WHY THAT DOESN'T WORK FOR ME

It’s birthday time again!!!  Whoop, whoop!  I think birthdays are more meaningful than New Year’s Day in terms of that sense of renewal, reflection and intention setting.  Truthfully, although I am now deeply installed in middle age, I really don’t mind getting older.  I mean, the stuff that is happening with my skin REALLY BLOWS, obviously.  But anyone who knows me knows that I was never much good at being young anyhow.  It didn’t suit me.  And apart from the benefits of catching up with my old soul, there is now also an unapologetic ability to remove myself from situations that don’t work for me.  In fact, I’ve decided “that doesn’t work for me” is my “new year” motto (or T-shirt wisdom, as it were).  There is very little that makes me cringe more than listening to a grown-ass adult making weak (or bizarrely inflated) excuses for not doing something when it is clear to anyone with a brain that the REAL reason they are not doing it is because they DON’T WANT TO DO IT.  We decided as a society at some point that it is rude to admit such a thing.  So here is my birthday gift to YOU:  try “that doesn’t work for me” on for size!

I’ve done a test run with “that doesn’t work for me” at the mall recently.  The salesclerks really don’t give a goddamn if I live or die, so they make an excellent, low stakes test audience.  The first thing that didn’t work for me is bras and panties with bows on them.  BOWS!!!!  Like I am a five year old!  On a recent trip to Florida the suitcase fairies caused every pair of underwear I own to dissaparate, so I trekked to the mall to buy more.  I admit to being a bit picky about the style and fabric of panty I prefer, so Victoria’s Secret was the safe bet.  Except when I arrived I was horrified to discover that the style I like had recently been redesigned to feature BOWS!  No one over the age of ten looks good in a bow and I have yet to meet the man who ever uttered any sentiment in the neighborhood of “You know what really turns me on?  A nice bow.”  So I verbally harassed the sales people, repeatedly telling them that they had to come up with some alternative because bows do NOT work for me!  I was directed to the website, which still sells bowless panties.  This obviously did me no good, as I needed them immediately.  The story has a happy ending, however, because the suitcase fairies returned my underwear later that same day and my hopeless search for adult underthings came to an end.

When the girls at VS took “that doesn’t work for me” in stride, I moved on to Bath and Body Works.  They have recently also done some redesigning and now all of their products look like something you would find in Barbie’s Dreamhouse and smell like something manufactured by Tinkerbell back in the 70’s.  THAT DOESN’T WORK FOR ME.  The salespeople seemed more amused by my observations than anything else; I wonder if they thought I was a “mystery shopper”?  The backstory here is that I actually worked for this company in the early 90’s and my most vivid memories of that experience are that they treated me like a criminal.  Not just me—all of their employees.  Equal opportunity accusers, they were.  Part of their training program was to show us this bizarre little propaganda film about how they KNEW we were going to try to steal from them, but they had Fort Knox quality security in place to assure this would not happen.  Or, if it did, we would be immediately apprehended and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.  One of these security measures was a flashlight enhanced search of our bags at the end of each shift.  As you can imagine, it was a happy workplace.

But here’s the thing:  they also hired “mystery shoppers” to come into the store and try to bait you into inappropriate behavior.  I actually enjoyed this part, as the idiots would ask ridiculously leading questions that a FIVE YEAR OLD in a BOW would know was entrapment.  I relished “outsmarting” them (not sure why—outsmarting a turnip would have been trickier) and at the end of my brief tenure there was an “incident” with one of my co-workers being caught in some behavior the company deemed unacceptable.  Even at the time I thought “You treat someone like a criminal and they are much more likely to behave as one”, but you know what I wish?  I wish I had been able to say “That doesn’t work for me” sooner.  A stupid waste of my time and energy, that job was.  Now, at the ripe old age of 148 (ha!), I hope I have the discernment and the backbone to say “That doesn’t work for me” anytime I feel I am being compromised, belittled, bullied, neglected or undermined.  Amy Schumer has a great skit on how women over-apologize (check it:  http://aboveaverage.com/inside-amy-schumers-im-sorry-sketch-accurately-illustrates-how-often-women-apologize/) and this is something I am catching myself doing less and less these days.  I am not sorry for how I feel, I am not sorry for needing help, I am not sorry that I don’t want to do that and I am not sorry THAT DOESN’T WORK FOR ME.

