The Peace In Bartleby’s “I Would Prefer Not To”

“Blessed are the high in agency for they have done enough already.” ~taken from The Book of the Firstborn, probably

Three weeks ago, my sister sent me this video about finding the high agency people in your life. In the video, one gentleman asks another whom he would call for help if he were trapped in a South American jail and were to be transferred in 24 hours to an undisclosed location. He explained a high-agency person is someone who can think on their own, without instructions, and solve problems at a very high level under pressure very quickly. My sister added this comment to the video: “You are this person. You should know that most of your friends would feel the same way. This is a high compliment and you should feel really good about yourself.” I watched the video, read her comment, and realized it didn’t sit with me the way I knew she intended it to. I responded with a laugh and then said, “I think that most of the people who would be chosen for this job would be first-born daughters.” Perhaps taking my comment as self-effacing and dismissive of my skills, she replied the “only response necessary is yep. I’m awesome.” I decided to let it go at that.

The exchange has been lodged in my mind ever since, though, due to my visceral, real-time reaction to that video. It was an emphatic inner voice saying, “Yes. I could be that person but no thank you.” There was a time in my not-too-distant past when I might have received that video and corresponding accolades and felt quite honored to be someone else’s chosen savior in a tough situation. I don’t feel that way anymore, though. Thousands of hours of therapy have helped me understand I have some deep-seated issues around constantly being called on to be the adult in the room, to be the one who makes things run smoothly, the one who steps back from her own tasks to ensure everyone else is taken care of and not inconvenienced. This is not to imply that I have never been selfish because I certainly have. Who hasn’t? But my reaction was inner me finally standing up and saying, “I’m finished looking out for others at my own expense.” I would most certainly help my sister if she called me from a South American jail. I’m simply now, more than ever, finding myself capable of telling others to be accountable for their choices and figure out their own shit. It’s a small measure of heretofore unimaginable success for me.

Some people who are high agency might be so because they were required at a young age to be the adult they were not. Some people who are high agency might be so because they were taught they had no intrinsic value outside of service to others. Not everyone who is high agency loves being called on to help in every situation. Some of us are struggling trying to deal with our own crap but aren’t skilled at saying no just yet. We may not yet have learned to channel Melville’s Bartleby-the-Scrivener-level attitude of “I would prefer not to.” It’s admirable to be high agency, but being high agency for others without being high agency for yourself first will lead to burn out, regret, and bitterness. Every mother who has survived a holiday season knows this.

So this holiday season, if you have high agency people in your life upon whom you call regularly, maybe consider giving them a break and not contacting them for assistance. Yes. The holidays are stressful and you could probably use their help, but maybe give them the gift of unburdening instead. And, all you high agency people, you know who you are. Please also know it’s okay for you not to respond to someone else’s emergency, especially when you are overwhelmed yourself. It’s not only acceptable but advisable to tell the relative who is flying out to see you for the holidays and asking a gazillion unnecessary questions of you to check tsa.gov for airport security information and weather.com for updated forecasts. You don’t have to take it all on. And if someone calls you from a South American prison, maybe you choose to help them or maybe you tell them perhaps they shouldn’t have ended up in one in the first place and wish them the best.

Posted on 10/12/2024 by Me

Eat The Rich

Yesterday morning, I happened upon a story about Mark Zuckerberg. I am not a fan of Zuckerberg on the best of days. I use Facebook only to share my Wordle score with a friend group and to relay my blog posts to my friends who use the site. I go back and forth on whether the platform has any redeeming value, most of the time erring on the side that says we’d probably be happier humans if it had never come into existence. At any rate, the story I saw reported that Mark Zuckerberg had a 7-foot-tall statue of his wife created. It linked to the Instagram post where Mark revealed his exorbitant gesture of love.

