack with eggs?  Why not?  Tequila with a breakfast burrito?  Absolutely.  Is this how people live or is all common sense and perception of propriety suspended when one steps into an airport? 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m the first to have a noontime margarita by the pool on a mid-June Saturday or a brunch mimosa on any given Sunday, but hard liquor at eight in the morning seems excessive.

Perhaps the contention of travel must be assuaged by spirits? That might have been the case for Midge –who sat next to me berating her husband loudly.  Annoyance hovered between them just above the carry-on emblazoned with her name.  I don’t know where they were going, but I learned that they just arrived into the airport; they had not been traveling internationally in some irritated fashion, but they were clearly tense.  I wondered if alcohol would be a part of the solution to their tension.  Even if it wasn’t, the combination of breakfast drinks and anger had all the makings of a long day for them.

A couple at the bar were three beers and one shot in each – before nine.  Perhaps they were on the way to a reunion?  A funeral? Or some other highly-charged event so this early morning pub stop helps them escape themselves, the impending crush of family, and the resurrection of childhood’s injustices and favoritisms?

Lest you think I’m sitting in self-righteous judgement, I was reminded of Shannon, Ireland where I arrived at what was – to me – cocktail & snack time, but what was locally known as breakfast time.  I had a pint and a sausage with friends.   No self-recriminations at all.  I might have had a second pint.  Perhaps there was a 47 year-old Irish woman watching our group and wondering much the same that I was wondering last week.

But, that day I was in Charlotte.  Midge and husband have come past security to wait for a delayed flight.  Same for the bar couple. (Yes, I was eavesdropping.)  There were no international semi-rational-time-change-jet-lag excuses.  Do these people go by bars on their ways to work?  Do they take a shot after dropping off the kids at school?  After morning Zumba? 

I want to write “I’m not judging,” but the fact of the matter is I was judging.  Taking a step back, I realize that I don’t care when or what people drink.  Just because I did not deem morning drinking appropriate for myself that morning, does not mean it is wrong.  Extend that into the world, and I think we all might be able to learn a lesson:  just because something isn’t for you, doesn’t make it capital W wrong. 

College major?  Whatever excites you.  Religious beliefs?  Personal choice.  Political inclinations?  Think for yourself.  Children or no?  It’s up to you.  A drink in the morning at the Charlotte airport?  Your call. 

I’d like to think I was judging the effect of travel, airport bars, and freedom, but that’s not the truth.  I was judging the people and their motivations.  It doesn't matter where you are or what you are doing, the personal choices that you make are just that – personal.  After all, once you take off your shoes and get felt up by security, the world truly is your oyster (shooter). 

I think I need to take Rumi’s travel suggestion to heart:  “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field, I will meet you there.”  Won’t you join me?

Cheers.

Always Never Enough Time

This month there has been a lot going on.  For everyone.  Students have been taking exams.  Teachers were writing said exams.  Now, teachers are grading or avoiding grading those same exams. Throughout the past twenty-one days there have also been gifts to buy; services to attend; errands to run; meals to plan; family members to greet; cards to send (if you haven’t gotten one from me, it is because I’m doing New Year’s cards this year); parties to enjoy; trees to trim.  If you do not celebrate Christmas, you may be preparing to enjoy New Year’s or other celebrations or attending to other parts of life that are equally busy.  In the midst of all of the yearly Decembraic hustle and bustle, a number of my students got college admissions decisions. 

That’s right – just as they were studying for and taking their first semester finals, students were getting the fat envelope or the skinny envelope.  (Of course, for most colleges, those envelopes are virtual now.)  And, these students had to calm down enough to study or overcome disappointment well enough to study. One of the disappointed students noted: “It seems like colleges could find a better time to do this.  I mean, they know we have finals, right?”

He’s right.  There has to be a better time to do a lot of things.  There’s a reason for the old saying, “It doesn’t rain, it pours.”  

When I was younger I tried to do holidays perfectly and beautifully and traditionally, despite the fact that I have been a teacher who always found herself as stressed as students during exam week.  The holidays were put on the back burner until that was over, and then I really stressed out.   Now, I ask the people with whom I will be celebrating what they want.  Most of the time, they do not ask for perfection or beauty or tradition.  They ask for breakfast muffins, mimosa, a relaxed day, a little food, and music.  They ask not to have to do “screaming fiasco cookies” – that’s what my children came to call sugar cookie decorating.  Yeah, I used to be wound pretty tightly, and the cause was the crammed calendar that I let rule all too often. 

Perhaps over the course of the year, or maybe just for a certain given year, I suspect many of us would rearrange some holidays or birthdays or events to better suit what we have coming up.   If I could, I would space out the birthdays in my family a bit differently.   In my immediate family we have twelve members.  I’d like everyone to have their birthday on, say, the 15^th of the month – one per month.  Nope, our family has clusters in August-October and then January-March.  And, yes, as I have noted before, my mother has always said that they are on the same day every year, and it’s just a matter of planning.  Sure.  But life doesn’t always seem that simple, does it? 

