Leaving the Bullies Behind: A Fresh Start Success Story (at least for now)

Happy times.

We just moved my daughter to a new school, due to some "relational" issues she was having at her former school (aka bullying).  Try as she might she could not find a space for herself in the ranks of her peers and sadly their attitudes and attacks were contagious, spreading even to her soccer team.

Her former school was small, there are only 14 kids in each grade (from K to 8), and as a result, her social choices were limited.  There were only a handful of possible girl friends to chose from and she was never able to form any stable or fulfilling relationships with any of them.  I believe she had an assigned "role" with her classroom peers (maybe even with her teachers) that had developed and stuck fast from the early days of elementary school.  We began to see that there was no way for her to escape this classification or change it without removing her from the situation.

Before making the decision to move schools, we had tested the water by moving her to a new soccer team in a different town.   I was apprehensive, worrying that her problems might follow her, that somehow she might be the cause of her peer rejection, but to my great relief and mommy joy, she had an amazing experience.  She grew to love soccer again and was embraced more rapidly by this young group of strangers than she had ever been with children who had known her for years.  All of the girls were positive and supportive of each other, there was no cheap shots or exclusion.  She literally would BEAM after games and practices, eager for more.

At a party, not long afterwards, I shared with a group of friends the turmoil that my daughter had been experiencing and how happy I was that switching soccer teams had worked out so well.  As I lamented the difficulty we were now having deciding on whether or not to change schools, a rather direct friend interrupted me, asking, "So you will change her soccer team because of this, but not her school?"

That stopped me.  Making the decision to change schools had been torturing me.  What if this was the wrong decision?  What if she is bullied there too?  There would be no going back.  I could just make this situation worse!  But I had seen her thrive at soccer, lavished with love at summer camps, glow under the friendship of her new BFF.  It seemed more and more certain that her social rejection at school had less and less to do with her, than it did the ingrained and manipulated social dynamic she was stuck in.

When we told our daughter that we had decided to let her change schools, something she had been begging to do since third grade, she was ecstatic.  "Finally!" she exclaimed.  At no time did she show sadness or nervousness at starting a new school.  I on the other hand was a different story.

With the weight of this decision lifted, and the knowledge that she would not have to return to her former school, she opened up even more, sharing more stories of the peer challenges that she had been experiencing.  In one instance, she was wearing some Sketcher shoes to school, they are blingy and cute and she absolutely loved them.  Having been temporarily welcomed into a tenuous friendship with one of her on-again-off-again buddies, she asked her in earnest, "What can I do to be cooler like you?" (that question broke my heart)

"Well first, you can lose those shoes, they make you look stupid.  Get cooler clothes and wear some make up," was the Sages' cool advice.  This would explain why she had never worn those shoes again. ( Incidentally, this was the same girl who had made her stop wearing another pair of her favorite shoes in 2nd grade because of their low cool factor...I paid her $1.00 a day for every day she wore them anyway...to the tune of twenty bucks).

We had a discussion on the superficial nature of those comments, how they had nothing to do with who she was as a person and had everything to do with what she put on her body.  We talked about how some people judge us by how we look or what we wear, something I told her, I did not agree with, but that it was a fact of life.  (My daughter has preferred comfort over style and brushing her hair, in her opinion, is annoying and a waste of time).  

I realized, that this was my chance to impart some teaching and advice on how she presented herself, made more crucial by the imminent new-girl first impression that she was due to be making.  I knew then, that I could help ease her transition into her new school by removing the possibility of rejection based upon her wardrobe.  No fashion expert myself, I had to do some research.

I began combing the web, visiting Teen Vogue and various other teen sites.  I started noticing what other kids her age were wearing.  I realized that I, as the buyer of her clothes, had been clueless to cool.  I learned the trendy brands (she has the coolest backpack as determined by apparent backpack experts at Vogue).  She has a few items of "label" clothes, but not enough to be obnoxious.  She has skinny jeans and "jeggings".  She has catchy logo'ed tees, lots of plaid and black ankle boots she has described at "Hot!"  She is no longer allowed to leave the house with messy hair. And I made her agree to let me pick out her outfits, NO MATTER WHAT, for the first week of school.  (advice that has grown contagious as she relishes looking "cool" so she can get to being "real" with her new school mates).

