Nothing Lasts Forever…Except That Tattoo

My tattoo..if I ever get one.

My amazing sister-in-law is turning 50 in a few weeks. A couple days ago, out of the blue, she texted Steve and told him she had gotten a tattoo. This was a shock. Such a shock, in fact, that his initial response was a simple but appropriate, “What? And where?” He had no idea she was considering a tattoo. Apparently she shocked herself by doing it. We haven’t yet inquired as to her sudden motivation to bear a lotus flower on her forearm. (I blame that on shock too.)

Hubby and I have debated off and on ever since we’ve known each other about whether we should get tattoos. So far, we’re still uninked. Many of our friends have them, and now all three of our siblings do. About fourteen years ago, we discussed it after meeting our now good friends Robb and Rebecca. Robb and Rebecca are infinitely more hip than we are (proof of my unhipness: I still say “hip”). If they had tattoos, then maybe we should too? So, we began seriously considering it. It went like this:

Me: If you got a tattoo, what would you get it of?

Steve: I don’t really know, which is why I’ve never gotten one.

Me: I can’t think of a thing that I want permanently on my body.

Steve: It should be something that means something to you, right?

Me: In theory, yes, especially since it’s yours for life.

Steve: Well, then, I guess I could get a basketball tattoo.

Me: You mean of like a player or a logo or something?

Steve: No. Of an actual basketball.

(This is where I looked at him like I had no idea what I had married.)

Me: A basketball. A round tattoo that’s orange? That’s it? That’s the best idea you can come up with?

Steve: Well, I like basketball.

Me: Well, I like Red Vines but I’m not getting an image of them tattooed on me forever. Sorry. You cannot get a basketball tattoo. 

And that is when the whole tattoo topic was tabled for further discussion at a later date, preferably at a time when my husband would not be quite as enamored with basketball.

That is why all these years have gone by and we remain uninked. Steve still has not come up with a better tattoo idea than a basketball, and I remain vehemently opposed to that idea. I, unlike Steve, have an approved image, one that means something to me personally, but I can’t decide where it should go. So, we’re still stuck. I figure that by the time we know what we want and where we want it we will either be too saggy to be tattooed or so old that we’ll park our car near the parlor, start walking there, forget where we were headed, and turn around and go home ink-free.

A tattoo is such a lot of commitment. I suppose that’s what is ultimately the hold up. Neither one of us is willing to deal with that level of permanence. We had less concern and discussion about getting married than we have had about getting a silly tattoo. But, then again, a tattoo is forever.

(Author’s Note: Steve and I had a good laugh after I read him that last line, so no worries. My next post will not be about our pending divorce.)

Posted on by Me 5

No More Monkeying Around

Time to tame my monkeys

Ever have one of those days when you are determined to be miserable? I had one today. Every single thing anyone said was an affront or insult or accusation. Nothing worked out the way I wanted. The universe was conspiring against me. I felt completely misunderstood, unappreciated, and thwarted. I even had a headache. Nothing could improve my day. That’s all there was too it.

As self-fulfilling prophecies go, I set up my bad day with my lousy attitude. I acted it out that way with my grumpy behavior. And, I poisoned everyone I came in contact with by sharing my foul mood. And, even though I knew I was my own worst enemy, I couldn’t seem to stop the train wreck that I was creating with my self-defeating thoughts. Sometimes it’s difficult to get my brain to cooperate with what my heart knows. My monkey mind was messing with me. My head was filled with chattering monkeys clamoring for attention and directing me away from what I know is important. Today the fear monkey was the loudest, but his idiot brother the self-doubt monkey chimed in too, creating a cacophony of dissonant noise that disquieted my soul and turned me into someone I am not. Oh, how I hate those bloody monkeys. I can’t believe I allowed those blathering, stinky beasts carte blanche in my head today. I let them win.

In a valiant attempt to silence the monkeys and alter my state of mind, I forced myself to go to yoga tonight even though I had concocted a million and one reasons not to go. I went because when I least want to go is the exact time that I most need to go. I was right, too. The minute I got on my mat, my blood pressure came down, my day melted away, and those monkeys finally shut up. By the time I got to my car after class was over, I was a new person.

I’m not happy with myself for paying attention to the primates in my brain today. If I’d been a little quicker with the self-realization I would have muffled them sooner and tossed them back into their cages where the belong. I would have done it before I’d spoken out of turn and been hurtful to people I truly care about. Just as I was bound and determined today to be miserable, though, I am determined to make tomorrow an infinitely better, healthier, more productive day for myself. No more negativity. Those poo-slinging primates will not live rent free in my brain tomorrow. They’re going to have to take their monkey business elsewhere.