Because among those birthdays and holidays are: the laundry, cleaning out the garage, making lunches, going to the gym, and feeding the pets.  Not to mention getting into college, taking tests, buying houses, getting new jobs – all of that sort of thing. 

Here’s the thing, though: that’s all life.  That’s what life is made of.  So many of us seem to think that life is the presents or what will happen “when I just…”  No, life is what is happening right now.  A friend of mine used to have this near her Face Book profile picture:  “Quit looking at my picture and go live your life.” 

As we buy our new planners and calendars for 2014, and as we celebrate the holiday season, it is my hope that even though life is crowded and birthdays are clustered and colleges send admissions decisions at the worst times, we are all able to enjoy all of the hectic and the relaxed parts of these wonderful journeys around the sun.

Lists and Herpes

My Face Book feed has herpes.  Someone out there has decided that life and all of its good things are best accessed when they are seen in lists.  These lists circulate on websites, are shared on Face Book, tweeted, and sent in those FWD:FWD:SPAM emails that litter our inboxes.  Lists have become the herpes of the internet lately. They are easily passed around, a little itchy, and hard to get rid of.  To wit:

20 Things You Should Never Do In Your Twenties

15 Things To Think of Before Applying to Med School

50 Places Everyone Should Go Before They Die

62 Ways to Stay Married for 62 Years

10 Things That Drive Men Away

44 Mindsets That Make Your Forties Rock

11 Don’ts To Land Your Dream Job

The list (pardon me) goes on.  Who decided that life or any part of it can be boiled down to an enumerated set of suggestions?  Have you read these lists?  Buzzfeed is the worst perpetrator, but not the only one by far.  These lists masquerade as real wisdom and real communication. Granted, many of them are humorous.  Many of them are accompanied by GIFs or memes – Jennifer Lawrence and Disney princesses feature prominently in all sorts of such illustrated lists. 

Despite the glibness of such cyber profferings, I am worried.  Are there people who are taking notes from such boiled down advice?  I suspect so.  Even more worrisome than actually taking list-based advice seriously is the evidence that this trend is contributing to people’s inability to hold a conversation beyond anything numbered and limited to five sentences.  I base my concern on students’ reactions to conversations that extend beyond five minutes or writing that extends beyond numbered sentences.  Actually, I base my suspicion on many people’s inability to read a whole email or to have a conversation that doesn’t involve listyness.

As a course of my job, I send emails to a wide variety of constituents.  I strive to keep most professional correspondence to a salutation, a one sentence greeting, 2-6 sentences of information or inquiry, a thank you and a sign off at the end.  The number of times that I have a response from a person who asks me a point of information that was included in the original email is astounding.  Unless information is presented in very short forms – think tweets or status updates – many people seem lost.  They get lost in words, verbs, and subordinate clauses. 

I suppose it doesn’t help that I teach writing and read long books as a matter of course.  I also find lists woefully inadequate – I find myself wanting to hear the discussion behind each item on the list.  I want to talk about the “what ifs” and “but alsos” that inevitably belong with each item.  It seems like the listyness of current life is inhibiting conversation.  I have also seen a fear of response and depth among people. 

Let’s look at a couple of examples:  I often have a student come to me with a list of questions.  That’s a good thing.  That means he has thought through some issues that he wants advice on or conversation about.  Now, he will sit in front of me and say, “I have some questions.”  Okay.  Once he has shared his first item, and we have addressed the issue, he moves on to the second item.  Often, the second item is related to the first.  So, I connect the second item to the discussion or resolution of the first item.  We have to come back around to a conversation that happened about 68 seconds prior.  They can’t do it.  The connection is all too often lost.  If we can’t stay on item #1, resolve it, and then move on, we are in trouble.  Many people are having trouble connecting ideas and continuing a conversation.  If things are not an enumerated list, conversation falters. 

Another example:  I was in a meeting recently where a proposal that would have a reaching impact was presented.  It was presented well.  At the end of the proposal, there was an opportunity for questions or discussion.  No one had anything to say.  No questions to ask.  It was a meaty proposal.  No one had anything to ask.  The list had been read.  It was time to close it and move on to the next.  Even though the presentation was well done, there should have been some more discussion.  After talking with a few colleagues at that meeting, it seems like they avoided a conversation that would have been more complex than numbered ideas. Why?  

One more, just to prove the point:  there is a game going around Face Book where you like a status and the "liked person" assigns you a number.  You are then obligated to reveal that number of interesting facts about yourself in your status.  Another list.  About yourself.  Things that you care about or that are part of you - all boiled down to a list. 

Having a conversation of depth can be difficult, taxing, sometimes contentious, but it is worth it.  Reviewing a proposal or relating one idea to the next or examining that which masquerades as life advice are all good things.  This kind of communication takes time.  It’s not just scratching an itch, but it is much more satisfying.  Lists may help organize life, but real life is messy and not easily enumerated.  Go ahead and read as many lists as you want, but when it comes to real conversation this week, don’t number your sentences.  