It’s difficult to encapsulate the ways this post bothered me, but I am going to try. First, there’s the casual fashion in which Zuckerberg attempts to make commissioning a statue of his wife into some relatable gesture by posting it to Instagram. Because, of course, the average Insta user is going to see the post and think, “Wow. What a thoughtful, loving husband.” (Insert vigorous eye roll here.) Second, Zuckerberg has zero concept that invoking a tradition associated with the elite Roman class might be ill advised at a time when many feel our own democracy is falling like Rome itself fell. And how tone deaf is it to brag cavalierly about a statue you’ve had created in honor of your wife at a time when people are struggling to afford gas, groceries, and housing? Not certain we needed the cogent reminder of wealth disparity in our country. I think the majority of us are well aware of it, thank you very much.

As an upper middle class, white woman in suburbia, I have my fair share of privilege. For our anniversary this year, my husband sent me a floral arrangement with 29 long-stemmed red roses, and I posted about it on Instagram because, while he regularly brings me flowers, he has rarely sent them to me. He did it this year only because we were apart on our anniversary for only the second time in nearly three decades. I do know the funds it took to purchase the roses could have provided a week’s worth of groceries to a small family. I get it. I’m no monument to justice, and I can understand how someone might feel the same way about those roses that I felt when I saw that statue. But if 29 long-stemmed roses could provide a week’s worth of groceries for a struggling family, how many families could the money used for that statue of Priscilla provide? Some will argue he earned his wealth and should be able to do with it as he sees fit. And, honestly, I don’t begrudge him the luxury of being able to fund such a grand gesture as much as I find it unhinged to assume posting about it on social media would make him look like a good guy. What could he have been thinking? With so many barely scraping by right now, it felt a little, well, “Let them eat cake”-ish.

Though the whole display left a sour taste in my mouth, I’m empathetic enough to understand Mark has perhaps lost some grasp on reality with the attainment of his prodigious wealth. There are roughly 800 billionaires in the United States, and approximately 85% of them are white men. Imagine the mental disconnect that must accompany being one of 800 people who collectively hold nearly 4% of US wealth while the bottom half of Americans, approximately 167 million, hold only 2.5% of the nation’s wealth. Possessing the financial resources to buy 1,400 acres of ancestral land on Kauai for the purpose of establishing a family compound complete multiple houses, treehouses, and a 5,000 square foot underground bunker might make one more than a bit removed from reality. This is the American dream, though, isn’t it? The notion that hard work can lead to a life of ease and luxury? This is precisely what capitalism promotes.

I have to wonder, though, at what point the other 332,999,200 of us will decide we’ve had enough of this shit. Are we even capable of becoming appalled rather than fascinated by this nation’s billionaires? Where do we draw the line with wealth and decide too few possess too much? Or is it simply part of the destiny of a free, capitalist society to escort us to where we are? Will the gross display of billionaire excess ever tip us towards a revolution away from capitalism? Will we prove the musings of Jean Jacques Rousseau correct, that “when the people run out of adequate sustenance, they will eat the rich”? If we do get to that point, I’m gonna guess the native Hawaiians might be the first to climb the six foot wall around Zuckerberg’s compound and approach him with a fork.

(Editor’s note: I am, in no way, promoting cannibalism. I just found Rousseau’s statement to be food for thought.)

Posted on 21/08/2024 by Me 1

What Happens When You Don’t Buy The Damn Shoes

Almost two years ago, I wrote here about a pair of Betsey Johnson, ruby-red heels I tried on in a DSW store. I thought they were amazing and was publicly debating the practicality of purchasing shoes I might only wear a couple times, if that. The proposition seemed, at best, frivolous and, at worst, appalling given the number of people in this world who have no place warm to sleep tonight. In the end, my logical brain (with its finely honed “who do you think you are/get over yourself, old woman” mantra) decided against those lovely red shoes. I’ve kicked myself a little over that decision every day since then. Not because I’ve had a plethora of occasions when what I needed to complete my grocery-store-trek ensemble was a pair of bedazzled, high-heeled ruby shoes, but because in not buying them I reinforced the message to myself that I don’t deserve to follow my heart or whims or treat myself like I merit being shiny and extra sometimes.

