You can't live with 'em...and you can't shoot 'em. Just kidding. Of COURSE you can shoot 'em - you just better have a real good escape route.
I jest. Over the last few months, lots of things have changed in the Fayter-Ronda household. Little things. Things that most people wouldn't even notice on the outside. After a bit more than a year in our humble abode, I can say that we've finally REALLY settled in. While it felt like home from the moment our realtor showed us the little rancher on a corner lot, it's really OURS now. (Well, not according to Chase, who still demands those pesky mortgage payments every month...but I digress.) After two Christmases, an anniversary, and about five major snow storms, it's safe to say we love it here.
In the three years since Alex and I have been married, dozens of people have asked us when the babies will start coming, and that question popped up only more frequently after we bought the house. People don't seem to accept the fact that we're very happy with what we've got - there's Sydney, of course, who we wish was here more often but who is always here in spirit with her purple bedroom and (ghastly) teeny-bopper posters. Sangha the Neurotic has taken his rightful place on all the windowsills, while Rosie the Nutcase continues to terrorize the very friendly neighbors with her incessant barking and peeing. It's a happy little home we've got here.
So what does THAT have to do with families?
Well, they change a lot. Recently, Alex reunited with his dad and stepmom after some years apart and Syd finally got to meet her "long-lost grandfather" (as she continues to call him). I think we are all quite happy to say that our families got a little larger. And we finally trekked up to see Alex's mom, sister, and nephew over the holidays, after more than a year of only emails (can you tell we're very irresponsible kids?) - I was especially pleased to meet the ten cats and two dogs (because, really, who DOESN'T need more animals in their extended families?).
It made me think about my own family and how good we've got it. I live close to the area where I grew up, having been more than satisfied to settle myself down here and build my career. I see my parents regularly (and I thoroughly enjoy the company of their two rambunctious new pups). Sydney knows my family pretty well by now and seems to have found her place in the brood easily - they love her, she loves them, it's all one big happy family.
It makes me feel bad for people who don't really HAVE families and even worse for people who DO have families but neglect them. I suppose sometimes those folks come around to finding out what's really good in life...but it seems more often than not that they don't. Maybe they prefer to suffer. Maybe they're the type of people who always want what they haven't got.
Or maybe (and this is just a theory), they're the kind of folks who get what they want and find that it isn't enough, that there's still something missing. It's hard not to get angry at people who tend to miss what's right under their noses. They take for granted the people who invite them into their lives and try to make them a part of something bigger - they think, perhaps, that the crackers will always be on the table and the vodka will always flow freely. But it seems to me that human families operate on the same Darwinian principle as every other thing that breathes - it's survival of the fittest. We sometimes forget that in an evolutionary sense, we have to give our families a REASON to let us be part of the pack. For most families, the reason is obvious - we depend on and trust each other to be part of the same support system. It makes sense, then, that once you remove yourself from the support system (intentionally or otherwise), you get squeezed out. No one needs you anymore, and you end up an isolated individual in a world where the collective functions most efficiently. And isn't that a sad story?
In a larger sense, it would appear that the family survives where the individual does not. I'd hate to be that one lone ranger.
More next time, folks...
t.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Addicted
Imagine that you're addicted to something - I mean REALLY addicted, not just a fly-by-night, "OMG, I'm SO addicted to that new T.V. show" kind of thing. Now imagine that someone told you it was possible to cure yourself of this addiction (I know, I'm starting to sound like a tele-evangelist, but stay with me here - I promise not to ask for money or first-born children). What if you believed this person right from the start? What if it wasn't an imminent truth that you would be addicted to this one thing FOREVER? What if it seemed obvious that you could get rid of the monkey on your back and send him off to a third-world jungle thousands of miles away where he would never again see civilization?
This scenario is exactly the kind of thing I think about when I hear people say, "Once an addict, always an addict." I can't tell you how much it pains me to hear someone say, "Yep, I'm an alcoholic and I'll always be an alcoholic, but at least I can stop drinking." It seems so important that we pathologize addictive behaviors, that we create a complete co-dependency between The Addict and The Great and Powerful Healer, that we beat into the head of this addict the fact that there really is no way to get rid of this thing, this internal drive to over-consume whatever it is that's being over-consumed.
But if you started the conversation out differently, then wouldn't you think more hopefully about the situation? If you (The Addict) were never told that you now had this new title that would follow you throughout your life, wouldn't you be more inclined to believe that whatever problem has beset you is temporary? Wouldn't you believe in yourself more?
Just a thought...
On another (semi-related) note, I'm continually shocked and irritated by people who are addicted to themselves. There are a whole lot of people who seem to think only of their own well-being and I wonder how that happens. Childhood traumas? Other addictions? A refusal to grow up and mature? I'm not sure, but it's sad, the degree to which narcissism has taken over our lives. Especially when people are narcissistic to the detriment of the people to whom they should be the closest.
Perhaps there's redemption even for these folks, though. Maybe at some point they will have that wonderful moment of clarity when the light bulb turns on and everything is illuminated (to borrow the words of a certain awesome writer). I suspect that if that moment comes, though, it will be intensely painful for the person who looks back at his life and realizes just how much hurt he has caused to those people who loved and trusted him the most.