Peanut Butter and Comfort Zones

Comfort.  That’s what this season that we are embarking on is all about.  Religious inclinations aside, we are all seeking comfort in this season that covers the next seven weeks. Nothing wrong with that at all.  Comfort is, well, comforting. 

Comfort food leaps to mind.  For many of us, we associate this season with big warm meals and small warm drinks.  Turkeys, hams, buttery rolls, yams with small marshmallows torched on top, and plates of green beans smothered in something akin to what the cat leaves on the carpet from time to time…well, you get the idea.  We all have the meal that is our ultimate in comfort and very often it shows up this time of year.  My most comforting meal has little to do with the holiday season.  In fact, I have this meal once every six weeks or so, and it must meet certain standards to qualify as my comfort meal.  An open-faced smooth peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich with the jelly spread on the whole wheat bread so that all bites have a bit of jelly and peanut butter; sweet pickles (on the side, not on the sandwich) chilled and in a dish that will prevent the juice from soaking into the sandwich bread; three small pieces of extra sharp cheddar cheese; Lay’s potato chips, preferably from a newly opened bag; and, a large glass of cold skim milk.  That’s it. I’m not too picky, am I? 

It’s not just this season that urges me to look at comfort, but also the concept of what makes life pleasant on an on-going basis.  I read recently that it’s not what we do occasionally that makes a difference; it’s what we do regularly that makes the biggest difference in life.  Many people around me are constantly challenging themselves to do more, to be more, and to get more.  While such challenges can be part of what life is made of, comfort is important, too.

Consider this:  for about the past six months, I have been feeling unwell.  It has been difficult to get up in the morning, all too easy to go to bed unnaturally early, and to neglect that which I would not normally ignore.  In short, I have been horribly uncomfortable.  In examining a variety of causes of this unwellness, I realized that I have been waking in the morning, and the first thing I have been doing is checking work email and Face Book.  Innocuous.  One needs to be informed and know what the day has to bring.  Nevertheless, I have decided that I do not need to know what is going on at work until I get to work.  The world and all 1000+ of my close, personal friends will conduct their lives as they see fit whether or not I read their status or see the latest pictures of their cats.

Another thing I know is that I have been neglecting physical activity.  Part of this neglect is due to organic issues that are now being corrected.  However, I did think about driving from my home to the pool house where we have our homeowners’ meetings.  I don’t know how far this is, but I can tell you that on a bad day, I can walk there in less than five minutes.  Please note:  After 16 minutes of self-debate wherein I could have walked there and back at least twice I did not drive. I walked. On the scope of daily exercise: no gut pounding aerobics classes (I have never enjoyed that).  No boot camps where I am the last one to finish every exercise. (I did like boot camp for a while, though. Shout out to the instructor; you know who you are).  I will ride my bike in the neighborhood with youngest son.  I will walk or elliptical to tunes that make me feel like I’m in a Rocky training montage. And, I have realized that at the times when I felt best physically, I was swimming regularly.  I’m naturally buoyant and I have a strong stroke.  The pool is comfortable, and I am there a couple afternoons a week.

A thing that I don’t do is read the daily newspaper or watch nightly news.  I can’t.  The daily local newspaper is The Augusta Chronicle, and I cannot read this rag without a red pen in hand. When I first moved to Augusta, I applied for a job as a local interest writer with the Chronicle. (My shtick was:  new resident to the area discovers life in Augusta.)  I was told that I was overqualified.  Perhaps so, but if they had employed me, there would be many fewer misspellings and ill-placed commas.  The nightly news brings stories of tragedy from around the world directly into the living room.  I can’t have thousands dying in front of my fireplace every night. I can’t have the politicians screaming across the kitchen at me.  It’s too much.  I read news summaries and often read beyond those, delving into detail.  Still, I can’t experience every bus wreck and house fire on a global scale.  It’s too much.  And, yes, it makes me uncomfortable.   

In a variety of settings I have heard people talk and preach about “getting out of your comfort zone.”  This is code for challenging yourself: challenging yourself to get more involved in world issues or movements that need support or run a 10K.  While routine can be overdone, I say, “get into your comfort zone.”  Find your sweet spot.  Check Face Book less and watch the leaves in the wind more.  Give up the bone jarring run and stretch in the yoga studio.  Or, if you love Face Book, get on there more often and like more cat pictures before your seven mile run.  Watch the nightly news and debate politics.  Make a peanut butter sandwich.    Whatever works.  If you must challenge yourself, I would suggest challenging yourself to enjoy your comfort zone instead of feeling guilty.

N.D. Walsch suggests that “life begins at the end of your comfort zone.”  I disagree.  Life is based well inside your comfort zone.  Having a comfort zone wherein you are confident, feel good, can perform at optimum levels makes it possible to reach outside of your comfort zone.  And, perhaps you will expand your comfort zone.  But, it is precisely that life inside the comfort zone than enables us to do great things.  Without a zone of comfort, we will feel forever unsure, constantly doubtful and be rendered unwell. 