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Food Fight

Hubby and I have a fundamental disagreement about food. I don’t get excited about it and he does. To me, food is sustenance. If it happens to taste good, all the better. Generally speaking, however, I don’t care enough about it to work particularly hard for it. I’m just as happy with a bowl of cereal or cold pizza as I am with Chateaubriand. Steve, however, comes from a family where food is an event. His mother is an accomplished cook who loves to read cookbooks, find new recipes, and experiment. She truly enjoys preparing elaborate meals. I’d rather ride my bike and get Thai takeout.

Now, before you go feeling bad for Steve, you should know that I am a capable cook. I know my way around the kitchen. I’ve been cooking meals since I was about thirteen. Not only can I follow a recipe, but I’m also completely adept at improvising and throwing together something tasty out of a pile of random ingredients in the fridge. I can cook but, not unlike the title character in Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener, I would prefer not to. It’s just such a lot of work for something I simply do not care about.

In a not-so-covert attempt to encourage finer dining in our house, we’ve mysteriously been receiving Cuisine at Home magazine for at least six years now. (I suspect my husband mentioned he liked it and his parents got us a perpetually renewing subscription.) Hubby drools while he drags new issues around the house with him and puts dog ears on pages he’s interested in. I usually pretend I don’t see it and then when he’s not looking I add the latest issue to the big pile of back issues.

The most recent issue, however, had a recipe that intrigued me. It was for crab and goat cheese ravioli with lemon cream sauce. In terms of flavors and ingredients, all my favorites were there wrapped in little raviolis, which I adore. The idea of pairing the pasta with snow peas intrigued me too. So, I stared at the recipe for a week, trying to decide if I should actually attempt to make such a thing. Eventually, curiosity got the best of me. I made it for dinner tonight. It took a while to prepare (as you might imagine raviolis would), but the cook time was quick. When I finally got it plated, it looked almost like the magazine photo. Yay, me. Then I took my first bite. Holy hell. Now I know why the magazine is called Cuisine at Home. It was fabulous. I paired it with a fruity yet dry Torrontés from Argentina, and Steve and I enjoyed a blissful, restaurant-quality meal in our own house. It was borderline miraculous.

When dinner was over, I surveyed the damage to the kitchen with a smile. Years ago to encourage me to cook more, hubby made me a deal…if I cook, he will do the dishes. So, the colossal mess in the kitchen, achieved by a ton of prep time and three pans on the stove simultaneously to perfectly time the ravioli, snow peas, and lemon cream sauce, was not my problem. I grabbed my glass of wine and headed upstairs and out of view of the destruction to hide out. I’d upheld my end of the bargain. I had cooked. My job was finished.

I asked Steve later if the meal was honestly worth the clean up. He emphatically replied, “Yes.” Clearly he is setting me up for more cooking time. Maybe I will throw him a bone once in a while. Perhaps once every month I can acquiesce and prepare a time-consuming but elegant meal for him. Perhaps he’ll eventually tire of the novelty of it. I’ll just have to make sure that the next meal I cook requires more dishes…a lot more dishes.

 

Posted on by Me 1

Hundred Dollar Advice

Time flies when you're growing up

“Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that’s the stuff life is made of.”              ~ Benjamin Franklin

Took this photo today of my hubby holding our youngest (who is almost 9). It made me think of how quickly time flies and how fast our boys are growing up. Luke and Joe are 23 months apart, so I was a very tired mom when Luke was born. Keeping up with a two year old while caring for an infant wore me out. When Joe was small, I eagerly anticipated each milestone. I could not wait for him to sleep through the night and to walk. I wanted him to race to get bigger so I could do things with him, talk to him, begin a relationship with him. I was lost with an infant and longed for a child to play with.

But when Luke came along it was a different story because I knew he was my last baby. I knew he was my last opportunity to cherish all those little moments. So, despite being incredibly tired, I paid better attention to each moment than I did when Joe was small. When Joe woke me up in the middle of the night, I prayed he would fall back asleep quickly. Later, I spent hours awake in the middle of the night consciously holding Luke in the rocking chair in the silence of the house, trying to imprint that feeling, that joy, that peace into my brain because I knew how ephemeral it was.