Let's just say, that changing schools was absolutely the right decision.  My daughter is BEAMING everyday.  She loves school again.  Soccer is still awesome and she is gaining more and more confidence. "Mom, all of these girls want to hang out with me!  I need a social calendar.  That has never happened to ME before!" she shared recently (as I yelped with happiness inside).

And so, we are cautiously optimistic that our dear girl will now be able to pass through the tumult of middle school without worrying about peer rejection.  Oh I am sure there are rough patches ahead, but for now, my kid is finally cool...inside and out.

Don't Try to Change Me

Broken Glass by mnsc.

From the outskirts of the town,

Where of old the mile-stone stood,

Now a stranger, looking down,

I behold the shadowy crown

Of the dark and haunted wood.

It is changed, or am I changed?

Ah! The oaks are fresh and green,

But the friends with whom I ranged

Through their thickets are estranged

                                               By the years that intervene.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Enlightened individuals embrace change.  Change, to the new-agey and periodically stoned among us, reflects personal growth, itself, a method by which we evolve and free ourselves to live lives of endless happiness and fulfillment.  Alas, I must lack the gene for enlightenment and smoke far too little wacky-tabacky because I prefer to face change like a willful child, throwing myself upon the ground, screaming and pleading for the return of my old, predictable life.

I like to wake up in the morning with everything in its place.  Kind of like the movie The Truman Show, with Jim Carey.  This is this and that is that.  You go here and you say that.  The sun goes up, the sun goes down. End of story.

There is safety in "sameness".  Our primitive brains like predictability.  Change is scary, more so when we haven't sought it out or initiated it.  Change can have a mind of its own, bursting through our white-picket-fence worlds, without so much as a "Here's Johnny!" (see: The Shining), hell bent on causing chaos and destruction.

Unexpected change leads to increased levels of anxiety and stress.  Not knowing with any degree of certainty what tomorrow is going to look like at work or in relationships is unnerving. Who am I now? Who are you?  Where am I headed?  Do I want this new version of my life?

In his book, Transitions, William Bridges explains that our culture is awash with  constant change.  What most of us lack however, is the mindset to successfully navigate it.  "We come to identify ourselves with the circumstances of our lives", he writes, and many of us "... have lost faith that the transitions [we] are going through are really getting us somewhere"(aka somewhere better)  What if my life sucks after I wade through all of this crap?

According to Mr. Bridges, there are three distinct phases in any change process.  First, change always begins with an ending.  Perhaps you lost your job or your once redneck husband has hit mid-life and now meditates, naked, every morning, etc. etc.  The options are innumerable. To proceed through change, you must identify what is ending and be willing to let it go.  Clinging to old ways of doing something or old ways of being, prevent you from moving forward towards a new beginning.  If your wife suddenly develops new friendships (perchance with boys) or your husband quits his job, because the stress of it was killing him, you have to be prepared to let your old framework of expectations of how life is "supposed to be" go.  Otherwise you will be stuck.  No movement forward, no going back.

The second part of the change process is the most scary, a zone of unknowns, Mr. Bridges calls the Neutral Zone, "...before "life" resumes an intelligible pattern and direction".  (I think he should call it the "Shitty Zone") This is a lost-at-sea time, when there is nothing in sight before you and you cannot return to where you started.  You feel out of control and at the whim of external forces.  This is the time, the author shares, that "you are being slowly transformed into the person you need to be to move forward in your life". "During this time...you are receiving signals and cues...as to who you need to become to enter the next stage of your...life".

This second stage is so unnerving, most of us try and rush through it. The impatience within us, pushes us towards wanting to know the "punchline" of our change (Are we there yet?) so urgently, we try mightily to skip this crucial middle part of change.  For the change cycle to be complete however, you have to do your time in the Shitty Zone, as this is where you are actually changing.  If you skip this vital step, often you will end up recreating the same issues that brought you to your ending in the first place.  There are no 10 step programs to successfully navigate the obstacle course of transition...which sucks because I was really hoping there were.

Once you have been dragged over broken glass and smothered in vinegar in the Shitty Zone, you are closer than ever to your New Beginning.   "One day everything seems to be coming apart; the next day, life goes on...and we wonder whether we have been imagining our difficulties", Bridges writes.  (Unless of course there is tangible, physical loss, to serve a constant reminder of what has ended.)