I think this new kind of reality works on the same principle as Plato's cave theory - once the prisoner realizes he is imprisoned by his own inability to see beyond the inside of the cave, once he sees that he's not actually a prisoner but can walk towards the doorway to the outside world, he'll be blinded by the light of that release. And (to borrow the words of another famous icon) I pity the fool who waits until old age to find these things out, because the longer it takes to get to the doorway, the more it will hurt to walk outside.
t.
This scenario is exactly the kind of thing I think about when I hear people say, "Once an addict, always an addict." I can't tell you how much it pains me to hear someone say, "Yep, I'm an alcoholic and I'll always be an alcoholic, but at least I can stop drinking." It seems so important that we pathologize addictive behaviors, that we create a complete co-dependency between The Addict and The Great and Powerful Healer, that we beat into the head of this addict the fact that there really is no way to get rid of this thing, this internal drive to over-consume whatever it is that's being over-consumed.
But if you started the conversation out differently, then wouldn't you think more hopefully about the situation? If you (The Addict) were never told that you now had this new title that would follow you throughout your life, wouldn't you be more inclined to believe that whatever problem has beset you is temporary? Wouldn't you believe in yourself more?
Just a thought...
On another (semi-related) note, I'm continually shocked and irritated by people who are addicted to themselves. There are a whole lot of people who seem to think only of their own well-being and I wonder how that happens. Childhood traumas? Other addictions? A refusal to grow up and mature? I'm not sure, but it's sad, the degree to which narcissism has taken over our lives. Especially when people are narcissistic to the detriment of the people to whom they should be the closest.
Perhaps there's redemption even for these folks, though. Maybe at some point they will have that wonderful moment of clarity when the light bulb turns on and everything is illuminated (to borrow the words of a certain awesome writer). I suspect that if that moment comes, though, it will be intensely painful for the person who looks back at his life and realizes just how much hurt he has caused to those people who loved and trusted him the most.
I think this new kind of reality works on the same principle as Plato's cave theory - once the prisoner realizes he is imprisoned by his own inability to see beyond the inside of the cave, once he sees that he's not actually a prisoner but can walk towards the doorway to the outside world, he'll be blinded by the light of that release. And (to borrow the words of another famous icon) I pity the fool who waits until old age to find these things out, because the longer it takes to get to the doorway, the more it will hurt to walk outside.
t.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Nirvana doesn't live here anymore...
I don't know what I was thinking. Somewhere between six years ago and September 2010, I forgot the intense physical and mental demands of yoga and decided I needed to restart my practice.
I must have been crazy. It truly was the longest 72 minutes of my life.
Despite my strong desire to help people, I am not-so-secretly repulsed by most of their habits. Besides being shoved into a smallish, 80-degree room with too many people ready to pray to the yogic gods, I happened to be squished between TWO people with major garlic-breath issues. If you know me at all, you know that I hate garlic - I don't care about the health benefits because I can't get past the smell, especially when it's emanating from someone's pores. (Much to Alex's dismay, garlic has been permanently banned from the Ronda household.) It's more distasteful to me than any blood and guts I may have seen in the E.R. - it's even worse than the liver smoothies we made in Bio lab last week (ask me about that later). So to be shoved between two people who took VERY seriously the prescribed breathing techniques while bending themselves into nine million directions was truly a nightmare.
Add to that the loud gulps of water from the lady down the row, the grunts and moans from people who insisted on pushing themselves too hard, and the RIVERS of sweat pouring down my face, and you've got the 72 minutes from hell, all wrapped up in a neat little Buddha-bellied package.
Here's a secret not too many people know about me - I don't sweat. Never have. Might have something to do with my utter laziness at life and complete unwillingness to push myself to any physical degree. But this class had me begging for mercy. I grew increasingly frustrated that I couldn't hold even the most basic pose for longer than 30 seconds - yet another reminder of how out-of-shape I really am. Of course, that aggravation grew exponentially as sweat got in my eyes, on my glasses, down my back and into places that should never be sweaty.
And that was a GENTLE yoga class.
By the time we got into savasana, I was completely ready to give up on life - guess they call it "corpse pose" for a reason. I was laying there staring at the dimly lit ceiling, listening to the low background music (and the leftover pants from the guy to my right), and thinking deeply...about McDonald's. All I could think about was getting out of that studio and to the nearest Mickey D's for my very favoritest bad-for-me treat - the old standby, Number 11. A fish fillet (surely made of some indeterminate mixture of cheap frozen fish), deeply-oil-soaked fries, and a vanilla milkshake (also of a questionable source). I kept thinking that if I could just get out of there alive and with most of my limbs intact, I was going to spite all of those perfect little yogis by patronizing an ugly old corporate demon who probably chains small children in Malaysia to the deep fryers in an effort to maintain a constant stream of employees to satisfy the ever-increasing cravings of the Malaysian masses for Big Macs and new frozen Frappe-Latte-Chinos.
Yep, I'd get them all.