I’m much more careful now about cherishing these moments before they’re gone. I take every opportunity I get to hug my boys. I love it when they fall asleep on the couch and I get to carry them up to bed. When Joe comes in during the middle of the night and asks me to tuck him back into bed I no longer get frustrated by it; I know that in a couple years he won’t need me that way anymore and I will miss it. They’re growing up so quickly and I don’t want to miss a thing, so I pay better attention these days.

I’ve always been a forward-thinking gal. I don’t spend much time living in the past. The choices and mistakes I made created the person I am today and I’m happy with who I am, which means it’s all worked out well. The problem with looking ahead, though, is that sometimes you miss what’s right in front of you. I’m working to be more aware these days. I’m only guaranteed this moment. I will not squander it.

Posted on by Me 2

Unfriended

Joe's Tiny Zoo from whence I have been banished.

This morning our oldest woke us up at 6:30 a.m. He does this quite often because, well, he has massive impulse control issues. At any rate, we sent him and his brother downstairs (presumably to watch Phineas and Ferb quietly so we could continue sleeping). A few minutes later, however, I hear Joe’s whiny cry. It’s not a true cry but a sort of cry/whine hybrid whereby he sounds not unlike a tornado siren. Actually, they should substitute the current tornado siren with Joe’s whiny cry. It might get people to run for cover more quickly. I sensed that any moment his problem would become ours. He burst back into our room, still whining.

“I didn’t get to my crossbreed fast enough, and he got sick,” he whined, referring to his Tiny Zoo app.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. That sucks,” I replied, trying as hard as possible to sound truly sympathetic.

“I had to abandon him because I knew you wouldn’t give me even $1 to save him. Now I need $20 to buy more coins to breed him again, but I know you won’t give me that money either.” Tru dat. “And I had to spend all my coins to get him. Now I don’t have any left. I’ll never get enough coins to buy this crossbreed again.” Drama queen.

“Oh, Joe. You will get enough coins eventually. Just keep saving. You’ll get there.”

“No I won’t. If you would just spend the money this would all be fixed.” Ha. This kid is delusional.

“I’m not buying imaginary coins to save a fake animal on an app, sweetie. Sorry.”

His cry became louder and more desperate but, sensing that he was getting nowhere with this discussion, he charged out the room letting the door close a bit too loudly. I put a pillow over my head to drown out his whining, tried to remember that it was early and his ADHD meds had not yet kicked in, and attempted to go back to sleep. A few minutes later, there was a light knock on the door. It was Luke this time.

“Mom,” he whispered, “I just thought you should know that Joe deleted you from his friends list on Tiny Zoo. Don’t tell him I told you.” This was getting hysterical.

“Thanks for the heads up, Luke.” And, with that, the informant exited as stealthily as he had entered.

“Wow, hon. I’ve been unfriended by my own son,” I told Steve.

“Thank God we haven’t given him his own Facebook account yet,” he replied, “or he could unfriend you there too.”

The whining steadily grew louder again. Clearly he was on his way back upstairs to have a second go at me. Apparently unfriending me was not punishment enough. He reappeared in our room.

“Joe, before you say anything, let me remind you that this was your mistake and no one else’s,” I said, trying to curtail his complaints quickly. “You knew what time you would have to collect that animal and you didn’t make it back in time.”

“But, you never TOLD me that crossbreed animals could get sick if you didn’t get them fast enough. I didn’t know. Maybe if I had known….”

“Stop right there. You made a mistake. It’s okay. In a day or so you will be able to get that animal for your zoo again. No worries. And,” I added, “I still love you even though you unfriended me.” I smiled brightly at him.

Exasperated, he moaned out loud and then turned and left, ushering his way out with his whiny cry once again. He hates it when I love on him when he’s angry with me. I may go on record as the meanest mother ever for today. But by tomorrow when his zoo has a brand spanking new axolotl, a gilled salamander nearing extinction in Mexico, I’ll be back in his good graces and on his friend list once again. And he will understand (at least on some level) these two things: 1) Tiny Zoo is a game and not a life or death situation (even if the game plays out that way) and 2) the world doesn’t come to an end when you don’t get what you want at the exact moment you want it. I figure that lesson is plenty worth being unfriended over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted on by Me 1

Infamous Last Words

This was so not worth the wait.

“Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, meet the expectation.”               ~ Charlotte Bronte

Tonight, after a conversation Steve and I were having about junior high, I ran down to our storage room in the basement and found my 9th grade yearbook from Castle Rock Junior High School (Go Blue Knights). I was giddily flipping through it, showing him photos of people he knows now from my reunions and from various friendships from that time that still exist today. The clothes and hairstyles (more Izod and feathered hair than were ever necessary) were a riot. As I shuffled through the pages, though, one memory in particular jumped out at me.