Find the comfort zone, the sweet spot that works for you. Then, keep that comfort zone.  Live in it.  Invite others in.  Visit outside of your comfort zone.  But, keep comfort as a mode of living, not a seasonal pursuit.

A True Friend

It is rare to find a real friend. The cliché is that a real friend will do anything for you.  I disagree.  There are all kinds of real friends. And, it has precious little to do with the number listed on your Face Book page.  (I have 1013 friends, according to Face Book - I beg to differ.)

And, I got to thinking:  what kind of friends are there?  I don’t believe in fair weather friends.  If a friend is only there for fair weather, he is no friend at all.  I took stock, and I have a few friend “types” based on my own experiences that may speak to your experiences, as well.  This is not meant to be all-inclusive, but rather a sampling that may inspire you to appreciate your friend groups as much as I do mine.

____________________________________________________________________

Case #1:

The friend who will stay at your hospital bedside when you are both four hours from home. He has a wife who is wondering why he isn’t getting home from chaperoning a school trip, but he stays there with you while he comforts your 9^th grade son, who is worried out of his mind, and talks your husband into actually traveling because you are about to have emergency surgery.  This friend stays there and then borrows a car and drives your son home, both of them amped up on energy drinks, and he comforts your kid the whole four hours. 

We can also add that despite what seem like dire circumstances to you, this friend has the presence of mind to take a hilarious picture that lives on despite the fact that you were dying in the moment. 

(Yeah, that’s me in the bed.)

Case #2

This is the friend who was there in college.  You were both there and are both here now.  Perhaps one or both of you remembers more of college than the other, but you have a common history that is undeniable.  Perhaps that history has more than one narrative of unpleasant fraternity mixers and desperate study sessions.  Maybe you also have had a game or two of racquetball during which you both needed to blow off steam.  The kind of steam that can only be blown off if one yells the “secret” word to one’s sorority really loudly, really late at night in a really deserted athletic center. 

The cool thing about this friend is that she shows up years later.  And then even more years later.  And, in fact, you realize that she has been a strength and support even though you thought she was invisible.  It has actually been a mutual support.

Case #3

There is a friend who you never really thought was a friend, at least not in high school.  You were doing your thing and she was doing her thing.  And never the two did cross.  Except maybe in advanced English class or world psychology or some other esoteric subject whose teacher fancied himself rather fancy.  This is one of those friendships that takes up and puts down and keeps an even keel.  It’s fun.  It’s clever.  It finds common ground in adulthood.  It is as real as one that has been there all along.  In fact, it has been there – you just didn’t realize it.  Maybe she didn’t either.  But, no matter – it’s there now. 

Case #4

This is the friend who has always been there.  Through thick and thin.  Sure, you’ve let each other down, but you can pick up tonight even with a six month silence sitting there between you.  She talks.  Then you drink.  You listen.  Then you drink. Then you switch.  Then you drink some more.  This is the tried and true friend.  Perhaps since high school.  Perhaps since college.  Maybe since last year.  You know. She forgives.  She knows.  You forgive.  You have history.  it’s all there. 

Case #5

There is a friendship sprang from professional endeavors; we work together.  We have common interests in (choose one or more):  politics, children, spouses, social agendas, social interests, books, music, movies, TV shows.  We have drinks when we can.  We text.  We chat.  Sometimes we compare parenting notes, but often we are on different pages there.  Sometimes we have different books.  Still, we respect each other’s approaches and ideas on family life.   

____________________________________________________________________

I appreciate each of my friends – as individuals, as types in a category, as just plain friends.  In Russian there are many words to designate “friend” – it all depends on the person’s relationship and perceived relationship to the speaker.  Of course in any language, there are as many “types” of friends as there are days in a year.  But, no matter what categories you use – or, if you give everyone their own category, it’s the time of year to take stock.  In the end, it is the friends and the relationships that make our lives. 

On Being Normal

Where can you go to see people you normally don’t really want to see at all in various states of undress and dampness and relaxation and sandiness? 

I went to the beach today.  Despite the marketing ploy of the town in which I live – “three hours to the beach and three to the mountains!” -  I probably haven’t been to the beach in about three years. And, yeah, that marketing tool is basically spinning the fact that we are in the middle of nowhere.  But, I needed to see the ocean today.  We happen to be in Florida, and I happened to have a few hours to myself, so I went.