When we finally got up from being dead for a little while, we sat lotus and did a little mini-meditation thing. That's when it happened - every class ends with a big, loud "Om" moment, during which everyone simultaneously sounds their vocal gong before leaving. I sat and stared at everyone around me, completely wrapped up in their New Age self-importance, and wondered what 15th dimension I'd accidentally tripped into.
You know, yoga's good for people and the teacher whose studio I choose to patronize is wonderful at what she does - you can tell that she believes in it with every fiber of her being. But sometimes it's hard to get past the hipness of it all. People who spend lots of money on recycled-rubber mats and humanely made clothing, but who at the end of class traipse out to their Volvos and Lexuses (Lexi???). There is this element of pseudo-perfection that doesn't seem to jive with the real principles behind yoga. And I despise people like that more than I dislike garlic, if that gives you some hint as to my gut reaction to them.
When I left class, I drove right over to Mickey D's and got what I went for. Sure, I knew it was going to make me feel like puking; I knew I'd regret it later because I'm trying (while not trying at all) to lose weight and feel better. But I still did it because I felt like, after all that jazz, I needed to feel like ME again - the me that doesn't take care of herself and doesn't care. The me that doesn't need to look perfect or have the perfect mat or effortlessly move from pose to pose without breaking a sweat.
The me that will doubtlessly be back in class again next Monday, because THAT me knows this is perhaps the most challenging thing I've done in years and that all that irritation from all those innocent garlic-breathed people is really just a big lesson in patience and focus.
And no McDonald's next time.
t.
I must have been crazy. It truly was the longest 72 minutes of my life.
Despite my strong desire to help people, I am not-so-secretly repulsed by most of their habits. Besides being shoved into a smallish, 80-degree room with too many people ready to pray to the yogic gods, I happened to be squished between TWO people with major garlic-breath issues. If you know me at all, you know that I hate garlic - I don't care about the health benefits because I can't get past the smell, especially when it's emanating from someone's pores. (Much to Alex's dismay, garlic has been permanently banned from the Ronda household.) It's more distasteful to me than any blood and guts I may have seen in the E.R. - it's even worse than the liver smoothies we made in Bio lab last week (ask me about that later). So to be shoved between two people who took VERY seriously the prescribed breathing techniques while bending themselves into nine million directions was truly a nightmare.
Add to that the loud gulps of water from the lady down the row, the grunts and moans from people who insisted on pushing themselves too hard, and the RIVERS of sweat pouring down my face, and you've got the 72 minutes from hell, all wrapped up in a neat little Buddha-bellied package.
Here's a secret not too many people know about me - I don't sweat. Never have. Might have something to do with my utter laziness at life and complete unwillingness to push myself to any physical degree. But this class had me begging for mercy. I grew increasingly frustrated that I couldn't hold even the most basic pose for longer than 30 seconds - yet another reminder of how out-of-shape I really am. Of course, that aggravation grew exponentially as sweat got in my eyes, on my glasses, down my back and into places that should never be sweaty.
And that was a GENTLE yoga class.
By the time we got into savasana, I was completely ready to give up on life - guess they call it "corpse pose" for a reason. I was laying there staring at the dimly lit ceiling, listening to the low background music (and the leftover pants from the guy to my right), and thinking deeply...about McDonald's. All I could think about was getting out of that studio and to the nearest Mickey D's for my very favoritest bad-for-me treat - the old standby, Number 11. A fish fillet (surely made of some indeterminate mixture of cheap frozen fish), deeply-oil-soaked fries, and a vanilla milkshake (also of a questionable source). I kept thinking that if I could just get out of there alive and with most of my limbs intact, I was going to spite all of those perfect little yogis by patronizing an ugly old corporate demon who probably chains small children in Malaysia to the deep fryers in an effort to maintain a constant stream of employees to satisfy the ever-increasing cravings of the Malaysian masses for Big Macs and new frozen Frappe-Latte-Chinos.
Yep, I'd get them all.
When we finally got up from being dead for a little while, we sat lotus and did a little mini-meditation thing. That's when it happened - every class ends with a big, loud "Om" moment, during which everyone simultaneously sounds their vocal gong before leaving. I sat and stared at everyone around me, completely wrapped up in their New Age self-importance, and wondered what 15th dimension I'd accidentally tripped into.
You know, yoga's good for people and the teacher whose studio I choose to patronize is wonderful at what she does - you can tell that she believes in it with every fiber of her being. But sometimes it's hard to get past the hipness of it all. People who spend lots of money on recycled-rubber mats and humanely made clothing, but who at the end of class traipse out to their Volvos and Lexuses (Lexi???). There is this element of pseudo-perfection that doesn't seem to jive with the real principles behind yoga. And I despise people like that more than I dislike garlic, if that gives you some hint as to my gut reaction to them.
When I left class, I drove right over to Mickey D's and got what I went for. Sure, I knew it was going to make me feel like puking; I knew I'd regret it later because I'm trying (while not trying at all) to lose weight and feel better. But I still did it because I felt like, after all that jazz, I needed to feel like ME again - the me that doesn't take care of herself and doesn't care. The me that doesn't need to look perfect or have the perfect mat or effortlessly move from pose to pose without breaking a sweat.