My temper tantrum I now realize, is merely my attempt to hold on to the comfortable way I have been living.   I am clinging to the known and resisting the fear and discomfort of the unknown.  I recognize, that to move forward, I need to let go and accept the "ending", and let it happen.  Letting go will "unstick" me and free me to realize my new beginning.  This is a huge leap of faith. I have to believe that where I end up will be a better place.  

Blog in Brief: Hold That Pose!

Photo by Dreaming in the deep south.

In my ongoing and oft, self-critical quest for personal betterment, I am making a concerted effort to expand my personal exercise regimen.  Specifically, I am looking for consistency.  Of late, I have increased my involvement in yoga.  I love its' tortuous combination of flexibility (something my hamstrings refuse to develop), balance and awkward (yet hopefully useful) strengthening poses.  I learned recently, that to lower my "actual age" (Age Calculator), I ought to be participating in more flexibility increasing activities.  This was once called "stretching" but now, it is called "yoga".

Rarely able to attend formal, and zen-fully competitive yoga classes (how low can you go??), I have strategically purchased a few yoga DVDs to watch at home.  And so, far too early this morning, I arose (reluctantly, and after three snooze buttons), to join Rodney Yee, yoga master extraordinaire, in my basement "yoga studio", for my daily reminder of how sadly inflexible I am.  Pajamas proved appropriate attire, and in the dark of the bedroom (lest I wake my loudly snoring hubby), I applied a haphazard pony tail and creaked my sleep stiffened body down the stairs. As I unfurled my yoga mat, I wondered how my body would react to the forthcoming downward dog assault I was about to subject it to.

My first mistake was to select the "Power Yoga" workout.  Mr.Yee, a well muscled oriental fellow, who demonstrates far more flexibility and creepy strength, than any man ought to, will lead me effortlessly through a painful staccato of poses for the next 50 minutes.  I position myself in mountain pose, ready to begin.  I try inhaling and exhaling, matching the singular focus of my instructor, but find I cannot help my wandering thoughts and I begin to consider, as Mr. Yee swan dives into an enviable forward fold, the sorts of benefits his exceptional flexibility might afford in the sack.  

I shake my mind back to oneness-with-the-universe, and jump back (well, more like awkwardly drag my feet) into the first of three hundred down-ward dogs I am about to enjoy.  As I descend into push up position, and press to upward dog, I ponder the health of my lower back whilst simultaneously becoming distracted by  the bulbous-ness of Mr. Yee's buttocks.  Alas, why is his butt so big?  The rest of him is quite svelte and ripped.  I shake my head and quell my questions of the likelihood of him wearing a cup in his tight blue shorts, and will myself into triangle pose.

I wonder briefly, if my husband would survive this DVD were I able to convince him to join me.  This workout isn't going down so well this morning, perhaps next time, I should pick a less vigorous routine.  As we move from one pose to another, I cannot help but to begin longing for the final relaxation pose, my personal favorite.  This pose involves lying flat on your back, and doing absolutely nothing but thanking God the class is over.  I begin falling behind, and once allowed to lie prone on my mat, I stop trying to keep up.  Ahh, lying still is so relaxing.

Rodney won't let up, and continues his insistent monotone that I move into plank position.  I decide to skip this "flow" and keep my cheek planted happily upon my mat.  Reluctantly, I re-engage my yoga mojo, and move with him to lying on my back.  During this next series, he has me trying to hold my big toe as I straighten my leg to the ceiling.  Rodney must have long arms, as all I can muster is to grab the back of my resolutely bent knee.  I try and breath through the ripping of my hamstrings, as Rodney, the obnoxious bastard, pulls his foot to his ear.  

This guy is starting to piss me off.  I think it would be nice for a change to have an equally stiff person teach me yoga so I won't feel so inept.  The class would be inflected with shouts of "Holy shit this hurts!"  or "Gaawwd! My groin is coming apart!" Rodney, I now realize is a show-off, as he presses himself into something called an upward bow.  The last time I did this back-bending concoction, I was in kindergarten.  I sit up on my mat, and stare incredulously at his flawless body bow.  His "maybe-a-cup" is pressing firmly to the sky and his ample buttocks continue to alarm me.  

"Press to your toes!" he calmly suggests.  I reach for the remote deciding to press pause instead, freezing him in the midst of this awful pose.  Rodney, is now stuck, at my whim, and I call out nastily to the television screen, "Hey Rodney! Hold that pose you jackass!"  

