Last Sunday, somewhere between Mob Wives (featuring the terrifyingly awesome Big Ang) and the Giants game, I tuned into an episode of Oprah's (I think I can simply call her Oprah, don't you?) new show, called Oprah's Next Chapter.
In this particular episode, she was interviewing New Jersey Governor Chris Christie. Despite the fact that he's head of my neighboring state, up until I watched that show, I knew but three things about Governor Christie: He's often described as "a tough talking former prosecutor." He was widely encouraged to run as a Republican candidate for President. And, oh yeah, he's fat. And not, "Do these jeans make me look fat?" fat but clinically obese.
And sadly, it's his fatness that I know the most about, and not just because it's something that you can see: it's also the thing that is most talked about. Among many others, late night talk show hosts like Jon Stewart and David Letterman have had plenty to say about it, with Letterman even devoting an entire Top Ten list to Christie's weight.
All of this reminds me of a scene from the movie version of the great Jennifer Weiner's IN HER SHOES. Rose, the buttoned-up older sister, comes home to find her flighty younger sister Maggie having sex with Rose's boyfriend. Like anyone, she freaks out and loses her cool, cutting into Maggie with some pretty biting words about Maggie's intelligence, calling her "Pretty but real stupid." Maggie responds, "Shut up you fat pig," and Rose counters with, "Did you honestly just say 'fat pig'? You are my sister, and the best you can do is 'fat pig?'"
That's how I felt seeing all of this Christie coverage. Jon Stewart, David Letterman ... these guys are some of the sharpest minds out there, some of the smartest, funniest, politically-minded guys around on their own, but also backed by full staffs of Ivy-League educated writers ... and the best these guys can do is a crack about Christie getting caught in the Oval Office with Betty Crocker?
Seriously, guys?
I don't know much about Chris Christie, but if the thing that we can all rally around to make fun of him about is his suit size, then maybe he should run for President. And I'm as Liberal as they come.
As an overweight person pretty much most of my life, fat jokes bother me on a lot of levels, but mostly they offend me because, as someone who also likes to think I have a pretty good sense of humor, I don't see that they're all that clever.
I also think that it bothers me because everyone seems to think it's okay to make fat jokes. It's been said before, but it almost seems like an acceptable form of prejudice. Men, women, gay, straight, Republican, Democrat, black, white ... they all agree fat is funny.
I disagree. Fat is a lot of things, but it is certainly not funny.
Don't get me wrong, I have certainly made some fat jokes over the years, mostly at my own expense. I mean, I am the girl who dressed up with a skinny friend as Laurel and Hardy one year for Halloween. I'm semi-serious about launching Fat A$$ brand margarita, the antithesis to Skinnygirl. And I've also made comments about others; I'm no angel. But mostly I do it before someone else can, because they will, and the best defense is a good offense.
See, like my patron saint Oprah, I believe that very few people are overweight simply because they like to eat too much. Most people who are overweight eat for emotional reasons, to stuff down pain or discomfort, as way to avoid feeling painful things.
I started becoming overweight when I was about seven. Before that, and it's hard for me to believe now, I actually hated to eat, and so my mom devised these nutrient packed drinks including a raw egg and vanilla extract called "specials" so that I would keep weight on. Seems like even then I liked the allure of special, fancy things - a drink made especially for me, I love it!
Around age seven, there was a lot of turmoil in my family. My dad was a good man, a former NYC cop with lots of wonderful qualities. Unfortunately, he also had a terrible disease -- alcoholism -- which led him to act in unpredictable ways. He did some things that, when I look back on them, they seem a lot scarier now than they did then, thanks in large part to the amazing job my mother did -- things like cutting the phone lines to our house one day so we couldn't call for help when he showed up unexpectedly trying to get in, or trying to convince my teacher that it was okay for her to release me from school to him without my mom's knowledge when it really wasn't. I don't blame him for any of these things -- it was his disease, and we all have our crosses to bear.
Although I didn't make the connection until years later, I know that I started gaining weight then as a defense mechanism -- to soothe myself, to protect myself. I guess I thought that if I was fat, it would be harder for him to run away with me or maybe he wouldn't even want to take me because he'd be embarrassed.
Pretty hilarious stuff, right?
As an adult, I know intellectually the root of my struggle with weight, and the emotional connection, but old habits die hard, and although I've lost a lot of weight the past few years, I still struggle. Food is comfort, food is company. Something to celebrate? Let's go out to dinner! Rough day? A cupcake will make it SO much better, unlike that poor salad over there. That won't do at all. And, like a lot of us, I really do like the taste of a lot of unhealthy foods. And I don't even blame Paula Deen for it; it's my choice. I know Dr. Oz's soaked walnuts are healthier than Paula's red velvet cake, but to me, it's not even a fair fight.
As I said, I've become much better in not using food to self-medicate. One because, as the child of an addict, I know an addiction is an addiction. Food is to me what alcohol was to my dad and countless others who struggle with addiction. I have to be really careful because I also think food is a gateway drug. I try to watch what I drink and even in the worst pain I won't take anything harder than Tylenol because I know it's a slippery slope.
I also admit I'm not one of those cheery fat people who doesn't mind being fat. I'm sure you've seen them. The media likes to depict them in a rosy-cheeked, aw shucks, sidekick kind of way. Some of them are full of it, but I believe some of them are truly comfortable in their own skin, and I say good for them. I'm actually a bit jealous. Not me. I hate every minute of it. It's not comfortable physically being fat, and I'm as shallow and vain as anyone else. I like to look good and it kills me that more often than not, I know the first word used to describe me, before any other physical or intellectual quality, is "fat," or other variations thereof -- heavyset, overweight, robust, chunky ... you get the picture.
And so do I. Which is why it makes me nuts (and not the healthy, water soaked kind Dr. Oz wants me to eat).
I am so many other things besides fat -- both good and bad. There are a lot of really awful things about me that are way worse than the fact that I'm overweight. I'd rather you call me a "b*tch" before "fat" but "fat b*tch" -- that really stings. But people also assume when people are overweight that it's some inherent flaw in their constitution or their personality. It somehow makes them lazy or uninspired. They just don't try hard enough to lose the weight. Let me tell you, there's not a fat person alive on this green earth (or any other planet) who doesn't know it's unhealthy to be overweight, and who doesn't know that ultimately, to lose weight you have to eat less and move more. So there has to be something else "up," so to speak. It may seem simple to a thin person, but believe me, if it were easy, obesity would not exist. (I won't even get into the socioeconomic, cultural reasons for obesity; that's another blog for another day.)
Now, I'll admit, I'm not in the best physical shape, but I can outlast many people in energy and physical stamina. I haven't achieved what I've achieved in life by being lazy and I resent the implication.
I also know that I'll never be really thin. I have the build that I have ... Broad shoulders of my Irish ancestors designed to carry sacks of potatoes, several children, or a passed out, drunken husband. No discernible a$$ no matter what size I am, instead my back somehow magically turns into my legs. And disproportionately, perhaps even freakishly, small hands.
But each day, I try to make healthier choices for myself -- physically and mentally. Like many things, it's not a straight line. I may do really well and then fall off the wagon for awhile, but I'm trying. And I can guarantee you: Chris Christie is too. And even if he's not, I don't think it's any of our business.