From fourth grade through ninth grade, I had a big old crush on a boy who lived in my neighborhood. We were never in the same class, but I adored him from afar. He had the perfect amount of freckles, lovely eyes, and a stellar smile. I remember riding my ten-speed by his house on what could only be described as a perpetual loop. And, although he never really acknowledged me, I remained undeterred and unwavering in my devotion.

Then, in ninth grade, after years of crushing on him, my dear, sweet, well-meaning friend Andrea (who was far better acquainted with him than I was) took my yearbook to him to get it signed. I could hardly stand the anticipation. I remember her bringing the book back to me after he had signed it. I wouldn’t let her see what he had written. I wouldn’t even look at what he had written. I packed the book in my bag and got on the school bus to head home. I found an acceptable seat toward the back, lowered the window to catch the spring breeze, and curled up with my knees on the back of the seat in front of me, at last prepared to spend the 45 minute bus ride reading and rereading his words. I began shuffling through the pages in search of his handwriting and name. I was dying.

At long last I found what I had been waiting five years for. There, on page 124 at the back of the book, was his signature and his comment. Short but sweet. No wait. It was simply short. It said, “Justine, Have a good summer. Darren.” Ugh. Seriously? That’s IT? I waited five years for that? At that point, it became incredibly apparent that this kid, despite his darling freckles and flawless smile, was not the guy for me. Even in 9th grade I knew that words mattered to me and that a guy who could barely come up with “have a good summer” was not my type. And, that was the end of my crush. I never rode my bike by his house again.

Now, in all fairness to Darren, he didn’t know me well (or really at all). We didn’t even have one class together. He had no idea that I had passed him in the hallways and had heart palpitations. Add to that the fact that he was a mere teenage boy and my expectation that he would write something brilliant, heart-warming, and truly, deeply meaningful in my 9th grade yearbook was borderline insanity on my part. What did I expect? Too much, I guess.

I think about it all now with a smile. At our 20th reunion (after several vodka tonics), I told poor, unsuspecting Darren that I used to ride my bike by his house. He looked at me as if I was a lunatic (probably while considering obtaining a restraining order), and I deserved it. Still, I felt good about it all the same. I’m sure on some level he appreciated hearing that I had once had a serious enough crush on him that it was worth it to me to tell him about it 24 years later. I know I would be flattered if someone from my past told me something similar. Besides, my confession was my way of writing (unsolicited, I know) in his yearbook. And, at least “I used to ride my bike by your house” is a more eloquent and memorable statement than “Have a good summer,” right? 😉

Posted on by Me 2

I’m So Awesome at Second Grade, I Just Keep Repeating It

"Luke's" second grade outline

Back when Joe was in second grade, I was appalled when he brought home an entire packet of information regarding a 5-10 minute oral report he was expected to give. He was required to pick a topic, select three to five library books for research, read them, create a 5-part outline, come up with three questions to ask the audience, write note cards to prompt him through the speech, and bring in two visual aids to support his topic. I remember staring at the packet of info and thinking his teacher was crazy to expect 8 and 9 year old kids to do this on their own. That’s when it hit me. This is not a solo project. This is a project where the parents get to “help” (imagine my air quotes on that one) the child prepare for the oral presentation. In other words, this was a pile of parental busy work. (Trust me. I called it a pile of something else at the time.) It was an even greater pile of work for me because Joe, just starting to catch up in school after his ADHD diagnosis, needed more assistance than his classmates to complete even simple assignments. This oral report was asking a lot of him and, therefore, of me. Ultimately, he came through it all like a champ. I was so proud I blogged about it.

Well, a couple weeks ago that project packet reared its ugly head again when my now 2nd-grade Luke dropped it on our dining table. Crap. It’s baaaaaaaack. Luke told me he had already chosen his topic…dolphins. I was pleased that he had at least picked a subject I would enjoy learning about. Luke is a highly ingenious boy, so he started mentally working out the details of his report before I even was aware it had been assigned. He immediately told me he would like to find some files of dolphin sounds that we could download and bring in to play for his classmates to support his report. I loved the idea. He told me he was also going to create a Lego dolphin to show his classmates. That’s when I knew this oral report experience with Luke was going to be infinitely less work for me than it was when I helped Joe.