The other day I overheard a woman making the most long-winded excuse in the history of the world to our yoga teacher about why she couldn’t attend a session of yoga-on-the-beach. In fact, it went on for so long I just wanted to interrupt her and say “YOU CAN’T MAKE IT.  WE GET IT!”  We don’t need to make excuses for ourselves.  Not for who we are or how we feel; if somebody doesn’t like it, they are free to walk away.     Next time you don’t want to do something, say “That doesn’t work for me”.  If pressed for details as to how or why it doesn’t work for you, resist the urge to placate.  It’s just not going to work.  Because you don’t want to do it and that is something you can and should be able to honor.  Making excuses insults the other person’s intelligence (like the mystery shoppers) and is a backhanded apology for feeling the way you feel.  “That doesn’t work for me”.  It’s a good enough reason for everything and anything.  Because this is your life!  Fill it with things and people that DO work for you and it can and will be dreamy.  When you stand up for who you are and what you want, the rest will fall away.  Happy birthday to all of us.  It’s a new day, let’s work it!

WHY THAT'S NOT A GOOD STORY

“Sex and Violence”, the ironically titled pilot for the classic Muppet Show, featured a muppetized version of Mount Rushmore, with Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln all secretly agreeing that George Washington is a dull-witted, crashing bore.  He doesn’t get any of their jokes and his own lame attempt at humor is met with silence, and finally a pitying, “That was a good one, George.”  This line has become a staple in my home in response to any story or joke that doesn’t pass muster.  I believe storytelling is an art, and not to be taken lightly.  My husband is the king of the bad story and I constantly have to remind him that relating dull facts that don’t cumulate in a point is not a valid use of verbiage; he’s also heard “That was a good one, George” from our son more than once.  So even though he was not able to join us for our annual beach holiday this year, he did inspire me to set and enforce a ground rule:  no telling bad stories.

I realize that vacations are supposed to be our break from reality and rules—theoretically, we can sleep late, eat too much food, drink too much wine and forget about exercise—and to the degree that vacationing with children allows these freedoms, my family likes to take advantage.  My new vacation rule was announced at our first family dinner after several glasses of the aforementioned wine.  Perhaps you are thinking such a mandate would go without saying, but I have found in group situations that sometimes people talk to fill a silence rather than talk because they have something interesting to say. I generously wanted to lift that onus from anyone who wasn’t brimming with scintillating discourse; I was poised and ready to smack down all family members who didn’t want to comply with my wishes.  But as it turns out, I only had to yell “That’s not a good story!” once--my younger sister had just announced to the room what the current temperature was in a tropical location she had recently visited—and once turned out to be enough, as there were good stories aplenty to be told.

My sister-in-law’s mother, who all the children call GJ, is a gracious Southern lady and born storyteller.  On the evening of my announcement she obliged us all with a riotous account of a malfunctioning carbon monoxide detector and the apparently Chippendales quality firemen who showed up at her house to deal with the crisis.  I could never do justice to the story here, as it requires both a Southern accent and GJ’s wide eyed expression of innocence which betrays none of her punchlines in advance.  There was a lot of clapping and hooting in response to her saga (mostly from me—the wine again!) and I feel it set the tone nicely for a long holiday weekend of no-bad-stories.  In case you are wondering what qualifies for me as a “bad story”, other than relating-dull-facts-that-don’t-cumulate-in-a-point, pretty much anything that is told for self-serving purposes bores me.  A tale told to elicit pity, kudos or to make anyone else feel guilty is categorically NOT a good story.  However, if you can combine all three, as my brother did, you just may have something!

My brother’s top story of the weekend involved a folding loveseat that our mother apparently browbeat some hapless clerks into selling to her for 12 bucks, an outdoor concert of music from the Harry Potter films that featured no music from the Harry Potter films, an unexpected downpour and a handsome stranger from his wife’s past.  You are interested already, right?  The situation was this:  our Mom had secured tickets to this event for herself and my brother’s family and she brought along this luxurious piece of camp equipment to enhance everyone’s enjoyment (without lightening her wallet too much in the process).  The first half of the concert and the love seat were a smashing success, although the orchestra decided to save the “main event” (Harry Potter music!) for after intermission.  My brother, eyeballing the approaching storm clouds, thought they might want to play it safe, but was voted down.  Clearly he missed his calling as an ace weatherman, because once the music started, the rain did too…and the stampede of people trying to get chairs, picnic meals and instruments out of the deluge.