The other day, I did this thing though, which I think provides proof of growth. I hit the purchase-now button and had these rhinestone-encrusted cowboy booties, another Betsey Johnson creation, sent to me. My entire life, I’ve been a fairly conservative dresser. I’ve been big on neutrals and classic, preppy silhouettes in clothing. Mainly because I’m practical and lazy and I know neutrals interchange beautifully, but also because those items allowed me to go unnoticed in most situations. So, you have to know I bought these booties with a specific occasion in mind.

As soon as they arrived at my house, though, the doubts began to creep in. Did I really need these? Was I seriously going to wear them in public? Had I lost my freaking mind? I admired them, tried them on, and told myself quietly, “I’ve just wasted our money.” I took them off, returned the paper wad to the toe and the foam form to the boot shaft, placed them back in their protective sleeves, and positioned them neatly in the box with a firm plan to send them back. Then a curious thing happened. I told myself to think about it and sit with them for a while. So, I left them on my son’s bed in my temporary office, for days. I would walk by them, take one of out of the box, smile at it, then put it right back where I found it. Yesterday morning, though, I did something different. Instead of putting them back, I put them on right over my Smartwool socks. I decided I was going to walk around in them for a bit and see how I felt wearing them around the house. Well, I felt pretty damn good. Never mind that I was wearing fleece-lined leggings and my Buffalo Bills sweatshirt with them. Even with that, I felt rather sassy. So I wore them for a few hours like that and became one with them. And in one last act of utter defiance against my practical mind, I put on Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” and danced in them. Yes. I. Did.

The boots are mine now. I gave them an honored space inside the closet. I’m not sure when I will be wearing them, but I will be wearing them, even if it’s just to dance around in my house. You gotta start somewhere. And, lest you think this subtle act of wardrobe rebellion is a one-off, I should probably let you know I also purchased a sequined jacket yesterday. That’s right. I think I’m entering my Extra Shiny Era. It appears I am finished being a wallflower. You’d best get out of my way. Next time this Colorado gal needs to kick someone who is throwing shade her shiny-ass way, she’s gonna be doing it with bejeweled, pointy-toed hardware, and that’ll leave a mark.

“You’ve always had the power, my dear. You just had to learn it for yourself.” ~Glinda, the Good Witch, The Wizard of Oz

Posted on 16/01/2024 by Me 2

From The Ashes Rises The Phoenix

I haven’t been writing much lately. When asked, I’ve struggled to understand or explain why. Writing has always been my go-to, the place I land when I need to work through feelings. Last year I went under, and many times I thought I might turn to writing to get me through it. I didn’t though because I was weary from hearing myself lament about my myriad demons and why they were there and why I didn’t think I could let them go. In the end, extricating myself from long-term relationships, relationships that had swept me up and held me like remnants of roofing swirling in a tornado, brought me to the peace I had sought for years. Sometimes you have to walk away from people to find yourself. I knew what I needed to do. I wasn’t sure I could do it until I did. Every day since those disentanglements, my world has grown clearer, my heart happier.

I find I am not the person I thought I was. Never thought it was possible, but now I openly cry when I listen to a song that reaches my heart. I dance around and act silly, even when people are watching. I say no when I feel I should. I attempt new things despite knowing I might fail. I’m no longer paralyzed by fear of ridicule or disdain. I’m honest, all the time. I don’t take myself seriously because I’m not worried about being palatable to people. It took me far too long to appreciate that anyone I care about who wants me to be different, smaller, or less isn’t worth keeping, no matter what our relationship is or how long we’ve been in each other’s lives. I have no regrets about cutting those ties, and I don’t care who judges me for walking away to save myself. I see and appreciate my value now. There is nothing that could make me go back.

Last weekend I went with some friends to the symphony for a performance of the soundtrack to Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. The movie played on a screen above the orchestra. During the speaking parts, the orchestra was silent. Then they played John Williams’ moving soundtrack in perfect time to make the movie experience seamless.