Except for the outline. The damn outline. I’m sorry, but there are adults who can’t take research and turn it into a coherent outline. The whole idea that 2nd grade kids can do it is ludicrous. The teacher was kind enough to create a page with five headings, each with three subheadings. At least the Roman numeral part was done for us poor parents who haven’t had to do an outline since junior high school (which, by the way, is the age when kids should first be learning about outlines). Luke and I read four books about dolphins this week to prepare me for this outline task. I sat down last night and formulated the five headings. It took me about 10 minutes to get the exact wording I wanted. Then today I planned to whip through the supporting information for each part. I pulled out the research books and combed them for logical subheadings. I rearranged the outline, changed headings, and reworded things over and over again. Finally, after about 30 minutes worth of staring at it, I put my head on the table because it was making me exhausted.

“Mom, what are you doing?” Luke inquired.

“This second grade outline is taxing my brain,” I replied. “I need a nap.”

“Aren’t you a writer?” Luke asked, implying that this should be no big deal for me.

Smartass.

“Isn’t this your outline?” I snapped back.

With that, we called it a truce. I got back to work until I at last had what I thought would work for a logical oral presentation about dolphins. I had him recopy my brilliant work onto the required form, signed off on it, and told him to put it in his backpack. Then, I took two Advil with a glass of wine and patted myself on the back for a job well done.

It really is a wonder that this outline took me this much time. I’m so infinitely great at second grade work I just keep going back to repeat it because it’s such fun.

Posted on by Me 2

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

I love this kid.

“You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need.”   ~The Rolling Stones

It was another evening of endless homework and confusion at our house tonight. These nights are exhausting and occurring with far too great a frequency lately. It’s a wonder I have a hair left in my head with all the pulling I’ve been doing lately. Where’s Calgon when you need it?

I love my beautiful, green-eyed son, Joe. He is bright, articulate, and gentle. He has not one aggressive or intentionally mean bone in his body. He struggles mightily with school, but every day he goes back and tries again. He has to work twice as hard as many of his classmates for just half the results but he soldiers on. He loves babies and small children and is a natural caretaker. He hates to cuddle but will send me text messages and Facetime me from his iPad when we’re just one floor apart because he misses me. He is a serious, deep-thinker who laughs hardest with his brother, whom he adores. He loves geography and will spend hours staring at Google Earth and studying the planet. Go ahead. Ask him. He’ll happily tell you that Timbuktu is in Mali and that Nuuk is the capital of Greenland. (Did you even know Greenland had a capital? I didn’t until Joe told me.) He’s smart, insightful, and intuitive. His intense sensitivity breaks my heart.

When he was born, like all new parents, I had expectations of what parenting him would be like. I envisioned early foreign language lessons, sports camps, and piano recitals. What I didn’t envision is that he would have trouble speaking his native tongue, have difficulty coordinating his movements between right and left, and have a complete inability to clap his hands in tune to music. His struggles with the most basic things, including tying his shoes, have vexed me until I thought I would go crazy trying to figure out how to help him. Through it all, though, he has carried on to the best of his abilities, perpetually hoping to please and knowing someday he will get it right.

A while back, something occurred to me. There is a reason that I was sent this incredible boy. I’m not here for him. He’s here for me. Joe came to me because I need to let go of expectations and find beauty in what is and not what I want to be or what I hoped would be. Life with Joe is never according to plan. Because of Joe, I’ve learned to have a Plan B, Plan C, and Plan D and to prepare to have to actually use Plan H. Parenting him is the hardest thing I’ve ever attempted to do. However, I have learned more from him in the past ten years than I learned in the thirty-three years prior to his arrival. Not a day with Joe goes by without a lesson for me. What a gift that is to a woman whose life purpose from day one has been a quest to gain knowledge.

Parenting this green-eyed boy has been not at all what I expected, but it’s been exactly what I needed.

 

Posted on by Me 1

To The Contrary

The collateral damage from my feeding frenzy

I am currently not in a very zen place. It’s most likely a hormonally-based response, but right now I want to smack someone over something ridiculous. I am irked at them and even more annoyed at myself for allowing something so petty and pointless to get to me. I’m ashamed to admit that I was angry enough to finish off not one, not two, but ten Girl Scout Trefoil cookies (along with several other items, which shall not be named) in what can only be termed a feeding frenzy of anger.

What egregious infraction could possibly elicit such a vehement response? What could ostensibly send me into a Girl Scout cookie coma? I’ll tell you what. I hate it when people say contrary things merely for the sake of being contrary.