The me that will doubtlessly be back in class again next Monday, because THAT me knows this is perhaps the most challenging thing I've done in years and that all that irritation from all those innocent garlic-breathed people is really just a big lesson in patience and focus.
And no McDonald's next time.
t.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Help, I'm married to a spendthrift...
I know, it sounds underwhelming. I can assure you it's not. Follow my lead here...
Over the last few days, I have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how to rid my mattress of the dog-piss stench that I'm pretty sure has taken on a life of its own.
I tried carpet cleaner (it's not just for carpets, you know). Didn't touch it.
I went to PetSmart and bought a spray bottle full of my very favorite pet-odor neutralizing agent, Nature's Miracle. Although it's certainly proved itself miraculous in the past, it just barely scratched the surface.
In desperation, I dumped more Nature's Miracle on the mattress and mixed it up with a nice big pile of baking soda, which has always worked for me before. Can you guess what happened...or better yet, what DIDN'T happen?
In a last-ditch appeal to save the Stearns & Foster, I asked Alex to try using an industrial-strength carpet machine on the bed - he did. And it didn't work.
I am led to two possible conclusions: 1) My dog has toxic pee and I will obviously need to get a Hazardous Waste symbol shaved into her side, OR 2) The urine has soaked very deeply into the mattress, in which case I will probably have to buy a new one.
Why does this have anything to do with my spendthrift husband?
Well, as wonderful as he is in so many ways, he has far more material needs than I. Yesterday I arrived home at 9pm to find a bummed-out Alex - the elliptical machine we bought from a guy on Craig's List for $100 broke. The whole thing didn't break, but something semi-critical to its operation broke - the display, a wiring harness, whatever the hell is inside those things.
When stuff like this happens, my instinct is usually to say, "We'll get it fixed," or (if need be), "We'll live without it for awhile."
Not so with the Hubster. He wants his elliptical and he wants it NOW.
I understand his pain - he uses the machine on a daily basis and has lost quite a bit of weight over the years through a regular exercise routine. When someone GAVE us an unbelievably nice (and new) treadmill, we bought the elliptical and set up a mini gym, in which he works out all the time. I get the terrible sense of loss he must be feeling at the sudden inoperativeness (inoperability??) of his beloved elliptical.
And yet...for some reason, I'm more concerned about obtaining a mattress on which I can sleep without nightmares of drowning in dog piss or being eaten by the mighty monster living deep inside the foam core under me.
Of course there is also the fact that Thanksgiving is coming up, which means we have to buy plane fare for Syd to get to and from the southern region of the U.S., where she lives most of the time.
And there is this camping trip that hubby arranged as part of our anniversary celebration in two weeks.
Not to be ignored is the tiny little issue of shodding our feet with wearable shoes, keeping a roof high and dry over our heads, and occasionally consuming edibles.
Don't misunderstand me - Alex has made many sacrifices over the years and he generally does not go out and buy things for himself, even though I know there are some things he wants more than anything in the universe. He is always careful to place the needs of others first and he does have a good sense of priorities - of course his daughter visiting us for the holidays and of course our traveling anniversary celebration is more important than a new elliptical. Still, it's hard NOT to sense his dissatisfaction with the way things are sometimes, and it's REALLY hard not to feel bad about it. Which then has the residual effect of making me grumpy.
I know there is poverty in the world and Alex and I certainly aren't the face of it - we generally live comfortably within our means. The problem is that for Alex, "within our means" has a slightly different ring to it. He's notorious for "needing" nice things, although admittedly he has picked up some very nifty cheapskate tricks from his feet-on-the-ground, realistic wife. I'm proud of his progress, but I wholeheartedly curse his need to REPLACE rather than FIX things. When I bring this maddening habit to his attention, though, I am immediately labeled with that great scarlet letter - N. For nag, of course.
I don't like being thought of as a nag, especially since if it was up to me, I would buy him everything his gigantic heart desires - he takes care of me well and I can't complain about that. But I sure do wish instead of having that giant N plastered on my chest, I could have a big S, Supergirl-style - S for Savior or Saint, S for Sane or Sensible, maybe even S for Sagacious or Shrewd.
But no. I get the N. Always with the N.
Alex, I love you, but you drive me batty sometimes. I know your dream life includes a lot of nice things around you, but in my dream world there is only you and a piss-free dog and a not-morbidly-obese cat in a small cabin in the woods.
Who needs STUFF anyway?
I have a feeling I'm going to be trying this vinyl-cover-for-the-mattress thing today. And I have a feeling it won't work. Then what? Only time (and money) will tell. I know one thing - if I have to replace this mattress again, I'm getting the cheapest one they've got. AND the vinyl cover.
t.
Over the last few days, I have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how to rid my mattress of the dog-piss stench that I'm pretty sure has taken on a life of its own.
I tried carpet cleaner (it's not just for carpets, you know). Didn't touch it.
I went to PetSmart and bought a spray bottle full of my very favorite pet-odor neutralizing agent, Nature's Miracle. Although it's certainly proved itself miraculous in the past, it just barely scratched the surface.