Now as my brother told the story (his wife and children were witnesses to the version I heard; my mother may have to be deposed on details at a later date), Grandma and children huddled under an umbrella while he humped gear back to the car.  Simultaneously, his wife had found shelter with the mysterious stranger, who turned out to be an old school friend recently returned to the area.  The rain kept coming down harder—everything and everybody was soaked through and through by the time they were safely ensconced in the car—except my sister-in-law, who did not make an appearance again until the rain had stopped entirely.  She was dry and delighted by a fun conversation with her old pal (described by my brother as not just handsome but EXTREMELY handsome) before she entered into the sopping wet zone of seething resentment.  I like this story because I think it serves as a pretty good metaphor for how most men view marriage.  Also, if you reverse the sexes, it serves as a wonderful example of how most women view marriage too.

I have often opined that today’s bad experience is tomorrow’s funny story, and more often than not I am correct in this.  My own best story from this latest road trip features a mad dash for a train across Grand Central Station in ridiculous shoes and an errant bra strap that literally shot out my arm sleeve like a rubber band—no, I did NOT stop for it, I just kept on running.  I think with family vacations that in addition to the “no telling bad stories” rule, there should also be a “no dwelling on bad stories” rule too, unless the bad story can be turned into a funny one.  A lot of people in close quarters for several days means without a doubt that toes will get stepped on—this is the law of averages.  The trick is not to turn it into a bad story.  Ruminate on all the fun and positive and remember it’s a damned good thing nothing is perfect.  Consider this: if carbon monoxide detectors never malfunctioned, how would we ever get the Chippendales firemen to come to the house?

Why "Fantasy Island" was Right!

If nothing else, Facebook is FAT with quizzes. 

What TV Mom are you? (Samantha Stephens!) What funny lady are you? (Liz Lemon!)  What song are you? (Wild Thing!)  What kind of booze are you? (Gin???)  More often than not I pre-emptively refuse to take a quiz, like the one which promised to calculate my ACTUAL age by my taste in music.  Everyone I saw got a flattering number, but based on the Burt Bacharach, John Denver and E.L.O. I have in perpetuity on my car’s sound system, I figured mine would hover in the neighborhood of 100. 

This is the “time suck” factor people speak of when they talk smack about FB (although, to be fair, the quizzes usually take all of three minutes.  That’s how you KNOW they are clinically accurate!)  Recently I saw a welcomed break from all these quizzes:  a POLL.  Fresh!  The question:  what TV show would you like to live in?  (GILMORE GIRLS!!!  I would fit right in to Stars Hollow!  If the people of Stars Hollow all swore like drunken sailors.)  One person, a stranger to me, chose Fantasy Island.  A choice to which my friend David Jay wisely remarked, “Are you kidding me?  Almost all of the “fantasies” on Fantasy Island go badly awry!” 

True ‘dat.

Every one of my generation knows the show Fantasy Island, unless they are Amish.  Paired with The Love Boat (best product placement EVER, Princess Cruise lines!) on ABC Saturday nights, this was the perfect nightcap to a long day spent watching cartoons, playing outside and making our parents wish for a 6 day school week.  Even my folks, who were notoriously strict about our media input, let us watch these shows.  Mainly because Saturday night also tended to be cocktail night or date night, I suspect. 

But no matter!  Always a thrill when the iconic voice of Tattoo signaled the arrival of the new victims (I mean guests) at this tropical paradise.  It looks really good at first:  leis and cocktails (not the kind my parents drank—they preferred Manhattans) and Ricardo Montalban in an impeccable white suit; what could go wrong?  But these paying customers usually leave a little sadder, a little wiser and without what they came for—unless they end up dead. 

Hey, it happened!

Not to go off topic, but I saw the movie Jurassic World (it takes place on a tropical island too!) and as things started to go bad, as they inevitably do in any Frankenstein-inspired tale, one of the characters shakes his head and says, “They never learn”.  What do they never learn?  Don’t go messing with stuff you have no business messing with; anything that smacks of time travel, even if only accomplished in a strictly controlled environment, usually has catastrophic results and BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR!  

All of these lessons are well taught by Mr. Rourke on Fantasy Island, too.  In the vast majority of cases, the victims (I mean, guests) show up with a very clear idea of what they think they want and often a well-organized plan for how they think they will get it.  Mr. Rourke is the very excellent father figure who gently suggests these plans might still be abandoned but always lets his “children” learn their own lessons.  In other words, Mr. Rourke would have shaken his head in dismay at John Hammond’s plan to clone dinosaurs, but he would not have stopped him.  Mr. Rourke believes in free will and destiny!  He is so deep!