We all have our holes to fill. We all have our issues. Our soft spots, Achilles' heels. Those insecurities that we hope no one else will tune into.
But the trouble with being fat is that you wear it for the whole world to see -- and instead of being compassionate or even just nonjudgmental if we can't muster up compassion, it's somehow deemed okay to attack a person because of it. Fat is wrong, bad, unattractive, unhealthy, lazy ... I could go on and on.
When what do we really care? How is it hurting you if I am overweight and vice versa? What is it about fat people that gets under other people's skins so much?
I believe it was the wise philosopher Ronnie Ortiz-Magro (aka Ron from the Jersey Shore) who once said, "You just do you, and I'm-a do me."
Truer words were never spoken.
I was recently complaining to someone how I haven't been able to dye or cut my hair since my injury and that the amount of gray hair I have is awful. She said, "So you have gray hair. I do too. People need to just get over it."
It would be nice if we could accept ourselves and each other for who we are, as we are, fat or thin, gay or straight, black or white, Republican or Democrat, bottled red hair or naturally mousy brown-gray. I'm not there yet, but I'm trying really hard.
Until that day, thank God Ron is here to sell us some Xenadrine. Only I'm not buying it.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Bright College Years...
A few weeks ago at the neurologist, the doctor asked me if I considered myself a smart person, which to me, has to be one of the most pointless questions you can ask someone. I can't imagine that anyone would answer anything but yes to that question, when surely we know that quite the opposite is true, and there are a lot of not-so-smart people out there in the world.
In fact, if you really want proof of this, I challenge you to visit any online dating site -- look at any profile and I guarantee the person will declare him or herself not only smart, but also attractive with a good sense of humor. This is a statistical improbability; sure I don't get out as much lately, but I am out there in the world, and I can say with authority that not everyone is all of those three things. I mean, we only have to look at the Presidential candidates to know that. But I digress...
So, back at the doctor's, of course I answered yes, yes, I consider myself to be a smart person. And then she followed-up with, "But did you go to college?" Um, yes. "Did you finish?" Yes. "Do you have an advanced degree?" No. "Do you care about whether you've lost cognitive ability?"
Um, hell yes.
I didn't quite understand this line of questioning. Was she somehow implying that, if I didn't consider myself smart, and didn't have a college degree, that it somehow didn't matter if I lost some of my brain function?
I would think that, no matter what your brain function, no matter who you are or what you do, what letters are or aren't after your name, that you'd want to preserve whatever brain function you've got. Call me crazy, but that's how I roll.
I totally believe that how smart you are does not at all correlate with how much schooling you have. I know plenty of people who have advanced degrees from hot shot universities who are dumb as dirt, and I know plenty of people who didn't continue their education past high school, or in some cases, even before that, who are absolutely brilliant. For some people, whether the reasons be cultural, socioeconomic, or otherwise, going to college is not an option. And I totally believe in different types of intelligence. Some people can brilliantly read people and tune into them emotionally. Others are wizards with words or numbers.
Now, here comes my Miss America platform, which jives nicely with the platform that I will use if I ever run for Mayor of NYC, "Less hydrants, more parking": Don't get me wrong - I believe wholeheartedly in the power of education, especially in the power education has to transform a life and open you up to opportunities that wouldn't ordinarily be possible. I believe that, as a society, we should do everything in our power to ensure that every child has a solid educational foundation that includes post-secondary options. But as Oprah would say, one thing I know for sure is that just because someone has a college degree, does not mean he or she is smarter than the person who doesn't.
I always knew that I would go to college. What I didn't always know is how I would afford it. But I knew that, if I worked my behind off, got good grades, and rounded out my resume with every imaginable activity, I would be an appealing candidate. And when I say every imaginable activity, I mean it -- from the Varsity Club to the mathletes, from mock trial to the school musical, from SADD to student council, from the school newspaper and yearbook to band and chorus, you name it, and I was in it. And my picture is in the yearbook to prove it.
I even - you might want to sit down for this one - I even taught Sunday school. Well, it was on Saturday, but that's what it was. Looking back, I'm not sure what religious education the students in my class (which I taught with a friend who I'm sure is equally incredulous that we did this) acquired, and I'm even less sure why any parent in the world would choose a pair of 16 year olds to be in charge of their child's religious development. Actually, I do know what parent would choose us: the parents who knew that their kids had to go through the process to get them to Communion and Confirmation so they wouldn't go to Hell, but who weren't that religious and didn't actually go to church themselves. And who probably signed up too late and we were the only option left. Now don't worry, they didn't let us teach any of the important years -- certainly not Communion or Confirmation -- so we were just filler. Or, to say it simply, if Communion and Confirmation were "Happy Days" and "Laverne and Shirley," we were "Joanie Loves Chachi."
Since I didn't actually go to church regularly myself, my one big key message as a catechism teacher was, and this surely would have gotten me thrown out had the powers that be known: You don't need to go to church in order to have a relationship with God.
I always felt bad for the kids whose parents didn't go to church but were being sent the message that if THEY didn't go, God would be mad. How is that a message for a seven year old who can't take his own behind up to church? So, each week, we talked a little religion, I assured them they weren't going to Hell (which I hope I was right about, but if not, I bet we'll meet again there), and we closed each week with a rousing game of 7-UP, which was merely a way for us to keep the kids busy and quiet (heads down, thumbs up) while we caught up on gossip.
When I look back, between working, studying, and all of my mathletic, musical, and holy rolling activities, I'm surprised I didn't pass out from exhaustion, but as we all know, I'm not much for sleeping. Handy then, I suppose.
So I did all of these activities. Some I liked, some not so much, but I was determined to make myself the perfect package that any college admissions office would surely swoon over. I had it all: good grades, all the right activities, a kick a$$ Champion sweatshirt collection and, if I do say so myself, well, character.
Like a lot of people, I didn't have the easiest of childhoods and through it, built what society likes to call "character." I didn't build this willingly, but my mother was a strong woman who made it clear that I had two choices: I could either take what life had dealt me and make the most of it and move forward, or I could say, "Woe is me, my life stinks" and, by doing so, and dwelling and feeling sorry for myself, ruin my entire life. So, have a crappy childhood or ruin your whole life. Hmmm. When you look at it that way, you don't even need the length of the Jeopardy music to decide; there's not much choice.
So I applied and go into several colleges. My college decision was made pretty much for me on one thing and one thing alone: Money. Yale was the only school I could afford to go to; they have a huge endowment and they were able to give me the funds that I needed, plus work study and loans, to make college a reality. Not such a bad situation to be in.
While in college, my school district back at home went on an austerity budget, and many extracurricular activities were cut. I got into a little bit of a war of words with someone in the local paper, and we went back and forth in the Letters to the Editor. He thought all of the activities the school provided could be easily cut, and that they were frivolous. My opinion was, don't hate the player, hate the game. Until college admissions changed and students weren't judged by how well-rounded they were in activities, the districts have an obligation to help the students put their best foot forward.
