Friends Forever?

Photo by carbonNYC.

Friends give us the courage to lift the blinds on our hearts-to open up and show what we generally keep hidden from the rest of the world. Unknown.

A necessary condition of being human is the need to have connections with others. In fact, being alive depends on belonging; belonging to family, belonging to friends, or belonging to community.  Deep and stable connections have been shown to increase longevity and happiness.  They add delight, anticipation and joy to our lives.  On the other hand, isolation or exclusion lead to varying degrees of depression and in extreme situations, to madness.  Despite the necessity of belonging, I cannot help but wonder, why these relationships are so often filled with drama, angst and heartache?  Aren't we all looking for the same things in this life?

I have been chatting with a close friend recently about our experiences with friendships lost.  For both of us, these relationships were and still are, highly valued, deep connections, within which we had developed intimacy of confidences and a soulful love nurtured by shared trust and vulnerability.  Their loss is painful and perplexing.  We find ourselves mourning their loss and seeking an answer to the question, why?

We cannot help but to take these losses personally.  Lack of reciprocation is a blow to self-esteem.  My friend finds herself ruminating over this loss and seeks out convincing words that might return the relationship to its' former place in her life.  This space, now vacant, fills with longing and sadness. Emptiness creeps in and out of her awareness.  A periodic reminder that someone she deeply cares for, no longer chooses to have her in their life.  She is stuck in a mental loop of searching for possible explanations, none of which eases her pain or gives her solace.  Like a bad break up, she can't move on without answers, without closure.

I tell her not take it personally, after all, we cannot control others' choices.  This doesn't offer her much comfort, as only she knows the depth of their bond and what they have shared, solid evidence, for her, of the true nature of their friendship.  Surely, she thinks, with all that they have shared, she cares for me just as I do for her? In anger she feels used, discarded, and now questions everything.  Did it ever really mean anything?  She holds herself back from reaching out.  I warn her, what if there is no response?

I work hard at not taking these losses personally.  I cannot know the state of another's heart or the path upon which they are travelling.  Assuming that I am somehow at fault or unworthy in some way is an assumption that overestimates the clarity of my intuition.  I believe instead, that each of us has a limit to our capacity for connecting.  The more deeply we are connected with someone, the greater amount of our connecting space that relationship will require in order to nurture it.  As we move through life, we add and subtract friendships in a way that keeps our connections in balance.  When new relationships are developed, we redistribute our space, and some in our lives may find their part reduced or eliminated while others will see it grow.

Depending on where we are in our lives with work or family or any other myriad of things that call our attention and time, the degree of connectedness with each of our relationships will evolve.  If you can find comfort in your new place, you will accept that your role in this person's life has changed.  There will be times in the future where you will cross paths and your connection may reignite and you fall easily into the comforts and fondness you once shared.  Does their fleeting nature make the friendships any less valuable?  Does it have to be all or nothing?  Should we grieve it's loss or instead, be grateful that we ever had this gift of belonging at all?

When a friendship fades away, choose instead to open yourself to the possibility that you now have more space to connect with another. This new connection may be just around the corner and have all of the potential to fill up the emptiness and leave you whole once again.

I Dreamed of a Better Ass

“Dreams are the royal road to the unconscious.” 
― Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams

I overslept this morning.  I'd say it was worth it, had I been lost in some fantastical dream, but like most of my dreams, once conscious reality crept into my bleary brain, I was struck by it's raving lunacy.  What the hell was that?! I thought to myself.  Do other people dream stuff like that?  What makes it more alarming to me, is that as these dreams unfold, they seem completely normal and rational and I engage in their occurring as if everything and anything were possible and reasonable.

In this particular dream, I was in possession of a rare and powerful plastic gem (the kind that sticks to cheap children's treasures) (In fact it had just popped off of one!).  It's faceted redness was so powerful and magical, it was sought after by malevolent women who were trying to steal it for their own, evil purposes. They would ply me with questions, to try and trip me up, but I was wily and clever and would nary give away its' location.

It was up to me to conceal it, protect it from their thieving hands!  After a quick visit with a professional, indoor-carpet football team (bantering like a college freshman), I dashed into my bathroom where inexplicably, I carried a plethora of vintage Johnson and Johnson products.  I was desperately looking for the perfect place to hide it, somewhere these crazed maidens wouldn't think of looking.  

I felt a sense of urgency as I knew they would be at the bathroom door any moment!  I could not let them have this precious trinket, but everywhere I looked seemed too obvious a place to stash it. As I frantically sized up the contents of the room, my eyes settled upon the ideal hiding spot.  I was certain they would not think of looking in here!