In desperation, I dumped more Nature's Miracle on the mattress and mixed it up with a nice big pile of baking soda, which has always worked for me before. Can you guess what happened...or better yet, what DIDN'T happen?
In a last-ditch appeal to save the Stearns & Foster, I asked Alex to try using an industrial-strength carpet machine on the bed - he did. And it didn't work.
I am led to two possible conclusions: 1) My dog has toxic pee and I will obviously need to get a Hazardous Waste symbol shaved into her side, OR 2) The urine has soaked very deeply into the mattress, in which case I will probably have to buy a new one.
Why does this have anything to do with my spendthrift husband?
Well, as wonderful as he is in so many ways, he has far more material needs than I. Yesterday I arrived home at 9pm to find a bummed-out Alex - the elliptical machine we bought from a guy on Craig's List for $100 broke. The whole thing didn't break, but something semi-critical to its operation broke - the display, a wiring harness, whatever the hell is inside those things.
When stuff like this happens, my instinct is usually to say, "We'll get it fixed," or (if need be), "We'll live without it for awhile."
Not so with the Hubster. He wants his elliptical and he wants it NOW.
I understand his pain - he uses the machine on a daily basis and has lost quite a bit of weight over the years through a regular exercise routine. When someone GAVE us an unbelievably nice (and new) treadmill, we bought the elliptical and set up a mini gym, in which he works out all the time. I get the terrible sense of loss he must be feeling at the sudden inoperativeness (inoperability??) of his beloved elliptical.
And yet...for some reason, I'm more concerned about obtaining a mattress on which I can sleep without nightmares of drowning in dog piss or being eaten by the mighty monster living deep inside the foam core under me.
Of course there is also the fact that Thanksgiving is coming up, which means we have to buy plane fare for Syd to get to and from the southern region of the U.S., where she lives most of the time.
And there is this camping trip that hubby arranged as part of our anniversary celebration in two weeks.
Not to be ignored is the tiny little issue of shodding our feet with wearable shoes, keeping a roof high and dry over our heads, and occasionally consuming edibles.
Don't misunderstand me - Alex has made many sacrifices over the years and he generally does not go out and buy things for himself, even though I know there are some things he wants more than anything in the universe. He is always careful to place the needs of others first and he does have a good sense of priorities - of course his daughter visiting us for the holidays and of course our traveling anniversary celebration is more important than a new elliptical. Still, it's hard NOT to sense his dissatisfaction with the way things are sometimes, and it's REALLY hard not to feel bad about it. Which then has the residual effect of making me grumpy.
I know there is poverty in the world and Alex and I certainly aren't the face of it - we generally live comfortably within our means. The problem is that for Alex, "within our means" has a slightly different ring to it. He's notorious for "needing" nice things, although admittedly he has picked up some very nifty cheapskate tricks from his feet-on-the-ground, realistic wife. I'm proud of his progress, but I wholeheartedly curse his need to REPLACE rather than FIX things. When I bring this maddening habit to his attention, though, I am immediately labeled with that great scarlet letter - N. For nag, of course.
I don't like being thought of as a nag, especially since if it was up to me, I would buy him everything his gigantic heart desires - he takes care of me well and I can't complain about that. But I sure do wish instead of having that giant N plastered on my chest, I could have a big S, Supergirl-style - S for Savior or Saint, S for Sane or Sensible, maybe even S for Sagacious or Shrewd.
But no. I get the N. Always with the N.
Alex, I love you, but you drive me batty sometimes. I know your dream life includes a lot of nice things around you, but in my dream world there is only you and a piss-free dog and a not-morbidly-obese cat in a small cabin in the woods.
Who needs STUFF anyway?
I have a feeling I'm going to be trying this vinyl-cover-for-the-mattress thing today. And I have a feeling it won't work. Then what? Only time (and money) will tell. I know one thing - if I have to replace this mattress again, I'm getting the cheapest one they've got. AND the vinyl cover.
t.
Friday, September 24, 2010
No, I'm not dead.
I was just on hiatus from blogging for awhile. But, ahhhhh, it's good to be back in the blogosphere, where nothing is as it appears and there is much fun to be had peering into the little windows of other people's lives.
Yesterday was my birthday. I am an indeterminate age, at least to my growing body of students. When I taught my first class at Atlantic Cape this fall, I assured my all-freshman audience that I was indeed old enough to be teaching the class. No one believed me, but rather than entertain a discussion about my actual age, I pointed out that it was irrelevant anyway because someone thought me experienced enough to teach the class and someone thought they were intelligent enough to be in the class, so in our own respective ways we both hold critical roles and age has nothing at all to do with them. Yeah, it was a weasel's way out, but guess what? I adore them and I think they like me pretty well, so in the end it doesn't matter much.