Unfortunately twenty (gasp!) years later, it's just gotten worse and worse. Not only do you need to be well-rounded to get into the school of your choice, but you need a degree to seemingly get any job. So more and more people have college educations, which is good, right?
And yet, why don't people seem to actually be any smarter? Is it me?
Why are we falling behind in everything? Why is our economy on the brink? Why, with all of our technology, do we seem to be farther apart than ever?
I loved college, but I'm not sure I actually learned that much there in terms of book learning. Well, at least not much that I actually recall or put into daily practice. I made wonderful friends and terrific memories - both of which were well worth the price of admission.
My official major was English, but I really majored in staying up really late and talking to my friends for hours on end about everything and nothing. Coming from a small town with a lack of diversity, my greatest education in college was seeing a world beyond what I knew, the gift of knowing that there is a world beyond where I grew up, a world filled with people and places and rich experiences.
But college didn't help me figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I still don't know what I want to do with my life. But I'm open to suggestions. And maybe that's the whole point of getting an education: to realize that there's a helluva lot more you don't know than you could ever possibly know.
But I mean, duh. I totally knew that already.
In fact, if you really want proof of this, I challenge you to visit any online dating site -- look at any profile and I guarantee the person will declare him or herself not only smart, but also attractive with a good sense of humor. This is a statistical improbability; sure I don't get out as much lately, but I am out there in the world, and I can say with authority that not everyone is all of those three things. I mean, we only have to look at the Presidential candidates to know that. But I digress...
So, back at the doctor's, of course I answered yes, yes, I consider myself to be a smart person. And then she followed-up with, "But did you go to college?" Um, yes. "Did you finish?" Yes. "Do you have an advanced degree?" No. "Do you care about whether you've lost cognitive ability?"
Um, hell yes.
I didn't quite understand this line of questioning. Was she somehow implying that, if I didn't consider myself smart, and didn't have a college degree, that it somehow didn't matter if I lost some of my brain function?
I would think that, no matter what your brain function, no matter who you are or what you do, what letters are or aren't after your name, that you'd want to preserve whatever brain function you've got. Call me crazy, but that's how I roll.
I totally believe that how smart you are does not at all correlate with how much schooling you have. I know plenty of people who have advanced degrees from hot shot universities who are dumb as dirt, and I know plenty of people who didn't continue their education past high school, or in some cases, even before that, who are absolutely brilliant. For some people, whether the reasons be cultural, socioeconomic, or otherwise, going to college is not an option. And I totally believe in different types of intelligence. Some people can brilliantly read people and tune into them emotionally. Others are wizards with words or numbers.
Now, here comes my Miss America platform, which jives nicely with the platform that I will use if I ever run for Mayor of NYC, "Less hydrants, more parking": Don't get me wrong - I believe wholeheartedly in the power of education, especially in the power education has to transform a life and open you up to opportunities that wouldn't ordinarily be possible. I believe that, as a society, we should do everything in our power to ensure that every child has a solid educational foundation that includes post-secondary options. But as Oprah would say, one thing I know for sure is that just because someone has a college degree, does not mean he or she is smarter than the person who doesn't.
I always knew that I would go to college. What I didn't always know is how I would afford it. But I knew that, if I worked my behind off, got good grades, and rounded out my resume with every imaginable activity, I would be an appealing candidate. And when I say every imaginable activity, I mean it -- from the Varsity Club to the mathletes, from mock trial to the school musical, from SADD to student council, from the school newspaper and yearbook to band and chorus, you name it, and I was in it. And my picture is in the yearbook to prove it.
I even - you might want to sit down for this one - I even taught Sunday school. Well, it was on Saturday, but that's what it was. Looking back, I'm not sure what religious education the students in my class (which I taught with a friend who I'm sure is equally incredulous that we did this) acquired, and I'm even less sure why any parent in the world would choose a pair of 16 year olds to be in charge of their child's religious development. Actually, I do know what parent would choose us: the parents who knew that their kids had to go through the process to get them to Communion and Confirmation so they wouldn't go to Hell, but who weren't that religious and didn't actually go to church themselves. And who probably signed up too late and we were the only option left. Now don't worry, they didn't let us teach any of the important years -- certainly not Communion or Confirmation -- so we were just filler. Or, to say it simply, if Communion and Confirmation were "Happy Days" and "Laverne and Shirley," we were "Joanie Loves Chachi."
Since I didn't actually go to church regularly myself, my one big key message as a catechism teacher was, and this surely would have gotten me thrown out had the powers that be known: You don't need to go to church in order to have a relationship with God.
I always felt bad for the kids whose parents didn't go to church but were being sent the message that if THEY didn't go, God would be mad. How is that a message for a seven year old who can't take his own behind up to church? So, each week, we talked a little religion, I assured them they weren't going to Hell (which I hope I was right about, but if not, I bet we'll meet again there), and we closed each week with a rousing game of 7-UP, which was merely a way for us to keep the kids busy and quiet (heads down, thumbs up) while we caught up on gossip.
When I look back, between working, studying, and all of my mathletic, musical, and holy rolling activities, I'm surprised I didn't pass out from exhaustion, but as we all know, I'm not much for sleeping. Handy then, I suppose.
So I did all of these activities. Some I liked, some not so much, but I was determined to make myself the perfect package that any college admissions office would surely swoon over. I had it all: good grades, all the right activities, a kick a$$ Champion sweatshirt collection and, if I do say so myself, well, character.
Like a lot of people, I didn't have the easiest of childhoods and through it, built what society likes to call "character." I didn't build this willingly, but my mother was a strong woman who made it clear that I had two choices: I could either take what life had dealt me and make the most of it and move forward, or I could say, "Woe is me, my life stinks" and, by doing so, and dwelling and feeling sorry for myself, ruin my entire life. So, have a crappy childhood or ruin your whole life. Hmmm. When you look at it that way, you don't even need the length of the Jeopardy music to decide; there's not much choice.
So I applied and go into several colleges. My college decision was made pretty much for me on one thing and one thing alone: Money. Yale was the only school I could afford to go to; they have a huge endowment and they were able to give me the funds that I needed, plus work study and loans, to make college a reality. Not such a bad situation to be in.
While in college, my school district back at home went on an austerity budget, and many extracurricular activities were cut. I got into a little bit of a war of words with someone in the local paper, and we went back and forth in the Letters to the Editor. He thought all of the activities the school provided could be easily cut, and that they were frivolous. My opinion was, don't hate the player, hate the game. Until college admissions changed and students weren't judged by how well-rounded they were in activities, the districts have an obligation to help the students put their best foot forward.
Unfortunately twenty (gasp!) years later, it's just gotten worse and worse. Not only do you need to be well-rounded to get into the school of your choice, but you need a degree to seemingly get any job. So more and more people have college educations, which is good, right?
And yet, why don't people seem to actually be any smarter? Is it me?
Why are we falling behind in everything? Why is our economy on the brink? Why, with all of our technology, do we seem to be farther apart than ever?
I loved college, but I'm not sure I actually learned that much there in terms of book learning. Well, at least not much that I actually recall or put into daily practice. I made wonderful friends and terrific memories - both of which were well worth the price of admission.