Let me just say that it wasn’t crowded.  It was hot and windy.  After I removed myself from the smallish crowd, I settled on a dune to watch the surf and contemplate.  As with many meditations, my undisciplined mind began to wander.  I took in the seagulls, two ships on the horizon, the white surf, the sway of the water.  And, then it happened.  People were walking by – running by – wading into the surf.  Having worked in high schools for the past twenty years, I am adept at tuning out the noise and movements of those around me.  However, it happened.  It was kind of like when you glance across a nighttime room, and you are really sure you just saw a moving shadow, but you know you’re home alone, so you try to convince yourself that nothing was there.  The beach version of this is when a larger lady is sporting an ill-fitting one piece, and she strolls by as you are staring out at the horizon.  And, just as she steps into your line of view, the edge of her bikini line pops out and greets you.  Not unlike a little ground hog popping its head out of the ground, glancing around, and then burrowing back down.   Larger ladies who may not fit well into conventional swimsuits need to check the body fit of their swim attire on a regular basis.  When we have some extra mass, our clothes can stretch in places we don’t always check.  I don’t care if you have rolls of fat, and I think you should wear whatever swimwear you are happy in, but I want it to cover your labia.  Sitting on the small dune and the sight line I had out to the ocean evidently created such an angle that my view was punctuated not once or twice but four times by four different ladies with this particular wardrobe malfunction.

These instances were not in quick succession, and after each, um, greeting, I had to readjust my sight, search around for a shell or two, breathe in the ocean air, and generally cleanse myself.  I found my thoughts reaching to what was “normal.”  The beach, as well as amusement parks, state fairs, and children’s birthday parties challenge what any of the participants might view as normal.  I did not grow up around beaches, and so I do not have a standard for a “normal” day at the beach.  Perhaps my experience today is just that.  I did not grow up near the mountains, so I have no idea what a “normal” day hiking would entail.  Sure, I did these things, but on vacation.  And, vacation is – most often – not normal.  I know what a “normal” school day is; I can define a “normal” work day for you; I might even endeavor to tell you what a “normal” birthday celebration entails.  But wait.

No, no I can’t.  There is no such thing as normal.  (Normal, Illinois notwithstanding.)  I have my experiences.  That is all.  I know what traditions I grew up with.  I know what traditions I tried to instill in my family life when the boys were young.  I remember the one time I desperately tried to squeeze a husband into my preconceived notions of what a family New Year’s Eve should be.  (That failed, and the following year I bought him a New Year’s hunting trip so I wouldn’t be reminded of my failure.)  I used to have a sign in my classroom that read “Tradition should be a guide not a jailer.”  Indeed.  Over the past four years, I have gradually and intentionally thrown out such traditions and expectations and normals in order to more fully embrace opportunities as they present themselves.  My middle son’s 18^th birthday brought us to Florida this weekend.  Back in June a friend offered to sell me tickets to a two-day multi-band concert; he had bought them, but his plans had since changed.  So, my son and a friend are at an all-day concert, and I have time.  Not a normal celebration, but a wonderful one.  He and his friend are having fun; I’m not at home moping about the crumbling bathroom or broken truck.  Neither am I doing the normal Saturday mowing and cleaning.  I’m in Florida, visiting the beach, having a glass of wine, writing.  Normal might just be over-rated. 

I recently had a conversation with a male friend which eventually turned to dating.  I stated that I do not date any more.  He was aghast.  “That’s not normal.  That’s not healthy,” he asserted.  I assured him that, in fact, it is quite normal and very healthy.  He went on to tell me that I needed to find someone to grow old with otherwise I’d be alone and – you guessed it – “that’s not normal.”  He has a point.  I believe that not wanting to be alone in old age is part of the impetus for marrying; at least it was for me.  But, I embraced that “normal” without actually examining all the parts of it, and the results were less than satisfying.  That “normal” doesn’t fit me any better than the women’s swimsuits fit them today. 

In high school and afterwards, I wanted nothing more than to “fit in” and “be normal” all the while being different.  I created a paradox for myself.  I took Russian to be different.  I wanted to be a spy to be different.  I got married to be normal.  I taught Russian to be different while fitting in.  Such paradoxes we can create for ourselves!  My eldest son wants to have a life not unlike the one his grandfather lives – materially comfortable, respectable, and generous.  At the same time he wants to travel, speak different languages, and date just about anyone who walks through the door. What’s a person to do?  My youngest son craves peer acceptance because, well, what’s middle school for if it’s not for gaining popularity and being regarded as cool?  At the same time, he still sleeps with his teddy bear and watches Dr. Who.  Perhaps we are all some version of this middle school dilemma:  “I want people to like me, but I want to do my own thing.”  It can be a horrific tug-of-war that can last far too long.

Now, I’m contemplating earning another graduate degree, selling my house, cancelling TV service; getting ready to send my middle son to college; watching my eldest son on his last two laps of undergrad before going into the army.  The truth is that I spent time and tears trying to fit into a normal that never fit quite right.  My children are doing this all much better than I ever did.  It is my hope that they already know that life does not have to be a paint-by-numbers kit.  The best lives are freehand, out of whack, and a little messy.  

Control

The other night I was invited to a friend’s house.  Out of the blue.  The kind of invitation that makes you think, “Who canceled and how far down on the I-guess-we-could-invite-her list was I?”  Still, I was free and so were the drinks, so I went.  It was a small gathering – the kind of gathering that evokes Jordan Baker’s Gatsby musing:  “At small parties there’s never any privacy.”  Indeed there wasn't, but we were an amiable group and all of the people (dog and baby included) chatted and enjoyed shared company for the evening.