One scene has stuck with me since that viewing last weekend, a scene I had long forgotten about. Harry is in Professor Dumbledore’s office and is the only one in the room when a rather scraggly-looking Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, bursts into flames. Harry is beside himself, wondering what he did to cause the bird’s demise. Dumbledore tells Harry:

“Phoenixes burst into flames when it’s time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy burdens. Their tears have healing powers.”

And that is when I realized where I am now and why I haven’t been writing. I’m in my Phoenix Era. I carried immensely heavy burdens in my heart since my childhood. Eventually, I got to the place where I couldn’t shoulder them anymore. Like Fawkes, I was withered and scraggly and needed to die to be reborn again. So I set my life on fire and ended in a pile of ashes full of possibility. My tears fall readily now as I heal myself. I haven’t been writing because I’ve been experiencing my regrowth. I’m rising from the ashes. There will be plenty to write about when I’m whole again and take flight.

“And just as the Phoenix rose from the ashes, she too will rise. Returning from the flames, clothed in nothing but her strength, more beautiful than ever before.” — Shannen Heartzs

Posted on 14/01/202416/01/2024 by Me

I Am A Lot, And That Is Just Right

She was never right. About anything. She was the wrong size. She was too loud. She was too needy. She was too talkative. She was too naive. She was too silly. She was too weak. She was too smart. She wasn’t smart enough. She was selfish. She was careless. She was obnoxious. She took up too much space. She was all the things she wasn’t supposed to be and, no matter how hard she tried, she remained none of the things she was told she should be. And so she carried around the bottle labeled “Drink Me” and drank she did until she shrank and to the right dimension to squeeze through doors that led to someone else’s ideas and expectations of her. She never questioned if she should be trying to fit through those doors. She never thought about herself, what she wanted, what she deserved. She simply grew smaller and smaller until there was hardly anything left of her at all.

Then, after years of shriveling and sacrificing the best of herself to those who would never believe she was perfect as is, she had a revolutionary thought. There was more than one way to grow smaller. She could stop trying to be everything to everyone except herself. She could put down the “Drink Me” bottle and leave. And as she peeled out, she did become smaller to those who had wanted just that of her. She gazed into the sideview and read, “Objects in the mirror are larger than they appear.” She regarded her reflection there and recognized that with each mile she put between herself and those who didn’t appreciate her for who she was, she was growing larger.

For a split second as their figures grew smaller in the rearview, she thought she felt a pang of regret about leaving those people behind. Then she thought, “Nah,” and kept driving.

“I think I’ve been too good of a girl
Did all the extra credit, then got graded on a curve
I think it’s time to teach some lessons
I made you my world, have you heard?
I can reclaim the land”

~Taylor Swift

Posted on 04/01/2024 by Me 2

Momentary Placidity Amid The Noise

When I was preparing to feed the dogs this morning, I walked past our Google hub and read the US had bombed Iranian-based targets in Syria in retaliation for drone attacks on US military bases. It was 6 am, far too early to consider more bad news from the Middle East. It was too early for my brain to engage, period. I shook my head hoping, like an Etch A Sketch screen, my brain would wipe that image clean and I could begin my day again with a blank slate

Disease, wars, random acts of violence, floods, famines, fires, mental and physical abuse, rape, racism, hatred, and all manner of horrific events that challenge our mental fortitude have been around as long as we have. Back in the day, however, we weren’t troubled instantly and incessantly with negative information. Bad news used to take a while to reach us, by foot, by boat, by train, by Pony Express, by hand-delivered telegraph. While bad news is not new news, bad news presented to us 24/7, 365 days per year is. This new paradigm of instantaneous news is untenable. Our brains haven’t been afforded enough time to adapt to our fast-moving present. Consider the soaring rates of anxious and depressed children and the number of people on anti-anxiety and antidepressant medication (myself included). Omnipresent negativity is unhealthy. Full stop. And, yes, you can rid yourself of your iPad, your phone, your smart watch, and your Alexa, but the bad news will find ways to reach you through word of mouth. It’s inescapable.