I caught myself reflecting on age yesterday, as birthdays are wont to make me do. It's strange to spend so much time working at a college and to feel so far afield of what students like these days. It wasn't THAT long ago I was one of them, was it? But there's a lot of difference between then and now, I guess, because I can't make heads or tails of guys wearing skinny jeans or girls bringing back the absolute worst trends of the 80s. (Look, kids, I was there and although I will never get tired of The Breakfast Club or Pat Benatar, from what I remember, I can assure you there's an absolutely valid reason that side-ponytails and leg warmers went the way of the dinosaur.) But that's okay because they don't get my pop culture references, which at least in my own age group, are still funny and, dare I say, even a little kitschy. (Can you believe that kids born in the 90s don't even KNOW about She-Ra?! And I will never get over the fact that they don't know about the 50-lb "cell phone" Zach Morris looked so cool using. Don't even get me started on Carmen Sandiego...broke my heart, that one did.)
But then, in the midst of my contemplation, I started thinking about how my parents probably felt the same way as they got older. And maybe my grandmother and her mother did, too. I guess this is what they meant by "getting old."
I don't really feel old. I mean, except every time I sit in class as a too-old pre-med student surrounded by freshmen who wear silly bands and had AP Calculus just last year. But other than that, I'm a spring chicken...
Probably the hardest thing to deal with as I get a little older each day is the fact that I am now THAT woman - not that cute girl in the back of the class who wore a size zero; oh no, not THAT girl...ever again, sadly. Nope, now I'm THAT woman who sits in the front of every class so she can take copious amounts of notes and actually SEE the board. Yes, I'm THAT woman who gets aggravated at the incessant tap-tap-tap of little tiny Droid keyboards all over the classroom, transmitting messages from desperate 18-year-olds making plans with other desperate 18-year-olds to get hung over for class tomorrow morning.
I'm THAT woman who talks about her husband and her stepkid and her dog and her cat and her adorable little suburban house with a green lawn and a picket fence (okay, well actually it's a split-rail, but do THEY know the difference?).
I'm THAT woman who until now didn't really know what she wanted to do with her life but who, now that she's decided, is hyper-focused on making the dream a reality and trying her best to enjoy it along the way. Do you know, I think I might actually be learning to LOVE science? After years of studying soft disciplines like literature and philosophy and counseling, I am actually becoming passionate about molecules and amino acids.
So I guess what I'm saying is that it's hard sometimes to sit with people much younger than me, whose lives are so very different from mine, and think what all those "old" people probably used to think about me:
"Don't be so desperate to have people love you. Enjoy your time on earth without giving your integrity and self-respect to people who don't respect themselves, let alone you. Don't let someone who broke your heart destroy your ego or your joy. Because one day, you'll wake up and find that you've matured, that you're actually a grown-up with grown-up thoughts and a lot less time to worry about what other people think, and that even though you're not that old, you're finally old enough to know better. You might not want a picket fence or a stable life or a dog - you might want a life on the road with a pet iguana to keep you company - but you'll find SOMETHING that you want enough to drive yourself all the places you wouldn't (or couldn't) find the energy to go as a younger person, and all the rest of it - the drama and time wasted and hours spent in misery over some person or other - just doesn't mean what it used to. You might even be happy."
I suppose this might be my way of saying to my elders, "Thanks for all the advice I didn't trust you to give when I was a kid." And I'd probably also agree that yes, 50's the new 20 and you're only as old as you feel and age is just a number.
t.
Yesterday was my birthday. I am an indeterminate age, at least to my growing body of students. When I taught my first class at Atlantic Cape this fall, I assured my all-freshman audience that I was indeed old enough to be teaching the class. No one believed me, but rather than entertain a discussion about my actual age, I pointed out that it was irrelevant anyway because someone thought me experienced enough to teach the class and someone thought they were intelligent enough to be in the class, so in our own respective ways we both hold critical roles and age has nothing at all to do with them. Yeah, it was a weasel's way out, but guess what? I adore them and I think they like me pretty well, so in the end it doesn't matter much.
I caught myself reflecting on age yesterday, as birthdays are wont to make me do. It's strange to spend so much time working at a college and to feel so far afield of what students like these days. It wasn't THAT long ago I was one of them, was it? But there's a lot of difference between then and now, I guess, because I can't make heads or tails of guys wearing skinny jeans or girls bringing back the absolute worst trends of the 80s. (Look, kids, I was there and although I will never get tired of The Breakfast Club or Pat Benatar, from what I remember, I can assure you there's an absolutely valid reason that side-ponytails and leg warmers went the way of the dinosaur.) But that's okay because they don't get my pop culture references, which at least in my own age group, are still funny and, dare I say, even a little kitschy. (Can you believe that kids born in the 90s don't even KNOW about She-Ra?! And I will never get over the fact that they don't know about the 50-lb "cell phone" Zach Morris looked so cool using. Don't even get me started on Carmen Sandiego...broke my heart, that one did.)
But then, in the midst of my contemplation, I started thinking about how my parents probably felt the same way as they got older. And maybe my grandmother and her mother did, too. I guess this is what they meant by "getting old."
I don't really feel old. I mean, except every time I sit in class as a too-old pre-med student surrounded by freshmen who wear silly bands and had AP Calculus just last year. But other than that, I'm a spring chicken...