There seemed to be very little Mr. Rourke could not provide, but one thing he made clear to his guests was that once the fantasy was set in motion, he would be unable to intervene. We were never 100% sure this was true; for example, he was once able to save Tattoo from a rather hare-brained exploit during a birthday fantasy gone horribly wrong.  But very much like the parent who says “If I let you get a dog, it will be your responsibility”, almost always he allowed people to experience the full consequence of their decisions. 

This was the delicious irony of the show:  people came to the island looking for an external intervention that would change life for the better, but more frequently learned it was the internal life that was the real problem.  Arrogance, aggression and abdication of personal responsibility always had the direst of outcomes.  Most of all, the guests were taught that if you are not okay with yourself to begin with, there is nothing you can add to your outside that will make it any better. 

Deep!

So Fantasy Island was right:  be careful what you wish for.  A myriad of studies has confirmed that once our basic needs are met, there is no dollar amount or success level that guarantees happiness.  We have all had the experience of having a dream-come-true that didn’t bring with it the satisfaction or joy we had imagined it would.  Like visitors to the island, we save our pennies and work towards our desires, often with eyes so firmly fixed on the end-game that we miss a lot of the fun in getting there. 

We all have our fantasies of how we would like life to be; fortunately, unlike the guests on the show, we have an infinite number of opportunities to course correct and re-prioritize.  The whole world can be your “fantasy island” if you remember to stop and smell the roses.  The late, great Iris Murdoch once wrote:  “People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.” 

So don’t wish your life away; become mad with joy NOW.  There are flowers everywhere.  And even a tropical drink, if you’d care for one. 

 

WHY IT'S NONE OF MY DAMN BUSINESS

So, unless you live under a rock and have an endless supply of food and drink there, chances are good at some point in the past few weeks you have happened upon a story about Caitlyn Jenner.  I have not personally read any of these stories, but the number I have happened upon is legion.  For the record, I admired Bruce Jenner when he was an Olympic athlete and I admire Caitlyn for living her truth.  Folks are trumpeting the coverage this woman is getting as “groundbreaking” and a triumph for transgender people everywhere.  But I perceive it a bit differently.  For me, what would be “groundbreaking” is if we just left the woman in peace and didn’t turn her life into some kind of circus side show.  Now, I do understand that Caitlyn courts the press; “Keeping up with the Kardashians” is a chapter of this person’s life I do not particularly admire, although to be fair, I have never seen it.  But from my point of view, Caitlyn has a perfect right to live her life now as a woman without questions or scrutiny.  I believe that her life is none of my damn business.

Obviously I am in minority here and I know a lot of people would want to argue with me about how good it is to have “the conversation” and how wonderful it is to live an open life.  These things are both true, but only up to a point.  I think a big problem in society in general is that we are having conversations about things that are none of our damn business.  Case and point:  a woman’s right to choose.  How did this become a topic for national debate?  How can it POSSIBLY be anyone’s business but the woman in question?  It boggles my mind to think there are people who feel within their right to make major, life altering decisions for someone they have never met.  It nearly paralyzes me to consider they think it is appropriate to legislate what is 100% a deeply personal, soul wrenching choice.  This is not a “Keep Your Laws Off of My Body” scenario for me…it is a keep-your-laws-as-far-away-from-my-heart–and-soul as possible thing.  A woman’s right to choose is the epitome of nobody’s damn business but her own.

Gay marriage is another subject that I believe is a non-subject.  When two consenting adults decide they want to make a legal commitment to each other, that is none of my damn business.  Why does anyone in the world believe they have the right to tell another person, most especially a stranger, who to marry?  The religious people who make ridiculous arguments for the sanctity of the institution need a serious reality check: marriage is what you make of it, nothing more and nothing less.  If people are allowed to marry and divorce multiple times, get hitched in Vegas on a whim, marry for legal status in the country, marry for financial security, marry for any reason other than the nonsensical belief that God has sanctified this particular union, then all arguments about whether or not gay marriage is right or proper are off the table.  A better argument can be made as to whether or not marriage itself is right and proper, IMHO.  But that is a topic for another day.  Today we are reminding ourselves that when two grown people decide to marry, it is none of our damn business.