After shaking myself free of all the truly shitty news I’ve processed this week (really, this month, this year, these past few years), my brain dredged up a few comforting lines from Desiderata by Max Ehrmann. So I went back to read it in its entirety. It brought me a measure of peace. Perhaps you too might find the words provide a positive, if ephemeral, reset. Go ahead. Shake that Etch A Sketch clean for a moment. The next bad news will always be there. Choose to take it in teaspoonsful and go placidly amid the noise and haste.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Posted on 27/10/2023 by Me

My Life The Cone Zone

Depression is your body saying “I don’t want to be this character anymore. I don’t want to hold up this avatar you’ve created in a world that’s too much for me.” Deep rest. Deep rest. Your body needs to be depressed. It needs deep rest from the character that you’ve been trying to play. ~Jim Carrey

I have been on a journey for a number of years now, sorting through my past, coming to terms with the reality of it, and working to find a better way forward. Along the way, I’ve written about it here, in my not-so-private confessional. I’ve written about it enough that I got sick of hearing myself, and I figured anyone who reads this probably was getting sick of it too. So I took a break. I spent years in depression without being able to (or willing to) recognize it. Last December, I hit rock bottom. I acknowledged that I was, and had been, living in a high-functioning depression for years. I suppose it began sometime around summer 2018 when my youngest sister was diagnosed with breast cancer. Today she received news that her 5-year MRI was clear. So I guess we’re both breathing a little easier now, slowly clawing our way to some greater sense of peace.

In late January, I began taking an antidepressant. I haven’t written as often about my mental health since then, partially to give everyone a break from my whinging and partially to focus on pulling myself up out of the hole I’d fallen into. The antidepressant has most certainly helped. It didn’t make everything instantly better, but I didn’t expect it to. It’s been like getting on an e-bike. I am capable of pedaling on my own, but having an assist makes climbing the hills much easier and faster.

Through the weekly EMDR and cognitive behavioral therapy sessions I’ve been doing for years, I’ve learned how to set boundaries. I’ve walked away from people and relationships that were stalling my forward progress. I’ve reduced my tendency to overthink. I’m becoming kinder to myself. And the compassion I’ve been giving to myself is creating more space for compassion for others. I’m also allowing others to sit with their disappointment about my choices (adults can do that, I’m told) rather than sacrificing my own mental well being to placate them. I am more level now, more present in the moment. None of this is meant to imply I’m fully out of my depression or no longer need my assist. I’m not there yet. I have, however, entered a new phase, one where I can accept my shortcomings and mistakes without letting the knowledge of their existence break me. It’s not easy, but it’s happening. I’ve found some room for rational thought in situations that would have sent me into a downward spiral in the past. I’ve reduced the number of quixotic battles I willingly take up. My duffle bag of fucks has become a change purse. I care less what other people think about my life because I understand they have no business having an opinion on something they know nothing about. I feel much lighter.

While my wistful heart wishes I could have arrived at this place decades ago, I’m happy to be here now. I’m grateful I was born with a penchant for self-improvement. I’m grateful for the challenges of my youth because they made me curious enough to seek another path and strong enough to fight my way here. My mind is still a construction zone with cones and signs marking potholes and uneven pavement. I know the work I continue will be not unlike the never-ending road construction in Denver. But now I appreciate that the road work, while frustrating and slow, means change is happening.

My struggles have been well documented here over the years. We could map my stops and starts, highs and lows, chart my progress and wonder at it together. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but it is something for sure.