Probably the hardest thing to deal with as I get a little older each day is the fact that I am now THAT woman - not that cute girl in the back of the class who wore a size zero; oh no, not THAT girl...ever again, sadly. Nope, now I'm THAT woman who sits in the front of every class so she can take copious amounts of notes and actually SEE the board. Yes, I'm THAT woman who gets aggravated at the incessant tap-tap-tap of little tiny Droid keyboards all over the classroom, transmitting messages from desperate 18-year-olds making plans with other desperate 18-year-olds to get hung over for class tomorrow morning.
I'm THAT woman who talks about her husband and her stepkid and her dog and her cat and her adorable little suburban house with a green lawn and a picket fence (okay, well actually it's a split-rail, but do THEY know the difference?).
I'm THAT woman who until now didn't really know what she wanted to do with her life but who, now that she's decided, is hyper-focused on making the dream a reality and trying her best to enjoy it along the way. Do you know, I think I might actually be learning to LOVE science? After years of studying soft disciplines like literature and philosophy and counseling, I am actually becoming passionate about molecules and amino acids.
So I guess what I'm saying is that it's hard sometimes to sit with people much younger than me, whose lives are so very different from mine, and think what all those "old" people probably used to think about me:
"Don't be so desperate to have people love you. Enjoy your time on earth without giving your integrity and self-respect to people who don't respect themselves, let alone you. Don't let someone who broke your heart destroy your ego or your joy. Because one day, you'll wake up and find that you've matured, that you're actually a grown-up with grown-up thoughts and a lot less time to worry about what other people think, and that even though you're not that old, you're finally old enough to know better. You might not want a picket fence or a stable life or a dog - you might want a life on the road with a pet iguana to keep you company - but you'll find SOMETHING that you want enough to drive yourself all the places you wouldn't (or couldn't) find the energy to go as a younger person, and all the rest of it - the drama and time wasted and hours spent in misery over some person or other - just doesn't mean what it used to. You might even be happy."
I suppose this might be my way of saying to my elders, "Thanks for all the advice I didn't trust you to give when I was a kid." And I'd probably also agree that yes, 50's the new 20 and you're only as old as you feel and age is just a number.
t.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Lukewarm beer & mediocre mousse
(As promised, Jelly, this one's for you...)
Last night I attended a Longaberger fundraiser to support breast cancer research and treatment - it was their annual Horizon of Hope event, and it's always a good time. For the past three years, my best friend and I have made an occasion of going. We play bingo, we buy 50/50 tickets, we do the auction thing...in other words, we spend a lot of money to lose a lot of different ways.
But I don't think that's why we go. She can correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure this now-annual tradition has strangely become a big part of our friendship. Of course we care about ending breast cancer (doesn't everyone?), and of course we like to throw our support behind Angel, who's a Longaberger consultant and an all-around great gal. I don't believe, though, that either of us is altruistic enough to go with only those two goals in mind.
There's something most fundraisers have in common - the food, typical banquet fare prepared for a small army, is fairly bland; the company one must keep (especially when seated at a table of unfamiliar faces) is questionable; and you are almost guaranteed to lose every dollar you pay for those useless paper tickets they give you in return.
But there is something priceless in sitting next to your slightly tipsy (because you forced a cosmo upon her) BFF and her mom, doubled over in hysterics over the time you called her ten days before her birthday and cleverly teased, "Who's having a birthday today?", only to hear, "I don't know - who?!" in return. (Guess you had to be there - but seriously, it was hilarious. My uncertain response to her response was something like, "Um, yours?") Even when you're very slowly nursing a lukewarm Yuengling and taste-testing a mediocre, only slightly chocolaty mousse, that kind of laughter makes the whole event worthwhile. And of course the fundraisers must know that, because aren't there a million other ways to raise money? Yet, when all is said and done, it's valuable in more than one way to have a bunch of friends sitting around a large banquet room, battling it out over pig-in-a-pen bingo and talking trash.
Why does any of this matter? Well, because sometimes (just sometimes) I have a hard time remembering how Maureen and I got to be best friends. I frequently remember odd situations over which we've bonded - for instance, my favorite green khakis with the giant bleach stain on the ass (she was the only person nice enough to tell me about it...and that was before we even really knew each other). One of my favorite things about her is that she's the kind of person who doesn't give up on friends - she knew probably from the start that I wasn't really the BFF kind of gal. She didn't take offense to the fact that for an entire summer during which we worked together, I sat at a table all the way across from her during lunch because I'm a claustrophobic eater with a large personal bubble. She did, however, gradually coach me to move within easy speaking distance until finally I was sitting next to her at the lunch table.
Maureen is the kind of person who looks at you like "I want a hug" even when she knows you're not the hugging type. She keeps a respectful distance because she knows that eventually, you will have to cave to the unspoken demand. She will patiently wait until you come around to seeing that friendship is about more than being on the same page all the time. At least, that's what she did with me - and I'm not easy to love.
There aren't too many people with whom I would venture to a fundraiser where I am sure to be uncomfortable (you know, the whole personal space thing...), lose all my money, and eat less-than-gourmet fare for gourmet prices. But, Jelly, you know I'd do it for you :)
t.
Last night I attended a Longaberger fundraiser to support breast cancer research and treatment - it was their annual Horizon of Hope event, and it's always a good time. For the past three years, my best friend and I have made an occasion of going. We play bingo, we buy 50/50 tickets, we do the auction thing...in other words, we spend a lot of money to lose a lot of different ways.