Not to pick on Mark Zuckerberg, but I do think Facebook along with reality TV and omnipresent phones with cameras installed in them have fooled us all a little bit into thinking other people’s business is our own.  We are so up in each other’s trees, it is sometimes hard to stay grounded and maintain a healthy neutrality.  As for forming opinions about other people’s business, I am as guilty as anyone.  Long before the Duggar scandal broke, I was grumbling to anyone who would listen about these folks who apparently believe their genes are so superior they are out to single handedly populate the earth and somehow this narcissism makes them newsworthy.  Keeping in mind I never watched the show; it’s existence so irritated me that I started to believe the Duggar’s overactive sex glands were my business, because I was forced to hear about them against my will.  This leads me back to Caitlyn Jenner.  There is absolutely no avoiding her, so how many people will resent her merely for that, as I did the Duggar family?  The Duggar family is none of my damn business and I wish I had never heard of them.  Bet a few of their fans are feeling the same way nowadays. Being famous for being famous is insidious and simply courts scorn.  Ask Monica Lewinsky.

Familiarity breeds contempt, as anyone who is currently living their life in front of the camera knows.  We used to revere celebrity, but now those idols are being torn down as we are allowed to see more and more behind the masks.  This one has cellulite, that one has a drinking problem, this one’s marriage is crumbling…none of our damn business.  But the omnipresence and unavoidability of the information makes it seem otherwise.  No one and nothing is sacred anymore, and while on the face of it that may seem like progress, the reality is that we are all vulnerable to this kind of scrutiny.  Those cell phone cameras mean that your hangover, your bad mood, your bad hair day all have the potential to “go viral” against your will.  Victims are humiliated in their greatest moment of weakness, misguided children seeking approval are degraded in front of millions as it is all available for public consumption.  Lives are being ruined for nothing.  Because it really is none of our damn business.  Live and let live could be our salvation if we could tear ourselves away from the endless news cycle.  The next time you find yourself getting worked up about anything, gut check with this:  is it really any of my business?  I think we would all be a lot happier if we could agree that most often, it is not.

see this also on The Huffington Post: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kara-postkennedy/why-its-none-of-my-busine_b_7561774.html

 

WHY I AM A BAD SPORT

Everybody loves a “good sport”; those gracious playmates and teammates and friends who live in their own skin with such ease that nothing seems to faze them.  They roll with life’s punches, congratulate you on your win, go with the flow—not because they lack self-esteem or a competitive edge, but because they are so confident in their skill set that they can take life as it comes without being threatened.  Good sports totally rock!  And I am not one of them.  In fact, if there is such a thing as a “terrible sport”, that could be me.  I think it might, at least in my case, be an inborn trait, because I do not remember a time in my life when I was not a bad sport.  My very earliest memory in this world is of watching my older sister and brother playing outside in a massive snowfall; I had been deemed “too little” for the activity and in fairness to my Mom, I was not yet three.  But I remember exactly what my toddler brain was thinking as I watched my siblings frolicking in the cold:  “It’s not fair.”

Part of my attitude problem might be attributed to “nuture” as well…when you grow up in a house with a lot of kids and you are one of the smaller ones, you tend to become a “counter”.  I have noticed this phenomenon in other children as well, not just inborn bad sports like myself.  For an example, one of my favorite dinners growing up was my Mom’s chicken and dumplings.  I, however, could have lived without the chicken part.  It was those dumplings I craved:   yeasty lumps of culinary perfection (at least to the under-10 palette).   The minute Mom started scooping those divine dough balls out onto the plates, I started counting…would I get my fair share?  Or would my brother, who at the time was twice my age and size, get what was in my mind a disproportionate allocation of the bounty?  I’m certain you can guess the answer.  So I became a chronic counter, always fretting about whether or not I was getting my due.

This idea that I was “due” anything also contributed to my poor sportsmanship, because from a supernaturally early age I had a very clear sense of who I was, including the specifics of my likes and dislikes, and I genuinely believed that it was unfair to force me to do things I did not enjoy.  Fortunately for me, I enjoyed things like reading and school; I did not, however, enjoy sports.  And I come from a very sporty family.  This meant that I spent the vast majority of my brother’s illustrious career in both football and basketball under the bleachers putting slightly torn ketchup and mustard packets under the heels of enthusiastic spectators so they would go home with condiments on their pants cuffs.  Total bad sport behavior.  Worst part?  I enjoyed doing it!  Hand in hand with my dislike of sports was my dislike of most outdoor activities, especially when food was involved.  Picnics were a sheer insensible hell:  who would eat where flies and ants and spiders were free to crawl on you and your food when there are so many empty rooms with doors and window screens where you can eat in relative peace?  Needless to say, I spent many a family outing eating in the car.  Worst sport ever!