My official major was English, but I really majored in staying up really late and talking to my friends for hours on end about everything and nothing. Coming from a small town with a lack of diversity, my greatest education in college was seeing a world beyond what I knew, the gift of knowing that there is a world beyond where I grew up, a world filled with people and places and rich experiences.
But college didn't help me figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I still don't know what I want to do with my life. But I'm open to suggestions. And maybe that's the whole point of getting an education: to realize that there's a helluva lot more you don't know than you could ever possibly know.
But I mean, duh. I totally knew that already.
Poor is the New Black...
(I always joke that what I really want in life is a talk show called, "And That's What I Think" where essentially I will just talk about various things. I'm sure it would be the worst show on earth, and that's saying a lot, given what else is on the air these days. Today's blog post falls into that realm -- less self-reflection, and more ranting and raving about something that I care a lot about. A bit of a departure, so let's see what you think.)
The phrase, "Poor is the new black..." is not a new one, but it's at the forefront of my mind this week because I read an article that got my Irish up, something that is pretty easy to do, unfortunately. The article was a first person account of a self-described "poor person." And as a self-described "person who knows what being poor feels like," I could tell at word one that this person knew just about as much about being poor as I know about being rich. Hint, not so much.
I first learned it was chic to be poor when I arrived on campus at Yale. As someone who had spent the first 18 years of my life hiding being poor, it was somewhat shocking to me to see so many people talking so openly about it. The problem was, as I slowly came to realize, the people talking about being poor were not poor. Not at all. Many of them had famous last names that signify generations of, well, being rich. Those of us who were really working/middle/lower class were keeping our mouths shut trying to blend in and look like we had no money troubles in the world. But these classmates were quick to say, "Sure, my last name is (insert name here), but I have no money, my parents do. I personally am poor."
True enough, but any person who knows what it's like to grow up lower class, hey, even middle class these days, knows that there's a big difference between those who come from a comfortable background and those who don't -- and the big difference is that if you truly have no money, and your family is truly poor, there is no one coming to your rescue. If you have $20 to your name, you have $20 to your name -- and that has to pay for everything, not just beer.
I have never understood why people think it is hip to claim to be poor but I do believe that people have wide definitions of what "poor" means. Being truly poor means you have no safety net, you have no money in the bank, and you are living paycheck to paycheck, that is, if you are fortunate enough to have a job, something we can't take for granted these days.
One thing I do know is the more someone talks about being poor, the less likely that person is actually poor. People who are really poor don't have to talk about it -- they are poor, they know what it's like, and, although they shouldn't be, many are ashamed to be poor, so the last thing they'll be talking about is how poor they are.
As a fundraiser, I started noticing the trend a few years ago, right when the economy collapsed, that it suddenly became okay to say you couldn't afford to do certain things. On one hand, I think that's amazing -- we should all be open and honest and have no shame about things like that. I do it myself more and more and it's really liberating, instead of taking on an expense you can't afford or lying about it. But when I started having conversations with donors about how, surely I understand that they can't give this year, because private jet fuel has gotten SO expensive, I started realizing just how skewed our perceptions really are - how un-self aware we can be. I mean, the fact that he would even say that to someone working for a nonprofit organization (not exactly a high paying job), one trying to help people who, by and large fall beneath the poverty line, shows how disconnected people can truly be.
Now, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I would LOVE to know how expensive private jet fuel has gotten. I would love to roll Oprah style. I'm not ashamed to admit that if I could afford a private plane, I would have one. I would totally have a plane and I would go on totally random trips just because I could. I would visit each of you and take you for a drink, and get back on my plane and go to the next stop. All in one day. I would like to know what it feels like to be in the 1% -- if being in the 1% meant that I knew I was in the 1%, and not pretending to be something I'm not.
Even my definition of growing up poor is far "richer" than many. Even in the darkest periods, we had family who was always willing to help. And I grew up in a resort town where even the middle and upper class kids worked, so it wasn't so obvious who had and who didn't. We all worked and were bonded together against the "city people" no matter what kind of background we came from. And we didn't just work -- we WORKED. We all put in some serious hours after school and on weekends, and in the summer, most of us worked way more than what was legal for us to do so.
People often assume because I grew up in what they call "The Hamptons," that I grew up wealthy. Not so. First of all, you will never actually catch me saying "The Hamptons" because I think it's pretentious and no one who is actually from the area says that unless they are trying to explain where they're from and have tried through several other descriptors and failed (Hampton Bays, Out East, Long Island...) "The Hamptons" are actually several towns, and so, if you're from there, you're from that town, your hometown, not some nickname that someone made up to drive tourists to the area.
Sure, people vacation there, but people also LIVE there. They work, they raise families, they live in actual houses and not hotels. They might work to support the main industry, tourism, or they may actually have a somewhat normal job that could be found anywhere.
I won't lie: aside from the tourist invasion, it is a great place to grow up. Absolutely beautiful. When I was growing up, we didn't have a mall or even any major stores in town -- we had to go "up the island" or off the island to go school shopping at the mall. We didn't have chain restaurants or a movie theater in town. What we did have was the beach - the ocean, the bay - that people come from everywhere to visit. So, as far as places to grow up, not exactly at the bottom of the list.
And it did make me aspire to do better for myself, seeing people with so much money, it really made me want to, well, if not be them, be more comfortable myself. For me the secret to that was always education -- study hard, get a scholarship, and go to a good school, which is what I did. Especially when the general impression of people who visit a resort town is that everyone who lives there year-round is a bumpkin. I remember one summer, I was wearing a Yale hat, and some older gentleman stopped me and said, "Where did you get that hat? Did you find it somewhere?" To which I responded, "Yes, in the Yale Bookstore, on campus WHERE I GO TO SCHOOL." They're letting poor white women in now? What has the world come to...
Like everywhere in this country, it's getting harder to live there and get by. I live in Manhattan now, arguably one of the most expensive places in the world to live, and I'll go home to Hampton Bays and see items in the grocery store priced higher there than in Columbus Circle where I live. How is that possible?
I am not poor anymore, but I am definitely not rich. I make a decent salary, but I am still paying down student loans and trying to live in an expensive city -- since all of these were my choices, I try not to complain. I am lucky enough to actually be able to make choices when people who are truly struggling don't. Money can't buy you happiness, but it does buy you the ability to be able to make certain choices, choices that a large part of this country don't have the luxury of making. I think they call those "high class problems" and given the choice, I'd choose high class problems any day of the week.
There is no shame in being rich, poor, or anywhere in between. But there is shame in being so disconnected from the world that you don't know where you fall on the spectrum. To me, being rich isn't the problem, it's the lack of self-awareness and the lack of connection to reality and how people are truly living in this country that is shameful.
So I promise you, if I ever do have a private plane, I won't complain about it. And if I do, you have permission to slap me upside the head. Wait, not the head ... you can pinch me really, really hard.
(And that's what I think.)
The phrase, "Poor is the new black..." is not a new one, but it's at the forefront of my mind this week because I read an article that got my Irish up, something that is pretty easy to do, unfortunately. The article was a first person account of a self-described "poor person." And as a self-described "person who knows what being poor feels like," I could tell at word one that this person knew just about as much about being poor as I know about being rich. Hint, not so much.