Dental floss!  I grabbed the rectangular container and hastily thrust the "rock" inside.  I was struggling to close it back up, frustrated by the really small connectors that kept bending when I tried to close it. I knew I must put it back together perfectly lest I give the jewel away!  Finally, I was able to close the cover, but as I did, I began to ponder the immense power of the "stone".  I understood at that moment, the limitless possibilities that I could enact were I to use these powers, now so brilliantly concealed in a common dental hygiene product!

In haste, I reached the case around behind me.  I closed my eyes and conjured my most concentrated magical command!  "FIX MY ASS!"  I shouted boldly.  A golden burst of stars surrounded me and my buttocks began to tingle.  I felt an odd pressure and squeeze as the magic began to transform my formerly lackluster gluteals, into Victoria Secret worthy plump-awesomeness!  I stopped for a moment, forgetting the mayhem of the hunt, to check out my new ass in the bathroom mirror...Not bad!, I thought, admiring the results.

Just then, there was a thud at the bathroom door, as the jewel hungry banditas arrived to take my ass-fixing prize.  No! I cried in my head.  I threw my body against the door.  There were too many of them!  I panicked, crying out for help, hoping the football team that was sitting in the room just beyond, would come to my aid!  An arm pressed through the growing opening of the door and in that moment, I knew that all hope was lost! As the women came crashing into the room, I awoke, and the dental floss fell to the floor...

I tried to describe this dream to my husband.  "All the power in the world and you fix your ass?, he asked incredulously, "Way to take care of the priorities!"  

Like most dreams I have, they are often pure insanity.  My husband listens distractedly, knowing that nothing I am about to say will make any sense or have any meaning.   They are incredibly vivid and I often remember them in great detail.  They are so vivid in fact, that for many moments upon waking, I often have trouble discerning what is real and what was dream.  This is surely an issue when I dream of my husbands infidelities which are usually accompanied by a nasty divorce.  On those days,  I stare at him angrily throughout the day, harboring anger and resentment for acts my subconscious mind has fabricated.  That bastard!

There are some perks to such dreams, including ones that involve highly passionate, illicit affairs with random movie stars or acquaintances.  Often, I fight waking, hoping to draw out the pleasure of these dreams.  It seldom works, but does provide valuable fantasy fodder for later use.

I have tried to analyze these dreams, like the one I had about murdering a boyfriend whom I was dating at the time, many years ago.  In this dream, I had tied him to a chair and ruthlessly force-fed him rancid spaghetti until he died. (totally true)  The meaning of that one was pretty clear to me, and I ended the relationship shortly thereafter.  I wonder though, do our dreams really tell us things?  Take my dream this morning for example, could it be as simple as me hating my ass?

According to Your Amazing Brain, each of us dreams up to five times a night and we only remember a dream if we wake up in the middle of it.  Other research suggests that we are dreaming constantly while we sleep.  Some psychologists believe that dreams serve to distract the ever active brain enough to allow it to sleep, a way to keep it busy if you will.  Other alternative practitioners suggest that dreams can be interpreted for deeper meaning, acting as predictors of your future or offering insights into your life known only by your subconscious.  The dream interpreting website Dream Moods, provides a dictionary of dream topics and their accompanying meaning.

The chasing component of this morning's dream suggests stress, anxiety or avoidance in my waking life.  Ass transformation was not available in the dictionary.  Dreaming of your buttocks is however, and suggests that there is insecurity and reveals situational struggle.  Perhaps this dream was really just about ass anxiety?  Interestingly, were someone kissing my buttock in the dream, that would mean someone in my life was not being genuine (aka. an ass kisser, DUH!).

The assignment of meaning does seem to be arbitrary, but is surprisingly detailed.  Some people make their living unveiling the hidden meaning in other's dreams.  For me, I was pretty stressed yesterday about an ongoing issue, and the chasing might be a reflection of that.  The football players in the dream were much younger, and one of them had commented, that it was too bad I didn't have a better ass, which may parallel some insecurities I have regarding my middle aged status. 

I even look at the dreams I have about my husband being a heartless cheater as signs of our "meant to be-edness" as in them, I fight desperately to stay together.  I suppose no one will ever know the full extent of meaning or function of our dreams.  Researchers in Japan however, have recently developed a "Dream Reading Machine".  Using MRI technology and an immense database algorithm, they were able to predict dream content in three subjects with 60% accuracy!

To be on the safe side, I am going to up my buttock toning exercise regimen and take care of the perpetual stressor that has led to my increased anxiety.  Tonight I will try something new and place framed photos of Ryan Gosling next to my pillow so as to influence the content of my dreams.  After all, according to Dream Moods, having dream sex with a celebrity indicates my drive to be successful!

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!)