Then, when I was in high school, I was recruited to sell Cutco knives, as the fine people at Cutco had good, solid evidence to support their belief that high academic achievers also make great salespeople.  This evidence, in my case, turned out to be false.  Not only am I a bad sport, but I am a piss poor salesperson as well.  They are actually related, I have realized.  Because in spite of the fact that Cutco knives are TOTALLY AWESOME (30 years later, my “sample set” are still the only knives I need), I just didn’t have the gumption to try to convince people to buy them unless A) they were already in the market for knives and B) it would not present any kind of financial hardship to pay for them.  Because those knives are expensive; how else to justify sending teenagers door-to-door on a commission basis?  The Cutco people paired us off into sales teams and intuitively matched me up with another bad sport…she and I referred to ourselves as “The F*ck Up Division”.  We were never going to get rich selling anything to anybody.   Unless they really needed it and the price was right.  And we didn't have to go to their house to sell it to them.  We were useless.

Now I am a Mom, and my opportunities for poor sportsmanship have exploded! I am the chaperone with the attitude problem, the “soccer mom” who hikes on a nearby nature preserve rather than watch her son’s practice and the one who serves store bought cupcakes at a birthday party.   Last December I received a call from the school’s assistant Principal telling me my son had qualified to participate in the 4^th grade spelling bee and I was strongly encouraged to attend.  That night at the 4^th grade holiday concert (I sit in the way back so the good sport parents who are pretending the chorus doesn’t suck won’t see me chortling) I hunted down the family of another child I knew was in the competition.  My approach:  “Which one of you chumps is going to this spelling bee with me?”  The answer:  they would both be there, along with extended family.  They hoped there were enough seats!  “You can have all of mine”, I offered, but not in a good sport sort of way.  “I’m the only one I’m going to make watch 9 year olds SPELL WORDS.”

Somehow their enthusiasm did not clue me in to the fact that this was a big deal.  So I arrived, surly, on the Thursday before Christmas, grumbling about all the stuff I needed to get done before the holiday.  12 fourth graders were competing for the title, and I knew enough of the parents to engage in a little bad sport smack talk before the event.  “My kid is taking your kid DOWN!” I crowed, knowing full well that I had done nothing to help my child prepare and he likely would go out in the first round.  Everyone acted amused; I am pretty well known for my attitude problem and most good sports seem to take it in stride.  But then the unthinkable happened:  my son won.  Crap.  Now he was headed for the regionals.  As I watched the first runner up cry at his loss, I couldn’t help but think to myself:  WOW.  I am kind of an asshole.  So now I just own it:  I’m a bad sport.  This does not mean I do not have many other wonderful qualities; it just means good sportsmanship is not among them.  So when I roll my eyes and crumple up the chaperone request form for the kid’s 15^th field trip of the year, please understand:  like Lady Gaga, I was born this way.

WHY QUITTING DOES NOT MAKE YOU A "QUITTER"

I’m fairly certain I’m right about this, but it’s something I’m just working out myself, so bear with me.  Obviously, “quitting” is not part of the American credo, except when it’s in a “Take This Job and Shove It” kind of way.  And even then the preferable tactic would be to somehow take over the company you work for and fire your boss.  Woo-hoo, that’s inspirational…can I get an Amen, somebody?  Seriously, quitting pretty much anything is frowned upon across the board, even if it’s something that is actively causing you pain.  We are all hard-wired to “feel the burn” of our discomfort and sit in it like life is really an Iron Man competition in pain tolerance.  We stay in jobs, relationships and situations of all varieties that make us utterly miserable because we feel it is the “right thing to do”.  A nation of martyrs, we pride ourselves on our perseverance in the face of our own suffering.  Suffering builds character, right?  Good men (and women) don’t “leave”.