I first learned it was chic to be poor when I arrived on campus at Yale. As someone who had spent the first 18 years of my life hiding being poor, it was somewhat shocking to me to see so many people talking so openly about it. The problem was, as I slowly came to realize, the people talking about being poor were not poor. Not at all. Many of them had famous last names that signify generations of, well, being rich. Those of us who were really working/middle/lower class were keeping our mouths shut trying to blend in and look like we had no money troubles in the world. But these classmates were quick to say, "Sure, my last name is (insert name here), but I have no money, my parents do. I personally am poor."
True enough, but any person who knows what it's like to grow up lower class, hey, even middle class these days, knows that there's a big difference between those who come from a comfortable background and those who don't -- and the big difference is that if you truly have no money, and your family is truly poor, there is no one coming to your rescue. If you have $20 to your name, you have $20 to your name -- and that has to pay for everything, not just beer.
I have never understood why people think it is hip to claim to be poor but I do believe that people have wide definitions of what "poor" means. Being truly poor means you have no safety net, you have no money in the bank, and you are living paycheck to paycheck, that is, if you are fortunate enough to have a job, something we can't take for granted these days.
One thing I do know is the more someone talks about being poor, the less likely that person is actually poor. People who are really poor don't have to talk about it -- they are poor, they know what it's like, and, although they shouldn't be, many are ashamed to be poor, so the last thing they'll be talking about is how poor they are.
As a fundraiser, I started noticing the trend a few years ago, right when the economy collapsed, that it suddenly became okay to say you couldn't afford to do certain things. On one hand, I think that's amazing -- we should all be open and honest and have no shame about things like that. I do it myself more and more and it's really liberating, instead of taking on an expense you can't afford or lying about it. But when I started having conversations with donors about how, surely I understand that they can't give this year, because private jet fuel has gotten SO expensive, I started realizing just how skewed our perceptions really are - how un-self aware we can be. I mean, the fact that he would even say that to someone working for a nonprofit organization (not exactly a high paying job), one trying to help people who, by and large fall beneath the poverty line, shows how disconnected people can truly be.
Now, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I would LOVE to know how expensive private jet fuel has gotten. I would love to roll Oprah style. I'm not ashamed to admit that if I could afford a private plane, I would have one. I would totally have a plane and I would go on totally random trips just because I could. I would visit each of you and take you for a drink, and get back on my plane and go to the next stop. All in one day. I would like to know what it feels like to be in the 1% -- if being in the 1% meant that I knew I was in the 1%, and not pretending to be something I'm not.
Even my definition of growing up poor is far "richer" than many. Even in the darkest periods, we had family who was always willing to help. And I grew up in a resort town where even the middle and upper class kids worked, so it wasn't so obvious who had and who didn't. We all worked and were bonded together against the "city people" no matter what kind of background we came from. And we didn't just work -- we WORKED. We all put in some serious hours after school and on weekends, and in the summer, most of us worked way more than what was legal for us to do so.
People often assume because I grew up in what they call "The Hamptons," that I grew up wealthy. Not so. First of all, you will never actually catch me saying "The Hamptons" because I think it's pretentious and no one who is actually from the area says that unless they are trying to explain where they're from and have tried through several other descriptors and failed (Hampton Bays, Out East, Long Island...) "The Hamptons" are actually several towns, and so, if you're from there, you're from that town, your hometown, not some nickname that someone made up to drive tourists to the area.
Sure, people vacation there, but people also LIVE there. They work, they raise families, they live in actual houses and not hotels. They might work to support the main industry, tourism, or they may actually have a somewhat normal job that could be found anywhere.
I won't lie: aside from the tourist invasion, it is a great place to grow up. Absolutely beautiful. When I was growing up, we didn't have a mall or even any major stores in town -- we had to go "up the island" or off the island to go school shopping at the mall. We didn't have chain restaurants or a movie theater in town. What we did have was the beach - the ocean, the bay - that people come from everywhere to visit. So, as far as places to grow up, not exactly at the bottom of the list.
And it did make me aspire to do better for myself, seeing people with so much money, it really made me want to, well, if not be them, be more comfortable myself. For me the secret to that was always education -- study hard, get a scholarship, and go to a good school, which is what I did. Especially when the general impression of people who visit a resort town is that everyone who lives there year-round is a bumpkin. I remember one summer, I was wearing a Yale hat, and some older gentleman stopped me and said, "Where did you get that hat? Did you find it somewhere?" To which I responded, "Yes, in the Yale Bookstore, on campus WHERE I GO TO SCHOOL." They're letting poor white women in now? What has the world come to...
Like everywhere in this country, it's getting harder to live there and get by. I live in Manhattan now, arguably one of the most expensive places in the world to live, and I'll go home to Hampton Bays and see items in the grocery store priced higher there than in Columbus Circle where I live. How is that possible?
I am not poor anymore, but I am definitely not rich. I make a decent salary, but I am still paying down student loans and trying to live in an expensive city -- since all of these were my choices, I try not to complain. I am lucky enough to actually be able to make choices when people who are truly struggling don't. Money can't buy you happiness, but it does buy you the ability to be able to make certain choices, choices that a large part of this country don't have the luxury of making. I think they call those "high class problems" and given the choice, I'd choose high class problems any day of the week.
There is no shame in being rich, poor, or anywhere in between. But there is shame in being so disconnected from the world that you don't know where you fall on the spectrum. To me, being rich isn't the problem, it's the lack of self-awareness and the lack of connection to reality and how people are truly living in this country that is shameful.
So I promise you, if I ever do have a private plane, I won't complain about it. And if I do, you have permission to slap me upside the head. Wait, not the head ... you can pinch me really, really hard.
(And that's what I think.)
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
You're So Vain...
You probably think this blog is about you.
I confess that, when I started toying around the idea of writing for public consumption, not just this blog, but the sheer notion that anything might live outside my head, my first concern was how others would react. How do you tell your story without bringing other people into it? I'm always reminded of Ray Romano's quote about how when his wife complained about her portrayal on his show, he used to tell her to go and cry on a bag of money. But truly, if the goal is that we live intertwined, how do you tell your own story without telling someone else's?
The wonderfully supportive friend and talented author Liza Palmer reminds me to never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
We all have a story. As my grandmother was fond of saying, paraphrasing the quote, "If everyone threw their problems in the middle of the table, you'd gladly take back your own." Sometimes I look at my life and think I've gone through a lot, and then, more often, I feel truly fortunate.
Over the years, we all become expert at telling our stories, revealing what we want to, and holding back the parts that we'd rather stay dark. I think that's why old friends are so cherished - they've been there, they know, we don't have to cover that part of the tale, no need to start at square one, square 14 will do.
But even still, we whitewash our stories, sometimes without even realizing it. When I went to my high school reunion this summer, we were just randomly talking and reminiscing when somehow it came up that my dad had died one summer while we were in junior high. Literally everyone was like, "Um, we did not know this." Which blew my mind. How did I keep that a secret? Why did I keep it a secret? I don't think I tried to, but I think I just didn't make it a part of my story. I mean, I certainly saw friends that summer and some of them must have known, but looking back, I guess it just never came up. Pretty unbelievable when you think about how I grew up in a tiny hamlet and went to school with the same 75 kids from age 5 to 18. I skipped a serious chapter of my story, and by doing so, I missed out on the support and comfort I could have gotten from my friends, and perhaps kept them from understanding a little more about who and what I am.