At one point a woman began extolling the virtues and coolness of a new gadget she had been using, the UP by Jawbone.  This bracelet-like device that tracks exercise and sleep habits, calories burned, and probably a few more things that I’m forgetting right now.  It is sleek looking and plugs directly into your iPhone or iPad to convert its data into charts and graphs.  She demonstrated her new device for about thirty minutes, then she wandered off to make loud and uncomfortably intimate inquiries of her teenage son who was busying himself with reruns of The Big Bang Theory on television.

The next day, I recalled that my friend Kathy has a Jawbone device; I proceeded to text her, inquiring about it usefulness.  Kathy thought the device was interesting and useful, but she doesn't always wear it as a matter of fashion.  Next was my sister, a trainer and a person who, unless under extreme duress, has not missed a day of exercise since 1982.  Her response to the capabilities of this device:  just eat a little, exercise a little, sleep a little.  In short, why buy a device to track or remind you to do this?  She posed this question:  if someone told you they wanted to read 20 minutes a day and had purchased a device to help them do this, what would you say?  She went on to assert that all one really needs to do is put it in one’s calendar, and do it.

My sister isn’t wrong, but people feel the need to control things.  The modern person seems to think that controlling everything is best. If people didn’t feel this way, the Jawbone, helicopter parenting, and these house alarms with cameras that you can access from your phone would not have been invented.  Despite such advances (not including the helicopter parenting), people are at a loss as to how to control their worlds.  The idea of self-control does not seem to apply here, so the idea that one can simply put it on the calendar and do it goes out the window.  This has to do with the inundation of information that people receive.  Surface information.  We hear about things, or we see them in our Facebook feeds, or we skim a headline, and voila! we are “informed.”  The more we are informed, the more we feel that we must do.  We must eat organic and local; we must exercise 30 minutes a day; we must spend 20 minutes a day reading with our child; we must call our parents daily; we must track our sleep patterns; we must know our cholesterol.   It’s all a bit much.  Add to this that we need to be informed about current events and bake cupcakes for the fund-raiser tomorrow, top it all off with remembering usernames and passwords, and it gets hard to breathe. It is a bastardized keeping up with the Joneses. 

Once we have information and perceived requirements for living, we must get everything scheduled and organized and planned.  And, then once that’s done, we are in control.  Whew.  We can relax and follow the schedule.  Except.  Except the information is ever-changing.  So are circumstances.  Who hasn’t gotten the week planned when a beloved spouse throws a wrench into the plans with a business trip or a wild hair to finally fix the bathroom tile?  Maybe an illness or a broken toe curtails our planned dog-walking.  Perhaps a long-lost friend calls.  A child comes home with a half-frozen, starving kitten that needs to be nursed through the night.  Such occurrences madden so many people and stress so many relationships because such occurrences are not the calendar.  The thing is: human beings want to be in control.    The ever-changing refuses to be controlled.  People don’t like that.  If I don’t know what’s going to happen next, I can’t be in control, and if I am not in control, then things might get hairy, and if things get hairy, I may react in an unpredicted way, and if I react in an unpredicted way people may see the real, deep-heart me, and if people see the real me…  Aha!  Perhaps the heart of this control issue is here: have human beings become afraid of being human?  Would we like to be slightly agitated or a sniveling mess?  Can we go to work overly tired because we spent the night on the phone with an old friend in distress?  Is it okay to skip a workout to meet a new friend?  If it’s not in the plan, then perhaps we shouldn't.   If you stick to your carefully planned day, then you will know what is going to happen and avoid unforeseen emotions or stresses.

Real, human responses to crises and opportunities are not planned ahead of time.  But we don’t want to be vulnerable to forces outside of ourselves.  Our school motto is “To be rather than to seem.”  But, that isn’t the real world‘s motto.  The real world would like things to seem okay, because if everything seems okay, then the seeming has to eventually become reality, right?  In order for things to seem okay, we need to control many of those things – preferably all of them.  But, being in control is exhausting even with a smart phone and a sleep-tracking bracelet.

I am particularly good at getting organized, especially at the start of a new school year, but I sometimes stink at the follow-through.  I have a smart phone to help me get and stay organized, but let me be honest, sometimes I just play Ruzzle and text friends…okay, most often I just do that. If whatever devices, from jotting things down on the calendar to tracking your sleep and steps with a mini-computer, help you to make plans and live the life you want to live, then “it’s all good.”  Still, rather than using such things for control, perhaps we should use them for organization, and maybe we can all remember to embrace this messy, unplannable life that is at its happiest when unannounced guests come by and the best laid plans and sleep patterns get thrown out the window. 