You have to stop apologizing for being who you are because someone may not like it. You were not created to water yourself down to fit the molds of other’s expectations. Nor were you born into this world to follow everyone else without making your own waves. The powerful thing about you is that no one else is like you or could ever be you. So stand out in that. Be everything that you are, and don’t you dare apologize for it. ~Kayil York

Posted on 17/07/2023 by Me 3

Mode Push: The 2023 Monaco Grand Prix

We got into F1 racing the way the most Americans have and in the most American way possible. We watched the Netflix series, F1: Drive to Survive. We began watching in January of 2022. I became way more entrenched in the sport than I ever imagined. I chose a favorite team. It’s Scuderia Ferrari. (I am a fan of the Buffalo Bills, so I am accustomed to cheering for an underdog.) I zeroed in on a couple favorite drivers, Charles LeClerc and Carlos Sainz. I didn’t choose them because they were the current leaders. I chose them because they seemed like good, solid guys, not unlike Josh Allen and Jim Kelly. We got an F1 TV membership and began watching the races on race day. I have followed along with live updates of qualifying sessions and have watched races on my phone when I wasn’t near a television. I have woken up multiple times at 5 a.m. to watch a race happening across the globe in real time. I may have issues. There is so much more I have yet to learn about the sport, but I’m hooked.

Years ago, my youngest sister told us for her 50th she wanted to experience the Monaco Grand Prix, and it was her wish we would join her in this adventure. We started researching and saving. Last fall, I got online an snatched up grandstand seats for us. Then I secured lodging in Nice because, well, we aren’t A-list celebrities with A-list bank accounts who can stay in Monaco. I bought some Ferrari merch. We were really going to do this. On May 25th, two days before my 55th birthday, we landed in France, F1 tickets in hand.

It’s not easy to encapsulate what happens in Monaco on Grand Prix weekend. The city state of Monaco, encompassing an area of land roughly 60% the size of New York’s Central Park, swells from 37k residents to roughly 200k people. DJs pump club tunes through speakers. It’s not a place for agoraphobics or claustrophobics. Myriad fans in all their team paraphernalia follow signs through winding, fenced passageway and, in some cases, over recently constructed bridges over the race track, to reach the grandstands. Each grandstand offers a unique vantage point of the race. Ear plugs are a wise choice. I got the chills the first time I heard the cars in the midst of their first practice. I could not believe I was actually there. None of us could. The race is iconic. The location is beautiful. The yachts are plentiful. The mix of languages being spoken is mind boggling. The excitement is palpable everywhere you walk.

My husband and I attended two practices and qualification to prepare ourselves for race day.

Video from Free Practice 2 on May 26th (Grandstand L)

Between the driver’s parade and the race, Steve and I decided the Monaco Grand Prix experience would not be complete without some libations. We noticed you could purchase an entire bottle of champagne. Done, thank you very much. With paper cups and straws in hand, we texted our group our shaded location and told them to hurry. We started pouring and when everyone had a cup we tried to made a toast to commemorate our day. A woman who was standing nearby offered to take our group photo. Okay. That happens all the time, right? Well, this particular woman wasn’t just a kind onlooker. She was a gem, the kind of person my sisters and I would love to be friends with in real life back home, bold, hysterical, and smart as a whip. We stood conversing with her for a while after she took the photo, learning she was at the race with her daughter and husband. She’s from Virginia. We gabbed and giggled with her like we were long-lost friends. We gave her a cup and asked her name. She told us we would never forget it. She was right. Blythe was fabulous. Before she went back to her husband and daughter, I asked if she’d be willing to be in a photo with us. Of course she would. Sometimes I really do love Americans. We promised we would toast to her for the remainder of our trip and we did. Each night we raised our glasses and toasted Blythe, the kind stranger who became an instant friend.

As for the race itself, F1 fans will tell you Monaco is not the most exciting race on the calendar. It is a narrow road circuit and passing is risky in the few places where it is possible. Two-time World Champion and current 2023 championship leader, Max Verstappen, started on pole position and with the fastest car on the grid was basically assured a victory. I watched Carlos and Charles, hoping one of them would make it onto the podium at the end of the race. A little more than halfway through the race, Max was well ahead of his closest competition. We’re talking like 17 seconds ahead. Max would whiz by and what felt like an eternity would pass until the next driver appeared. Max was stomping the competition like they were buildings in Tokyo and he was was Godzilla. We began to pray for rain to make things more interesting. About ten laps later, the sky opened up. Boy-Scout-level-prepared, I had ponchos for all six of us. We donned them, sat in the stands while the rain fell steadily, and watched driver’s slip around the Tabac Corner. Despite a few incidents among other drivers, Max won again to the delight of many fans in the crowd.