Rodney is silenced, and I can now lie on my back, enjoying my most favorite pose in peace.  

Five Dollar Latte Habit: How Much Should I Tip?

Photo by Bradleygee.

I'm standing at the cash register, paying for my latte, and the inner battle begins once again.  For as many times as I have purchased my frothy daily indulgence, you would think that I would have decided upon a tipping rule that I could confidently execute, one that leaves me neither feeling economically plundered nor like an obnoxious cheapskate.

How much should I tip?  Is there a percentage that is acceptable? I have to consider that the barista is always very nice.  She knows my "regular" drink and often has it ready before I even walk in.  She is about to hand me my change, and I need to make a decision!  I eye the tip jar, which is packed with dollar bills, and I know, as a member of the sheep-like human race, my very existence a reflection of the social norms that surround me, that the message here is "TIP ONE DOLLAR!"

The tip jar is cleverly disguised peer pressure. It advertises that every other sophisticated caffeine officianado is tipping a dollar per java.   This benign looking little jar is meant to provide me with obvious social instructions. Tip jars are clear for a reason, after all. "This is how much you should tip!" they scream, "Unless, of course, you suck."

In one study that looked at the effect of a pre-populated tip jar, researchers found that if a $5.00 bill were planted in the jar at the beginning of the day...people would generally tip more and often match the $5.00!  Morons!  A 100% tip? That is the cost of an entire beverage!  But alas, we are weak and easily manipulated by our desperate need to do what everyone else is doing!

The barista is passing me my change and my eyes remain fixed upon jar. This particular jar is so full of dollar bills, that I am sure they have had to compact it several times that day to prevent it from overflowing.  In a panic, I begin to do some math in my head.  My chai latte costs $3.96.  My forthcoming change will be $1.04.  How much do I tip?  Were I to tip the full amount, it would be equivalent to a 25% tip.  (More than I tip in a restaurant or bar).   If I tip the four cents, I will appear cheap, especially since there are mostly bills in the jar.  What SOB gives coins?  Nickles?  Pennies?  Quarters, maybe. If I tip the dollar, but pocket the four cents, I look even cheaper.  Who keeps pennies, right?

If I'm lucky, I have some change in my wallet, like maybe 50 cents ( a 15% tip).  I can pocket the dollar four, and slam some coins into the jar so everyone can hear that I HAVE TIPPED! I AM NOT CHEAP!  I FOLLOWED THE RULES!

Some might draw the conclusion that the very fact that I worry about this makes me cheap.  It's only a dollar, after all.  I admit, however, that I am unwilling to turn my $3.96 latte, into a $5.00 latte.  Tipping a dollar for every latte I buy, at my current rate of latte consumption, works out to a whopping $260.00 bucks a year!  If I were to invest that, by the time I were 65 years old, all of those tips would be worth $8 million dollars! (Well maybe not that much, but it's still a lot, right?)
At some coffee shops they don't even have tip jars, and I find that experience so much more relaxing!

I recently asked a restaurateur what his thoughts were, and he confidently stated that tipping the change was appropriate.  I clarified, "What if the change is only a nickel?"  He repeated, "Tip the change".  In his thinking, there will be times that the change will be more than that and over time, the tipping percentage will average out.

Unlike waiters and bartenders, baristas are not paid a minimum hourly rate in lieu of gratuities.  Baristas are paid more per hour and are not as reliant on tips to make up their wages.  Sure, making an infinite variety of annoying coffee concoctions seems like a huge pain in the ass to me, but I am not actually being waited upon, nor am I seated comfortably ordering up my beverage, and I am not sure that steaming milk justifies the 20% minimum tip percentage that a waiter or waitress might earn on a similar tab.  With this rationale, one dollar appears to be excessive tippage.

Why are there so many dollar bills in that dam jar then?  Aren't people paying attention, or do they just have less attachment to their hard earned money than I do?  Is the price written in neon on the chalk board on the wall just a lie? I want a $3.96 latte damn you!  I wouldn't buy a $5.00 latte, that would be a rip off!

The barista hands me my change.  I pause with uncertainty, time stands still, and I can hear my heart beat in my ears.  The tip jar is calling to me, insistent as it's invisible plastic hands reach upwards toward my money.  I watch in horror as my hand, almost as if of it's own volition, reaches down and stuffs the dollar bill into the jar. 