But sometimes starting at square 14 can be liberating -- having the chance for a fresh start, the chance to wipe the slate clean and reinvent yourself. With old friends, it's harder to do that. Old friends have memories like elephants -- "Good luck trying to be cool. I remember when you fell down that flight of stairs."
I find myself guilty of that all the time - and more so, I think of my longtime friends as the same age when we were making our best memories together. Which is why I'm always asking them, quite seriously, "Why does everyone else so damn old and we still look 21?" Because when I look at them, I don't see how old we are now, I see 14, 21 or 25.
And that's both a good thing and a bad thing. By keeping everyone in these boxes, I'm not allowing them to grow in my mind, and, perhaps, vice versa. And everything they say or do, I see and hear through the lens of our shared history. "Oh boy, this is just like that time..." "She always does this..." When, with someone new, they get the benefit of the doubt, they get a chance to tell their own story with no judgment.
Doesn't everyone deserve that, especially the people we care about the most?
I recently had dinner with someone I had grown up with, after not seeing him for 20 years. Everyone wanted to know whether he had changed. He was exactly the same and yet completely different, both at the same time. And thank God. Maybe it would have been comforting for me to see the same guy I always knew, but I would hope that 20 years would have brought him to a different point than when I last saw him at 18. I found him to be candid and mature, and, well, not 18 anymore. He's a dad and a husband and a successful businessperson. And as much as we walked down memory lane, we also spent a fair amount of time talking about our lives now, and how, honestly, a lot of the time, we felt like we had no clue. And it kind of blew me away.
When we were leaving, he started laughing when I pulled out a pack of gum - "You still carry gum." Something I've done since I've been old enough to, well, chew gum. And the recognition of this small, shared thing brought us back to square one again.
I'm not going to lie, it felt really nice, a nice place to visit now and then, but I wouldn't want to live there.
And since he has his own version of this story, it may well go differently, and that's okay. But in my version, I look much younger and thinner, and I most certainly did not casually pull a hair off the pack of gum before I gave it to him.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
I confess that, when I started toying around the idea of writing for public consumption, not just this blog, but the sheer notion that anything might live outside my head, my first concern was how others would react. How do you tell your story without bringing other people into it? I'm always reminded of Ray Romano's quote about how when his wife complained about her portrayal on his show, he used to tell her to go and cry on a bag of money. But truly, if the goal is that we live intertwined, how do you tell your own story without telling someone else's?
The wonderfully supportive friend and talented author Liza Palmer reminds me to never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
We all have a story. As my grandmother was fond of saying, paraphrasing the quote, "If everyone threw their problems in the middle of the table, you'd gladly take back your own." Sometimes I look at my life and think I've gone through a lot, and then, more often, I feel truly fortunate.
Over the years, we all become expert at telling our stories, revealing what we want to, and holding back the parts that we'd rather stay dark. I think that's why old friends are so cherished - they've been there, they know, we don't have to cover that part of the tale, no need to start at square one, square 14 will do.
But even still, we whitewash our stories, sometimes without even realizing it. When I went to my high school reunion this summer, we were just randomly talking and reminiscing when somehow it came up that my dad had died one summer while we were in junior high. Literally everyone was like, "Um, we did not know this." Which blew my mind. How did I keep that a secret? Why did I keep it a secret? I don't think I tried to, but I think I just didn't make it a part of my story. I mean, I certainly saw friends that summer and some of them must have known, but looking back, I guess it just never came up. Pretty unbelievable when you think about how I grew up in a tiny hamlet and went to school with the same 75 kids from age 5 to 18. I skipped a serious chapter of my story, and by doing so, I missed out on the support and comfort I could have gotten from my friends, and perhaps kept them from understanding a little more about who and what I am.
But sometimes starting at square 14 can be liberating -- having the chance for a fresh start, the chance to wipe the slate clean and reinvent yourself. With old friends, it's harder to do that. Old friends have memories like elephants -- "Good luck trying to be cool. I remember when you fell down that flight of stairs."
I find myself guilty of that all the time - and more so, I think of my longtime friends as the same age when we were making our best memories together. Which is why I'm always asking them, quite seriously, "Why does everyone else so damn old and we still look 21?" Because when I look at them, I don't see how old we are now, I see 14, 21 or 25.
And that's both a good thing and a bad thing. By keeping everyone in these boxes, I'm not allowing them to grow in my mind, and, perhaps, vice versa. And everything they say or do, I see and hear through the lens of our shared history. "Oh boy, this is just like that time..." "She always does this..." When, with someone new, they get the benefit of the doubt, they get a chance to tell their own story with no judgment.
Doesn't everyone deserve that, especially the people we care about the most?
I recently had dinner with someone I had grown up with, after not seeing him for 20 years. Everyone wanted to know whether he had changed. He was exactly the same and yet completely different, both at the same time. And thank God. Maybe it would have been comforting for me to see the same guy I always knew, but I would hope that 20 years would have brought him to a different point than when I last saw him at 18. I found him to be candid and mature, and, well, not 18 anymore. He's a dad and a husband and a successful businessperson. And as much as we walked down memory lane, we also spent a fair amount of time talking about our lives now, and how, honestly, a lot of the time, we felt like we had no clue. And it kind of blew me away.
When we were leaving, he started laughing when I pulled out a pack of gum - "You still carry gum." Something I've done since I've been old enough to, well, chew gum. And the recognition of this small, shared thing brought us back to square one again.
I'm not going to lie, it felt really nice, a nice place to visit now and then, but I wouldn't want to live there.
And since he has his own version of this story, it may well go differently, and that's okay. But in my version, I look much younger and thinner, and I most certainly did not casually pull a hair off the pack of gum before I gave it to him.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Perfect is the Enemy of the ... Perfectionist
I confess one of the phrases that gets under my skin the most is "Perfect is the enemy of the good." Part of me think it's a kind of a cop-out, you know, so that things that are "good enough" are acceptable.
But then again, what's so wrong with "good enough" anyway?
The organization I work for did a study a few years ago where we uncovered that girls at EVERY age, even as young as 6, were feeling a paralyzing pressure to succeed, to be perfect. The word "paralyzing" is no accident. What was happening to these girls is, what is STILL happening to girls (and boys and women and men) is that they were so afraid to make a mistake, to fail, that they didn't even try.
When I reflect on moments in my life I most regret, it's not the moments where I failed and embarrassed myself, it's the opportunities I missed because I was afraid to take a risk, afraid to put myself out there and fail.
Education experts/psychologists, etc., and many people way smarter than me, tell us that the way to build confidence, the way to build a healthy self-esteem and sense of self, is to try and fail -- and to get back up and try again, and to keep trying until you succeed. Confidence isn't built from doing things well over and over, but from learning and knowing that you can persevere.
I find that a lot of high achieving people that I know are really afraid to try things. Because many high achieving people have always been told from early days that they were smart and really good at certain things ... so things that they are not so good at, no thanks, we'll pass.