But I don't think that's why we go. She can correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure this now-annual tradition has strangely become a big part of our friendship. Of course we care about ending breast cancer (doesn't everyone?), and of course we like to throw our support behind Angel, who's a Longaberger consultant and an all-around great gal. I don't believe, though, that either of us is altruistic enough to go with only those two goals in mind.
There's something most fundraisers have in common - the food, typical banquet fare prepared for a small army, is fairly bland; the company one must keep (especially when seated at a table of unfamiliar faces) is questionable; and you are almost guaranteed to lose every dollar you pay for those useless paper tickets they give you in return.
But there is something priceless in sitting next to your slightly tipsy (because you forced a cosmo upon her) BFF and her mom, doubled over in hysterics over the time you called her ten days before her birthday and cleverly teased, "Who's having a birthday today?", only to hear, "I don't know - who?!" in return. (Guess you had to be there - but seriously, it was hilarious. My uncertain response to her response was something like, "Um, yours?") Even when you're very slowly nursing a lukewarm Yuengling and taste-testing a mediocre, only slightly chocolaty mousse, that kind of laughter makes the whole event worthwhile. And of course the fundraisers must know that, because aren't there a million other ways to raise money? Yet, when all is said and done, it's valuable in more than one way to have a bunch of friends sitting around a large banquet room, battling it out over pig-in-a-pen bingo and talking trash.
Why does any of this matter? Well, because sometimes (just sometimes) I have a hard time remembering how Maureen and I got to be best friends. I frequently remember odd situations over which we've bonded - for instance, my favorite green khakis with the giant bleach stain on the ass (she was the only person nice enough to tell me about it...and that was before we even really knew each other). One of my favorite things about her is that she's the kind of person who doesn't give up on friends - she knew probably from the start that I wasn't really the BFF kind of gal. She didn't take offense to the fact that for an entire summer during which we worked together, I sat at a table all the way across from her during lunch because I'm a claustrophobic eater with a large personal bubble. She did, however, gradually coach me to move within easy speaking distance until finally I was sitting next to her at the lunch table.
Maureen is the kind of person who looks at you like "I want a hug" even when she knows you're not the hugging type. She keeps a respectful distance because she knows that eventually, you will have to cave to the unspoken demand. She will patiently wait until you come around to seeing that friendship is about more than being on the same page all the time. At least, that's what she did with me - and I'm not easy to love.
There aren't too many people with whom I would venture to a fundraiser where I am sure to be uncomfortable (you know, the whole personal space thing...), lose all my money, and eat less-than-gourmet fare for gourmet prices. But, Jelly, you know I'd do it for you :)
t.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Crickets, they are a-chirpin'...
I'm an early riser - not by choice, but by biology. Or something like that.
Which leads me to be here, in front of my computer at an obscene time trying to think of the brilliant thing I thought to write last night (but didn't).
Have you ever sat in front of a glaring computer screen and wondered what to do? With the billions of words and millions of pages the inter-web offers, and STILL you can't figure out what to watch or read or play?
My theory is this - there's just too much going on in the world. Things need to s-l-o-w d-o-w-n...it would be nice if everything didn't move at the speed of light so that I always felt the need to be doing or watching or reading or SOMETHING. And yet, I do believe it's impossible this way.
The last thoughts I had before falling asleep last night: I need to write a living will and I need to get new life insurance policies and I need to fill out new direct deposit forms and I need to eat breakfast (apparently at 9:30 at night) and I need to throw everything away because it's all too much to look at anymore and I need to tell my husband I love him before I fall asleep and I need to play with my cat more often because he's too fat and possibly unhappy and I need to buy those two things I forgot when I went food shopping today and I need to find a new novel to read and I need to start looking at that biology textbook and I need to pick up my prescription from CVS and I need to clean the house and I need to...STOP MOVING. I need to do nothing for awhile.
I need a vacation.
t.
Which leads me to be here, in front of my computer at an obscene time trying to think of the brilliant thing I thought to write last night (but didn't).
Have you ever sat in front of a glaring computer screen and wondered what to do? With the billions of words and millions of pages the inter-web offers, and STILL you can't figure out what to watch or read or play?
My theory is this - there's just too much going on in the world. Things need to s-l-o-w d-o-w-n...it would be nice if everything didn't move at the speed of light so that I always felt the need to be doing or watching or reading or SOMETHING. And yet, I do believe it's impossible this way.
The last thoughts I had before falling asleep last night: I need to write a living will and I need to get new life insurance policies and I need to fill out new direct deposit forms and I need to eat breakfast (apparently at 9:30 at night) and I need to throw everything away because it's all too much to look at anymore and I need to tell my husband I love him before I fall asleep and I need to play with my cat more often because he's too fat and possibly unhappy and I need to buy those two things I forgot when I went food shopping today and I need to find a new novel to read and I need to start looking at that biology textbook and I need to pick up my prescription from CVS and I need to clean the house and I need to...STOP MOVING. I need to do nothing for awhile.
I need a vacation.
t.
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