This is the premise many of us were raised with, so whenever we decide we have had enough (take-this-situation-and-shove-it) rather than acting on it, we often sit in a limbo.  A limbo of depression and anxiety; a limbo of inertia.  Because we believe we should be able to “fix” what ails us, we should be able to find the silver lining, look on the sunny side of things.  So wonderfully American of us, really!  In this limbo we struggle with our “failure” to fix or find or look in a way that can fool ourselves for any meaningful amount of time.  And the situation drags on.  We also have a great driving belief in Deus Ex Machina—the hand of God, the fortunate coincidence that rescues us from our misery.  If this intervention does not happen, then we think it is a sign that we are meant to maintain the status quo.  Trudging like good little soldiers through our own personal war zones, ever mindful of mines and the possibility of bombs dropping from the sky.  We live our lives in the trenches, waiting for the end of the war that is raging inside of us.  Do I want to be “good” and dutiful and steadfast, or do I want to be happy?

Obviously it all depends on what happiness means to us as individuals.  I definitely know people who are “happy” in their martyrdoms—they have a sense of righteousness and superiority.  I know people who absolutely LOVE to complain—in fact, some days I suspect I may be one of them.  It is a part of the human condition to brag a bit about our misery; believe me, I am on Facebook, so I should know.  But if you have a job, a home environment and some relationships that generally speaking bring you satisfaction, then generally speaking you are happy.  All petty complaints aside, you have a good life.  But if even one of these is seriously askew, then you are living in place of unnecessary suffering.  I hear people say that a divorce “ruined” their life and I wonder, would spending the rest of your life in an unhealthy, unhappy marriage have been preferable?  It might be good to challenge some of the beliefs we have about success, too.  If you make enough money to support you in a lavish lifestyle, but the stress or politics of that job are shredding your soul, is that an admirable life?  What is happiness?

I am asking these questions because this is all a part of my very own newly minted “mid-life crisis”.  I have never been a “quitter”.  I remained a Girl Scout until I graduated to the “Cadettes”, and then, even though I was new to the town, I was elected President of my troop!  Whenever I tell people this, the most common response I get BY FAR is “Wait…there are Cadettes?”  Ask any of my friends, I am one of the most IMPOSSIBLE to shake people who ever lived.  Kind of like Bob, in “What About Bob?”, I keep showing up until you just surrender and include me (or try to kill me).  Not to brag, but I also have some first rate head-banging-against-the-wall skills.  I can be quite touchingly optimistic about the efficacy of such behavior.  No, THIS TIME when I bang my head against the wall, it will REALLY get his/her attention!  Who was it that said the definition of insanity is repeating the same behaviors and expecting different results?  Color me insane, because I’m guilty as charged.

However, I have recently come to realize that all of my stick-to-it-ness and head banging is actually making me quite miserable.  I feel like a hamster in a wheel, or the Griswolds in “European Vacation” when they keep driving by Big Ben…at first things seemed okay, but now I realize I MAY BE IN HELL.  And this is what is making me consider that the old head-banging joke may be true:  it will feel really good when I stop.  I look at the people in my life who have “quit” things—jobs, marriages, social obligations, self-destructive behaviors, limiting belief systems—and I don’t see “quitters”.  I see incredibly brave people who took a stand for themselves, their health, their well-being and their futures, often in the face of judgment, often with the consequence of losing a support system, always with the chaos that major life changes bring.  These people are not “quitters”.  These people are heroes.  Change is the biggest, scariest part of life and they took it on, head first.  Maybe it's time to realize change is inevitable.  Maybe it’s time to realize quitting can be a triumph of growth and forward movement.  Maybe “quitters” are after all the bravest souls we have.

WHY I WANT YOU TO "LIKE" ME

Right now, anyone who really knows me is looking at that title and wondering, “Is there a guest blogger this week?”  I am not exactly famous for my people pleasing skills.  I am of the “everyone is entitled to my opinion” ilk and would not hesitate to call myself out on being obnoxious, albeit in a Cat in the Hat sort of way.  That is, I am obnoxious while I-hold-up-the-cup-and-the-milk-and-the-cake-and-these-books-and-the-fish-on-the-rake!  Kids love me!  But adults often just don’t know what to make of me, it’s true.  I’m whatever the opposite of passive aggressive is (aggressive passive?); confrontational and unwilling to abide with “unspoken tension” in my relationships.   This naturally means there is a great deal of spoken tension to contend with…but I believe in putting my cards on the table with a flourish.  If you like them, that’s great!  If you don’t, then we shouldn’t waste any more of each other’s time. 