When the race was over and the cars were taking their final lap, the yachts in the harbor began sounding their horns. It was something else. While the race had not gone the way I hoped, the experience of the Monaco Grand Prix was everything I’d hoped for.

Celebration at the end of the race

It’s never lost on me how fortunate I am to have “once-in-a-lifetime” experiences filling my memories. Swimming through the Green Grotto at Capri, hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, being close enough to an elephant in Tanzania to see her eyelashes, watching a blue-footed booby interact with my sons in the Galapagos Islands, witnessing a sunrise on Haleakala. The older I get, the more I am able to be present in these experiences and the more I understand how precious they are. I see so many people today in amazing locations and at impressive events, not noticing and experiencing, but preening and posing for photos they will share to prove they were there. I saw tons of them in Monaco, with an entourage filming an experience they were not really having, only documenting. We’ve become so obsessed with creating FOMO with our myriad selfies and our constant filming and posting that we don’t often recognize we may be the ones missing out.

Posted on 09/06/2023 by Me

Side Roads

A couple months ago, I started posting to my Instagram story every day. My Gen Z sons told me years ago that “posting to Insta more than once a day makes you look desperate.” I assume they meant for attention, and I get that. Later, they told me about comedian Bo Burnham’s stand up, and I discovered White Woman’s Instagram and I felt a little seen. I even wrote a blog post about it. Since then, I’ve been careful about how often and what I post, lest I seem like more of a cliché of an upper middle class white woman. I mean, I drive a Tesla, have an espresso machine I use daily, and have posted photos of a charcuterie board and a Nicoise salad. What can I say? I am a white woman with an Instagram account.

As a way to still engage on Instagram without posting photos of latte art and golden retrievers wearing flower crowns, I started posting memes to my story every day. I’ve been doing this for a couple months now. I’ve been collecting memes on my iPhone for years. Some are funny. Some are inspiring. Some are political. Some are observations about our culture. Many are laced with swear words. They all reflect me in some way, either because I agree with what is said, I reflect what is said, I have said what is said, or I just have that twisted of a sense of humor. This was today’s post:

I’ve had a couple friends today tell me that they don’t necessarily agree with this sentiment. If you take it literally, I suppose this could be not a great statement. I mean, if you’re being mugged, perhaps you are in the wrong place and there is no right way to look at it. But I didn’t take it down that road. I get something different from this saying.

Too often in life we wind up in a situation not of our choosing. Something we worked for or wanted is no longer available. When we’re in that place, it’s easy to be negative about it, to feel sorry for ourselves. We might become angry and frustrated. We might give up. These are all choices. We could just as easily decide, “Well, this is something. Wonder where this will take me?” And then be patient with life and see what new things arise from the ashes of what we feel we’ve lost. Or we could say to ourselves, “Nope. This is unacceptable.” Then we can work to transition ourselves back onto, or at least closer to, the path we wanted to take.

I’ve been guilty many times of giving into the negativity. I’ve blamed others for my situation. I’ve blamed myself, telling myself I was not worthy of what I missed out on. This is ridiculous. All I needed at the time was a change in attitude. Looking back, there were many times when I did not get what I wanted or thought I wanted. In all of those instances, as I reflect back, I can see now the beauty in being denied what I was so eager to have. A lot of the things I missed out on led me to a situation more appropriate for me in some way, more in line with who I am and not who I thought I wanted to be. My life story is a tale of many disappointments I am grateful for. I just didn’t look for and couldn’t see the beauty of the plot twists at the time.