On Yogurt, Moose, and Giving Back

Last month my middle son and I embarked on a 10-day, 14-college road trip in the Northeast, Mid-Atlantic and Southeast.  Three pounds of Twizzlers, twelve Dasani, nine cool local cafés, half a pound of peanut butter pretzels, seven “Bear Crossing” signs, five rolls of Spree, two iPods, eleven states, six Perriers, one pound of almonds, one unsatisfying café on the Erie Canal, and innumerable tanks of gas, we were home again.  I learned a lot about the colleges we visited.  I also learned that in Vermont they “take their speed limits very seriously,” and the trooper is happy to regale you with the tale of the hit-and-run moose death while he stands precariously on the side of a mountainous road.  (speed limit: 50).  Lots of learning. 

One of the things we learned is that mid-level hotel breakfast bars are about the same nationwide – at least east of the Mississippi.  Let me just confess now that I am not a yogurt fan.  I foisted it on all three of my sons in their formative years, and they all enjoy it greatly.  I tried kefir when I lived in Moscow.  Gelatinous milk product just doesn't do it for me.  I know that it’s good for me – watch any daytime TV, and Jamie Lee Curtis will smile and have you believe that her life is worth living due to a certain brand of this dairy product.  Still, in the past year, a colleague encouraged me to try Greek yogurt, and I have come to tolerate it, if not occasionally enjoy it.  So, imagine my delighted surprise when the third hotel morning into the trip, there were not only the requisite muffins, but also Greek yogurt.  The next day, however, we were back to the standard yogurts.  I commented to my son that I wished there were Greek yogurt at each hotel.  His response?  An askew glance and a good-natured but chiding, “Some people have don’t even have food, Mom.  First world probs.”

Yes, he is right:  the UN estimated that there were 870 million undernourished people worldwide in 2012.  Of these, 16 million live in developed countries.  All my life I have seen commercials about sponsoring suffering children, as well as heard half-jokes about cleaning your plate because someone is starving somewhere in the world.  However, I cannot see the connection between my off-handed wish for Greek yogurt and world hunger.  Just as a little girl sitting in Iowa, being forced to clean her plate does not alleviate a hunger problem in a village in Africa; my hope of yogurt does not instantly cause life-giving grains and water to be denied to someone on the other side of the planet. 

I am not belittling the world hunger problem at all.  My observation is this: there seems to be a proliferation of the ill-conceived thought that because there are problems in the world, those of us who live decently must not voice any desires for that which we do not have.  I guess the thought is that since we (not sure where the socio-economic stratus starts and ends here) have so much, we dare not complain, wish for more, or fail to drop a few dollars in the red pots at Christmas time.  I think this way of thinking is a problem.  Simply put:  because there are problems in the world does not mean I am not allowed to enjoy my life or wish for Greek yogurt on a rainy upstate morning.

Of course, I am aware of how offendingly elitist the previous paragraph may sound.  But, really, the thing is that there are groups of people (teens, like my dear son, are heavily represented in such groups) who feel that until the entire world has food and water, those of us who have shouldn't complain about anything and we should donate to everything.  It’s a bit overwhelming. 

On this same trip, we stayed one night in a bed and breakfast in New England.  A lovely place which was originally a lodging house, and, we found out later, was haunted in room 20.  (We stayed in room 27).  As a matter of convenience, the owners laid out small toiletries in the bathroom.  Please know that I almost always use such toiletries when on a road trip and if I don’t use them, I leave them in place.  I don’t hoard them, but if I use a portion of a lotion or shampoo, I bring it along with me to use later.  In short, I try not to be wasteful.   At this inn, however, near the basket of toiletries, was a request that we leave our partially used tubes there so that they could be donated to a local children’s charity.  Why is a tube of shampoo no longer than my middle finger, three quarters used being donated?  If the owners wish to donate to this cause, perhaps an annual donation is in order – but small, partially consumed tubes?  This has to be as annoying to the recipients as the request was off-putting to me.   

Well, on a 3700 mile trip one has time for a lot of Twizzlers, a lot of highly questionable music selections, and a lot of reflection.  Why is it that we seem to have polarized our society into those who donate half used lotions to charities vs. those who are above even mentioning what they want because they just go buy it without a second thought?  I fall somewhere in the middle.

I’m uncomfortable.  I’m squeezed.  I’m caring.  I’m annoyed.

I donate to our school’s various campaigns for umbrellas for the homeless, gently used books for our African sister school, and the eyeglass drive for the blind.  (And, I even refrain from the curiously cynical remark that comes to mind every year at that last event.)  However, why must the mentality of needing to always be ready to donate and not being allowed a wish for an additional comfort be confronted at every turn?  Has it become essential to think of less fortunate people every moment of every day?  If so, how, then is one expected to also “seize the moment” and “enjoy life”?  I suspect there exists a group of well-meaning but rather hard people who are working on a movement to ensure that those of us with even a small modicum of comfort in life are uncomfortable with our comfort until the world’s problems have all been eradicated.  The thing is:  that’s not realistic.