My challenge for the new year is to start pushing myself to try new things and fail at them, which I will surely do. This blog is an example of that. It's something I've wanted to do for a long time, but was afraid that it wouldn't be good enough -- no one would want to read it, it would be boring, whiny, all of those negative things that your head tells you when self-preservation kicks in and tries to stop you from going out onto the ledge.
But I decided the main reason I'm doing this is that I like doing it -- I like writing, and yes, I've always been pretty good at it. But I still do care what people think. I hope I get to the point where I don't care, but I'm not there yet.
So if you see a typo or hate what you see, do me a favor, don't tell me. Well, unless your definition of "doing something new this year" is criticizing others, then knock yourself out.
But then again, what's so wrong with "good enough" anyway?
The organization I work for did a study a few years ago where we uncovered that girls at EVERY age, even as young as 6, were feeling a paralyzing pressure to succeed, to be perfect. The word "paralyzing" is no accident. What was happening to these girls is, what is STILL happening to girls (and boys and women and men) is that they were so afraid to make a mistake, to fail, that they didn't even try.
When I reflect on moments in my life I most regret, it's not the moments where I failed and embarrassed myself, it's the opportunities I missed because I was afraid to take a risk, afraid to put myself out there and fail.
Education experts/psychologists, etc., and many people way smarter than me, tell us that the way to build confidence, the way to build a healthy self-esteem and sense of self, is to try and fail -- and to get back up and try again, and to keep trying until you succeed. Confidence isn't built from doing things well over and over, but from learning and knowing that you can persevere.
I find that a lot of high achieving people that I know are really afraid to try things. Because many high achieving people have always been told from early days that they were smart and really good at certain things ... so things that they are not so good at, no thanks, we'll pass.
My challenge for the new year is to start pushing myself to try new things and fail at them, which I will surely do. This blog is an example of that. It's something I've wanted to do for a long time, but was afraid that it wouldn't be good enough -- no one would want to read it, it would be boring, whiny, all of those negative things that your head tells you when self-preservation kicks in and tries to stop you from going out onto the ledge.
But I decided the main reason I'm doing this is that I like doing it -- I like writing, and yes, I've always been pretty good at it. But I still do care what people think. I hope I get to the point where I don't care, but I'm not there yet.
So if you see a typo or hate what you see, do me a favor, don't tell me. Well, unless your definition of "doing something new this year" is criticizing others, then knock yourself out.
Trust Issues...
When your own brain lies to you, it's hard to know who you can trust...
One of the most irritating aspects of Post Concussion Syndrome is that waking up each day is a bit like playing the lottery -- you really don't know how you're going to feel, and you could win big and feel great, or lose, and take a step back. Again, this is not unique to me, it apparently happens until you're fully better. It's very common to take a few steps forward and then take one back, but as a very impatient person, it has been working my last remaining nerves.
Apparently my brain is a bit of a liar. It tells me we're feeling good, and let's me go about my business, but then at the end of the day, it's like, "I'm sorry, I lied, I was sick of being at home, and I really wanted to go to TJ Maxx." And then I am up all night dealing with the pain, dizziness, etc. as my brain does its best to shake off the overload and the next day is a bit of a disaster. The best way I can describe it is you feel like you've literally short-circuited.
So who can you trust when you can't trust yourself?
I'm someone who has two speeds -- warp and completely at rest. I have always been that way. And clearly my brain hasn't learned that we need to find that precious middle ground. To me this place is a mystery and I'd probably sooner recognize Bigfoot riding in on a unicorn than I could identify and live within that space of balance.
How do you find it a 24/7 world? I think there's an epidemic of people who don't know their limits, people living at an unhealthy pace with priorities that are totally out of whack.
People like me.
I know for me one thing I realized with this accident is that the center of my world is work. It's a constant. I see the people I work with more than anyone else in my life. So one of the things I am struggling to do through this is to keep working so I feel like I have a routine, and a touchstone. I'm good at work, and they like me there; they want me to keep coming back and they need me. And I like to feel needed.
The first people I told about the accident after family was work, and everyone I work with has been extremely supportive. They check in daily; they help me do things that sometimes aren't that easy for me, like getting lunch and getting home safely. And because they see me every day, they have a pretty good understanding of what this process has been like whereas candidly, aside from family, no one else really does.
I know this isn't a healthy balance, but that's where I am and again, that's one of the lessons I think this is here to teach me -- that a better balance can and should be struck. Every now and then, I consider taking an official leave of absence to fully recover, hopefully more quickly, but the notion is pretty terrifying -- it would feel like a free fall to be cut off from my routine, from seeing people, from what I'm good at. Without work, without a schedule, I would be left to my own devices and that's a scary thought.
So I'm left to try to trust myself and to know my boundaries and limits and I haven't got a clue!
The only thing I do know is, if I DO start seeing Bigfoot riding on a unicorn, I'm in more trouble than I had originally thought.
One of the most irritating aspects of Post Concussion Syndrome is that waking up each day is a bit like playing the lottery -- you really don't know how you're going to feel, and you could win big and feel great, or lose, and take a step back. Again, this is not unique to me, it apparently happens until you're fully better. It's very common to take a few steps forward and then take one back, but as a very impatient person, it has been working my last remaining nerves.
Apparently my brain is a bit of a liar. It tells me we're feeling good, and let's me go about my business, but then at the end of the day, it's like, "I'm sorry, I lied, I was sick of being at home, and I really wanted to go to TJ Maxx." And then I am up all night dealing with the pain, dizziness, etc. as my brain does its best to shake off the overload and the next day is a bit of a disaster. The best way I can describe it is you feel like you've literally short-circuited.
So who can you trust when you can't trust yourself?
I'm someone who has two speeds -- warp and completely at rest. I have always been that way. And clearly my brain hasn't learned that we need to find that precious middle ground. To me this place is a mystery and I'd probably sooner recognize Bigfoot riding in on a unicorn than I could identify and live within that space of balance.
How do you find it a 24/7 world? I think there's an epidemic of people who don't know their limits, people living at an unhealthy pace with priorities that are totally out of whack.
People like me.
I know for me one thing I realized with this accident is that the center of my world is work. It's a constant. I see the people I work with more than anyone else in my life. So one of the things I am struggling to do through this is to keep working so I feel like I have a routine, and a touchstone. I'm good at work, and they like me there; they want me to keep coming back and they need me. And I like to feel needed.
The first people I told about the accident after family was work, and everyone I work with has been extremely supportive. They check in daily; they help me do things that sometimes aren't that easy for me, like getting lunch and getting home safely. And because they see me every day, they have a pretty good understanding of what this process has been like whereas candidly, aside from family, no one else really does.
I know this isn't a healthy balance, but that's where I am and again, that's one of the lessons I think this is here to teach me -- that a better balance can and should be struck. Every now and then, I consider taking an official leave of absence to fully recover, hopefully more quickly, but the notion is pretty terrifying -- it would feel like a free fall to be cut off from my routine, from seeing people, from what I'm good at. Without work, without a schedule, I would be left to my own devices and that's a scary thought.
So I'm left to try to trust myself and to know my boundaries and limits and I haven't got a clue!