Dammit! How did that happen?  I AM weak.  My head drops, my face slackens. My empty hand hovers, trembling over the tip jar.  I have been defeated, claimed by this false social construct.  Deflated, I pick up my latte and turn to leave.  I suppose I should take comfort in knowing that the barista is happy...that is if she even noticed I gave her a dollar... and for sure she knows that I don't suck.  I can't help but wonder then why, as I walk out the door, my $5.00 latte in hand, am I certain I do?

Shedding My Skin: 2013

Photo by Donkeyhotey.

The new year stretches before me like an empty, primed canvas. Virginal, untainted, limitless possibility.  I can paint the portrait of this new year any way I choose.  Sky is the limit! As I begin to lean towards my future however, I feel the insistent pull of my past, the baggage from last year, clinging to me, determined to accompany me across the threshold of 2013, it's grubby paws eager to dirty my future with more of the same.  How can I create a new beginning while burdened with the weight of my past?  Can I let go of my personal narrative, imprinted like a soul-tattoo, with all of it's self limiting conspiracies?

The message of the New Year's resolution is that we are deficient. There is pressure to live better in the new year, to transform into an improved version of ourselves.  We are motivated to become self critical, perhaps even to face the truth that we failed to improve what we had set out to the year before.  Overweight? (Still?) Weak! Pathetic! Improve damn you! Change!  Commit! Suddenly, we are caught off guard by how quickly the new year arrives, so much left undone.  We are out of time, resolutions unfulfilled, habits unchanged and muffin tops left to blossom.

As luck would have it, the New Year provides us with an annual "Do-Over", an endless supply of second chances to set things right.  2012 was not the greatest year.  In fact, I will admit that it was one of the worst.  Aside from all of the social, economic, natural and cultural catastrophes that plagued this unfortunate year, for me personally, I awoke one day to find myself living the life of a stranger (sadly, not an attractive stranger). Many of the known conditions and comforts that had blanketed my life with predictability and security were ripped away last year, leaving the barest roots of my world naked and exposed.  Each day has become an unknown.  There is fear in that, but there is also possibility.

Throughout this tumult, I had begun a meaningful journey to transform myself, my priorities, my relationships, to redefine who I am in this world.  There is nothing wrong with me, dammit! (She doth protest too much) Ironically, I embarked upon this journey at the exact moment I needed these skills the most.  My self perceptions and personal values have been challenged as never before in my adult life, and I was launched towards a re-evaluation of my choices and, inevitably, towards deciding what I want my future to look like.  Would it look like my past or would I invent something entirely different?

I suppose it boils down to what I value most at this point in my life.  My family?  Yes.  My husband? Maybe.  Marriage is not a blinded commitment, once made, no longer looked upon.  I think it's healthy to examine where we are together. (Plus it keeps him on his toes) Have we lived up to each other's expectations?  Will my future still be better with him?  What about work?  Am I spending my days doing something that inspires me or merely something that serves me financially?  Perhaps I have enslaved myself to a lifestyle that does not reflect my values.  Am I wasting time, that precious and limited commodity?  Because, whether I like it or not, it is passing.

Have I kept my word to myself or let emotional patterns steer me?  (I vote the latter) I see this area of reflection as my biggest failure of last year and, sadly, the biggest failure in many of the preceding years. Failing to keep the commitments I have made to myself is the most effortless thing I do.  It's simple.  My rationalizations are so well rehearsed, I barely attend to their constant dialogue.  I have failed to create consequences for letting myself down as, for some reason, I don't hold myself accountable. (If I'm not, then who is?)  I grow exhausted trying to live up to the expectations I have for myself as I find that I have only limited endurance for self improvement.  (Just give me a brownie already and I really just have to say it... Fuck!)

At the risk of sounding selfish, I think my new year will be best served if I resolve to make the commitments I make to myself my priority next year.  Often these vows are the very cliche resolutions proclaimed every year, whose potential for success are limited by the failure to honor the word we have given to ourselves.  Why should we feel guiltless when we break the promises we've made to ourselves?  Do we hold ourselves in such low regard?

Rather than continuing to haphazardly finger-paint my future, I shall instead, strive to create a masterpiece, painting myself as the focal point and letting the rest fill itself in for a change.  Bring it on 2013!  I'm a comin'!  (Just give me a moment to throw these old bags out the window!)