Some of you will think that there are political ramifications that I am missing here.  There are.  Others may think that I’m heartless.  I’m not.  I think I’m kind of normal.  I have a career.  I have kids.  I pay taxes.  I have pets.  I try to do good.  And, I am happy to help with causes.  I have learned it is good to donate and help.  Like you, though, I don’t want to always be asked to donate – at the bank, at the grocery store, at the bed and breakfast.  I have learned that I have it really good compared to most of the world.  I am grateful.  But, I think we are entitled to keep our half-used lotion for later in the day.  And, once in a while, I’d like to have a Greek yogurt on the breakfast bar.  I don’t need it.  It’d just be nice.

No Apology Necessary

“I’m sorry.”  Two words that are expected to heal a multitude of hurts.  Well, that and about 2-6 months of apologizing over and over again, as well as the natural tendency many humans have to beat themselves up after a misstep, even when it’s been forgiven and forgotten by the offended party.  The idea that we must all keep apologizing is unsound.  There are certainly some things you apologize for.  Other things you should never apologize for.  And, some, well, it can be a slippery slope. 

Recently, I visited a friend in the hospital.  She was recovering from invasive surgery the result of which required painkillers which in turn caused “loopiness” and exhaustion.  Less than 24 hours after her surgery, I was sitting in her room with her.  We were doing the normal hospital nothing-and-everything chatting that people do when they are simply passing time together.  Inside of three hours, this lovely lady apologized for:  being in pain, closing her eyes, wincing in pain, not having her phone on, not talking much, and needing to go to the bathroom.  She also apologized to the nurse for her IV getting infiltrated.  Goodness, I think if you have major surgery, you are totally exempt from the need to apologize for anything until you have regained your strength and your senses.  (Note: This may take 4-8 weeks, lots of sympathy and love, as well as several pints of ice cream.)

Years ago, my sister was hospitalized after a car wreck.  It was serious.  ICU-serious.  Everything that we did and talked about was life-and-death serious.  After she died, I remember crying a lot.  Not only at the hospital, but also at home.  At work.  At Walmart.  Everywhere.  I found myself saying, “Sorry.  My sister just died.”  What?  Why was I apologizing?  I didn’t kill her.  I had nothing to be sorry for.  William Carlos Williams has a poem that prescribes crying and wailing as a proper mourning technique.  People who are grieving should cry.  Really, they only should apologize if they don’t cry when a loved one has died.  When did it become required to apologize for loving someone and missing them and shedding tears when they are gone?

Civility yes.  Mindless empty apologies?  No.  I am also tired of hearing people apologize for talking to me on the phone.  In my profession, I deal with a variety of  client bases.  These groups include teenagers, their parents, colleagues in our school, and college representatives.  People from all of these groups will call or email me with legitimate questions or requests, and almost always I hear, “Sorry to bother you but…”   or “Dear Ms. Johnson, I am sorry to email you about this but…”  Huh?  It’s my JOB to provide you with information and support – why on earth are you apologizing for asking me to do my job?  C’mon in and let me know what you need.  Say thank you when I’ve provided it and begone!

There is a linguistic fad that is now passing (thankfully!) that is a “sorry” in disguise.  People make an observation about other human beings and their actions, usually noting something undesirable and then tagging the comment with “just sayin’.”  For example:  “People should totally use their turn signals when driving. Just sayin’.”  Or, “He doesn’t need to text me twenty times a day.  Just sayin’.”  No. People should totally use their turn signals.  It’s a safety issue.  It’s the law.  And, he probably doesn’t need to text you that much.  No need to soften these comments with implicit apologies for noting the assininity of the human race.

Other times the phrase “I’m sorry” is a catch-all.  If a co-worker inquires how I am in the morning, I might tell my colleague I’m not feeling great.  The standard issue phrase that many people pull out is “I’m sorry.”  We all know that this phrase actually means, “I care enough to utter two words but not enough to ask you anything further; in fact, I must now go, so contact me again when you are feeling better.  Ado, plebeian.”  It’s okay.  It’s not truly an apology and I don’t truly need one from that person.  I mean, the colleague in question didn’t make me stay one hour and two margaritas too long at book club last night.  Also, when someone mentions a death in the family, we can see the traditional “I’m sorry” brought out.  Here, of course, what we are saying is that we are sorry for our interlocutor’s loss.  In place of a more intimate inquiry, this seems legitimate use of the phrase.  Now, you might argue that the aforementioned colleague is also sympathizing with our condition.  Not so.  In the latter instance, the situation is out of the respondent’s control, and an “I’m sorry” stands as a legitimate response to a such a loss.   

So, if you wrong someone – and I mean truly wrong someone, not just push your cart around them in the grocery store or put your McDonald’s cup under the ice dispenser before they even step up to the drink machine – by all means apologize.  Do it sincerely.  Be sure to do it in a way that does not negate the apology:  “I’m sorry, but…” does not count.  “I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again.  What can I do to make this up to you?”  Something like that.  But, if you’ve had surgery, are asking for something you are legitimately entitled to, or commenting on the foolishness of people in general, no apology is necessary.