I’m still working to cultivate a patient approach to life, one that allows me the time and space to be curious rather than judgmental. I’m not sure I will ever be thrilled when the record starts skipping and I have to pick up the needle and move it to the next groove, but if you’d asked me at 24 if at 54 I would have the life I have now, I can tell you I couldn’t have imagined it. Like Maya Angelou, though, I “wouldn’t take nothing for my journey now.” It may have taken me a little longer to gain consciousness from the stupor of my past than I would have liked, but I am here now. Who knows if I would have made it to this place without all the side roads I had to travel to arrive here?

Posted on 03/05/2023 by Me 3

Not Too Big or Too Small Or Too Hard Or Too Soft: A Tale Of Accepting I’m Just Right

“Only a few find the way, some don’t recognize it when they do — some…don’t ever want to.” ~Cheshire Cat

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll’s famous novel, reminds me of my experience in life. No. I’ve never met a grinning Cheshire Cat, although I would like to. I do, however, know how it feels to be disoriented, awkward, and entirely uncomfortable in my skin like Alice was. It’s how I’ve lived most of my life. Alice, as you may recall, drank some potion and shrunk her way into Wonderland and then ate some cake and grew so big she didn’t fit there anymore. In my case, someone I cared about would criticize my physical appearance, personal tastes or beliefs, or general demeanor, and I drank it in and got small. I began tiptoeing through my life, lest I be stepped on by larger creatures who appeared to have their lives together. What if I said or did something that proved how intolerable and unlovable I was? Other times, someone would acknowledge the good in me and I would greedily ingest it. Feeling bigger than usual, I would dare to be my true self with others, only to leave the interaction feeling I had occupied too much space. What if I’d bored them by talking too much while saying nothing interesting? Defeated, I would shrink again, caught in the same relentless pattern. One step forward, two steps back, slogging my way through my life, feeling forever out of place like Alice.

Somewhere deep inside, though, I knew the premise that I was the only scratch-and-dent model around was ridiculous. Maybe others were just better at displaying themselves in a way that minimized their flaws? Maybe they’d already worked on their parts so they were left with just a few scratches? I wanted to believe I was and I am fine as is. No adjustments necessary. Sure. Some people might wish I would speak out and stand up for myself more or just stop whining about feeling invisible. Other people might wish I would sit down and shut up so someone else could get a word in. But none of that was ever a me problem. Other’s opinions of me are none of my business, and shrinking myself to avoid judgment is not what I am here to do. I’m here to live my life and to be true to myself, no matter how many dings I’ve got. To achieve this, I going to have to leave my Alice analogy and walk myself into a different story, one I haven’t even considered occupying before.

After all, I’ve been Alice. I ate the cake and drank the potion. I became bigger and smaller to fit other’s narratives. What if, instead of being Alice, I take a shot at being Goldilocks? I can decide what to eat and in what type of chair to eat it. Maybe I will conclude I like my porridge cold because it’s basically overnight oats? Being Goldilocks and boldly choosing what I want in my life might move me quite a few steps toward Zero Fucks Given Road. It’s exhausting not being authentic, though, and I am tired of making slow progress toward self-acceptance. It’s time to practice wild and radical self-love. I can’t be Alice or Goldilocks. I can only be me. Yes. I am talkative. I can be defensive. I overthink everything. (Ask me how many times I pack and unpack and repack a suitcase before a trip only to end up with more than I need but nothing I want.) But, I am also curious, adventurous, determined, clever, and a little feisty, in the fun way. It’s what I am, the good and the bad, different and yet the same as every other human on the planet. So I will stop spending time with those who treat me as a tedious chore to be endured or a spouting fire hydrant to be capped. I will quit editing myself to fit into other people’s narratives. If I’m not Alice and I’m not Goldilocks, it’s about time I become my own protagonist.

“Damn. Somebody ate my porridge all up.” ~Baby Bear (probably)

Posted on 26/04/2023 by Me 3

Live Now and Zen

Because even when it seems like a gag gift, the present is still a gift