So why, at this late date, have I decided I want you to “like” me?  And why am I putting “like” in quotes?  One word, my friends and my “friends”:  FACEBOOK.  That moment I have been dreading since I saw “The Social Network” has finally arrived; after years of swearing it would never happen, I finally broke down and joined the Facebook.  And to be blunt (I usually am—one of my many unpleasing characteristics) my primary motivation for doing so was to chase down those previously uninteresting “likes” for my articles on the Huffington Post, which btw have proven quite difficult to come by.  Facebook is not for sissies!  My earnest plea for a click on the “thumbs up” icon is often quickly drown out by work troubles, cute kid/animal pictures, nostalgic flashbacks, funny cartoons and all manner of assorted stimuli.  People can be very cutthroat when gunning for position on your timeline, and my articles are no match for new babies, political outrage and awesome videos of Barbra Streisand singing Burt Bacharach.  No match at all.

I think a big part of the reason I have been resistant to Facebook is that one of the ways in which fortune has blessed me has always been my friends.  I have been insanely, stupidly lucky to meet and bond with some of the most incredible people I could ever have hoped for; I am not only a friend but a fan to all of them.  I know sublime musicians, brilliant academics, gifted healers, powerful activists, supernaturally talented performers, artists, writers, world class teachers and just damn fine people, to name a few.  I often feel like the proverbial kid in the candy store—can all this be for me?  I am privileged and flattered by my friendships and feel very content in that.  Also:  in spite of my big mouthed blogging habit, I do not consider myself a personality suited for mass consumption.  I am very much a one-on-one person; how better to distract you from my insufferable opinions than hopping-on-a-ball-while-I-fan-with-a-fan? So, I thought, who needs Facebook? 

But then something happened.  My puny little blog with its loyal but possibly disturbed followers started being picked up by the Huffington Post.  Of course this had been my goal all along, and initially I was delighted.  But delight quickly changed to panic as I realized I now had to somehow “drum up business” for my articles.  I e-mailed pretty much everyone I had ever met and begged them to click that “like” button, all the while realizing the hypocrisy of my request.  I wasn’t clicking any “like” buttons for them, why should they exercise the power of the mouse (or touchscreen) on my behalf?  So after two attempts to start a grassroots campaign I had to concede defeat…I needed a “social network” to help me climb out of the sub-basement at Huff Po and that was that.  With a pit in my stomach I enlisted a neighbor to help me set up my page.  And life will never be the same again.  Like having a baby, Facebook changes everything.

I thought I would hate Facebook.  I was right.  I hate the way it makes me feel, like I am in a foreign country with no understanding of the language and customs.  I also “like” Facebook.  Because it has put me back in touch with some people who make me very happy and every day gives me some reason or another for a good laugh or cry or whatever it is my soul is seeking.  When my friend Joseph, who has been badgering me to join since day one, saw that I had finally broken down, he posted on my timeline:  “Welcome to hell”.  It is sort of a hell for me, a person who stopped caring if people “like” me a long time ago.   But still a person who is not actively seeking a rumble; I wouldn’t actually fly kites in your house, as tempting as that sounds.    I learned to trust rejection a long time ago—some people are my people and some are not and that is all good.

So while I am slowly trying to adjust to this new normal, the horrible futility of begging after those elusive “likes”, I am finding something strange and possibly wonderful is happening.  I am sitting so far outside my comfort zone that I might as well be in outer space, observing my home planet through a telescope.  And, not unlike the astronauts, I am noticing for the first time how small it is.  And thinking for the first time that maybe all of my ball-hopping and cake-balancing is not so much an over-extension of my obnoxious personality, but rather an attempt to make up for it?  Ironically, my last article on Huffington Post went over like lead bricks, so I started the e-mail campaign again, owning to each recipient that it is obnoxious that I keep doing this.  One friend said “Stop beating yourself up!”  Another said, “Stop apologizing!”  And here’s the truth:  I didn’t realize I was until they pointed it out.

I don’t know if I will ever truly “like” Facebook.  I just don’t feel as if I have the right temperament for it.  Yes, I am reconnecting with some wonderful people from my past and that is a good thing.  Also…I am connecting with some new people and finding out the truth—you really can never have “too many” friends.  I am amazed at how touched I am by this little window into people’s lives and how generous so many of them are about sharing themselves.  But here’s the most important part:  it is teaching me that expanding my comfort zone is a both necessary and positive change.  It is making me a little braver…possibly a lot braver, to be honest.  Maybe it’s time to get off that ball and put down the rake and just be myself.  Maybe finally I am not “saving it for the librarians”—and if you get that joke, it has all been worth it.