You know what I’m talking about. You’re at your desk chatting with a coworker about a great movie you saw this weekend when someone walks by and overhears your conversation. Suddenly that nosy interloper cuts you off in the middle of a movie review so brilliant that it would bring Roger Ebert to tears and drops this bomb: “I saw that movie. It sucked. It sucked so bad I walked out.” He then tells your friend to save his money, and you sit there, mouth hanging open, dumbfounded and stymied, as the creep walks away like nothing ever happened. I hate that guy.

Perhaps hate is a strong word. Maybe it’s a bit over the top. But, there aren’t words enough to describe how much I dislike it when someone sticks their nose into the middle of something I feel good about just to announce that whatever it is that I’m enjoying is nothing but suckitude. Why? What motivates some people do this? They like to rain on others’ parades? They truly believe their opinion trumps every other one out there? They suffer from Tourette Syndrome-like inability to control their obnoxiously negative comments? Their mother never taught them the adage, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all”? Some of the people who are contrary are consistent in their negativity and it wouldn’t matter what you were discussing because they would find a way to send it south. Some of these people would tell you that Mother Teresa was only in it for the publicity.

Now, I know we all have bad days. Sometimes we say things that we shouldn’t. We all have our Negative Nelly moments. But to those people whose entire lives are framed with some sick need to be “right” (whatever that means) 100% of the time in every situation, especially those in which you have no business, do the rest of us a favor and simply keep your comments to yourself. We don’t care if you hated the movie or soup, if you heard the ski conditions were horrible, if you once had the same type car and it was a complete lemon. Let us have our experiences and enjoy our own things and mind your own business. That way, I don’t have to smack you or eat an entire sleeve of Girl Scout Trefoils.

 

 

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Don’t Hate Me Because I’m an Introvert

A scene that eases my introverted soul

Sitting in the doctor’s office today (it was a day of endless doctor’s office visits), I found an article in Time called “The Upside of Being an Introvert (and Why Extroverts are Overrated), written by Bryan Walsh. Being an introvert, I was intrigued. Because roughly 70% of people are extroverted, I’m clearly in the minority. And, it feels that way. I was interested to read what the author had to say.

For the 70% of you who do not “get” introversion or who confuse shyness with introversion, the article sums it up nicely:

“For one thing, introverted does not have to mean shy, though there is overlap. Shyness is a form of anxiety characterized by inhibited behavior. It also implies a fear of social judgment that can be crippling. Shy people actively seek to avoid social situations, even ones they might want to take part in, because they may be inhibited by fear. Introverts shun social situations because, Greta Garbo–style, they simply want to be alone.”

I am not shy. I do not go to a party and stand quietly in the corner because I think I’m better than you or, worse yet, because I’m afraid of what you think of me. I stand there quietly because I am, plain and simple, uncomfortable. Although I am a bright, articulate person, I have a difficult time starting and maintaining conversations with strangers. I also do not care to do so. I prefer to observe. My inability to chit chat at social functions has long given others ample reason to decide that I am stand-offish or bitchy. Not true. I’m simply not adept at small talk. Social functions exhaust me. They make me need a nap, and I don’t nap.

My introverted nature has caused me problems with other adults on more than one occasion. Once I had an extroverted woman approach me (after years of being casual acquaintances within the same group) and ask me to explain to her why I talked to everyone BUT her. I stood there dumbfounded for a few seconds before finally managing to squeak out that they had all talked to me first. I’m not sure that was the answer she expected, but it was the truth. I more recently had another extroverted woman confront me and tell me that she didn’t know what to make of me because I wouldn’t socialize with her on a regular basis. She felt hurt and offended, as if she had done something wrong. I had to tell her that she hadn’t done a thing wrong. I merely don’t enjoy idle chit chat. I’d rather do something productive. I’m sure that offended her even more, but by that point I realized I could not make her approve of how I operate. And, I’m not going to apologize for introversion because it is not a communicable disease. Hey extroverts…I’m different than you are. I get it. But, my reticence is not about you nor is it your problem.

Yes. I’m an introvert. I’m not quiet because I’m shy. I simply prefer to reserve comment until I’ve had adequate time to think and formulate an opinion before opening my yap. Because I’m not always verbally quick, Abe Lincoln’s school of thought makes sense to me: “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.” Yes. I’d rather observe than be observed, but I like to think that it’s good that some of us are like that. After all, if we all had to be in the spotlight, who would run the camera?
Posted on by Me 10