The only thing I do know is, if I DO start seeing Bigfoot riding on a unicorn, I'm in more trouble than I had originally thought.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Show me your tongue...
Thanks to this experience, I have had all kinds of new medical adventures on the road to Wellville. And frankly, if I had it in me, I'd declare a new life goal to go to medical school and specialize in concussion treatment, because let me tell you, everyone's got one (or had one), and it seems like no one knows all that much about 'em.
Apparently, they are different with each person -- they can last a day, or morph into years of post concussion syndrome. You can get hit by a ton of bricks and walk away unscathed or seemingly brush by a feather and be in for a world of hurt.
And the more I talk about it (and I do), it truly does seem like everyone (read: lots of people) has had one at one point so I am by no means special. Many have interesting tales - some involving alcohol, others terrible accidents or extreme sports, and rarer still, others were like me, and were sitting on their ass maniacally typing something of no import on a BlackBerry blissfully unaware of the insanity that was about to rain down and create a whole lot of irritation.
I have been willing to try anything to make this go away -- from sitting in total darkness to eating only fresh fruits and vegetables (that didn't last long) to taking a battery of cognitive tests to going to bed at 8 p.m. to my latest pursuit, acupuncture.
Acupuncture was suggested to me by good friend and former boss, Gayle, who has always been on the forefront of alternative medicine. Since I trust her implicitly, all I needed was her recommendation to be sold. With her help, I've found a wonderful acupuncturist who, so far, has helped me feel better!
I am really fascinated by Chinese medicine and what it can reveal about your body. My tongue apparently says that I am an emotional person with digestive problems. Essentially, although I may lose my temper easily, you can rest assured that I feel really bad about it and will replay the situation over and over in my mind, which will in turn create the aforementioned digestive issues. Ahh, the circle of life. Apparenty, what I've learned is that your tongue always tells the truth even when you're trying to lie and claim, sure I've been doing all the the right things, getting enough sleep, etc. It's a bit of a turncoat like that. So it's not even worth it to bother to lie. Your tongue shall set you free. Or something like that.
The fact that so much information can come from looking at a person's tongue has now led to an obsession with trying to catch a glimpse of someone's tongue when I'm talking to them or watching tv. I don't know what I'm looking for but it sure is entertaining for someone who isn't getting out much. And for the record, I think the Bachelorette may want to see someone about her digestive issues...
This is not the first time that I've played armchair, totally unqualified medical professional with a specialty in every topic. I've been doing it my whole life. I'd like to think that years of watching General Hospital, ER, ER (the comedy), and Grey's Anatomy surely count toward some medical degree. When you add in nearly 40 years of hypochondria, I am most certainly an expert in something. I can Google any symptom and come up with the worst case scenario in mere seconds.
Perhaps my lowest point in my "medical career" (or highest point, depending how you look at it) came several years ago when I impersonated a nurse while in the feminine hygiene aisle of CVS. Now, as anyone, male or female, who has been there can attest, this is no aisle that we like to spend a lot of time in -- you get in, you get what you need, and you get out, moving on over to the candy aisle, or someplace more pleasant and socially acceptable.
On this day, some poor girl was minding her own business, embarrassingly trying to choose a yeast infection product, and just go about her day, when I caught a glimpse of her as I was heading to the candy aisle (what you didn't think I needed feminine hygiene, did you?) and decided that she could benefit from my helpful advice. Once the words, "Excuse me, do you have a yeast infection?" spilled out of my mouth, and I saw the sheer horror on her face, I realized that instead of helping her, I was instead creating several new conditions that might need subsequent treatment - panic, anxiety, ulcer, rash, perhaps diarrhea.
And so, trying to cover why any stranger would think it's appropriate to strike up this conversation, I announced, "Because that one won't work if you're on antibiotics. I know about these things because I am a nurse. Take this, all of my patients think it's the best." And, shoving something in her hand (Monistat 7 Day Dual Treatment, if you must know), I walked away authoritatively, essentially suggesting, "Take my advice or ignore it and suffer forever. Your choice." I didn't look back. I was afraid to, because part of me thinks she ran in fear or maybe needed to wander over to the adult diapers or the Pepto-Bismol. In fact, she probably still has that yeast infection.
I'd like to say that, if I ran into her again today, I wouldn't do it again, but I probably would. But instead of asking whether she had a yeast infection, this time, I would just say, "Show me your tongue."
Apparently, they are different with each person -- they can last a day, or morph into years of post concussion syndrome. You can get hit by a ton of bricks and walk away unscathed or seemingly brush by a feather and be in for a world of hurt.
And the more I talk about it (and I do), it truly does seem like everyone (read: lots of people) has had one at one point so I am by no means special. Many have interesting tales - some involving alcohol, others terrible accidents or extreme sports, and rarer still, others were like me, and were sitting on their ass maniacally typing something of no import on a BlackBerry blissfully unaware of the insanity that was about to rain down and create a whole lot of irritation.
I have been willing to try anything to make this go away -- from sitting in total darkness to eating only fresh fruits and vegetables (that didn't last long) to taking a battery of cognitive tests to going to bed at 8 p.m. to my latest pursuit, acupuncture.
Acupuncture was suggested to me by good friend and former boss, Gayle, who has always been on the forefront of alternative medicine. Since I trust her implicitly, all I needed was her recommendation to be sold. With her help, I've found a wonderful acupuncturist who, so far, has helped me feel better!
I am really fascinated by Chinese medicine and what it can reveal about your body. My tongue apparently says that I am an emotional person with digestive problems. Essentially, although I may lose my temper easily, you can rest assured that I feel really bad about it and will replay the situation over and over in my mind, which will in turn create the aforementioned digestive issues. Ahh, the circle of life. Apparenty, what I've learned is that your tongue always tells the truth even when you're trying to lie and claim, sure I've been doing all the the right things, getting enough sleep, etc. It's a bit of a turncoat like that. So it's not even worth it to bother to lie. Your tongue shall set you free. Or something like that.
The fact that so much information can come from looking at a person's tongue has now led to an obsession with trying to catch a glimpse of someone's tongue when I'm talking to them or watching tv. I don't know what I'm looking for but it sure is entertaining for someone who isn't getting out much. And for the record, I think the Bachelorette may want to see someone about her digestive issues...
This is not the first time that I've played armchair, totally unqualified medical professional with a specialty in every topic. I've been doing it my whole life. I'd like to think that years of watching General Hospital, ER, ER (the comedy), and Grey's Anatomy surely count toward some medical degree. When you add in nearly 40 years of hypochondria, I am most certainly an expert in something. I can Google any symptom and come up with the worst case scenario in mere seconds.
Perhaps my lowest point in my "medical career" (or highest point, depending how you look at it) came several years ago when I impersonated a nurse while in the feminine hygiene aisle of CVS. Now, as anyone, male or female, who has been there can attest, this is no aisle that we like to spend a lot of time in -- you get in, you get what you need, and you get out, moving on over to the candy aisle, or someplace more pleasant and socially acceptable.
On this day, some poor girl was minding her own business, embarrassingly trying to choose a yeast infection product, and just go about her day, when I caught a glimpse of her as I was heading to the candy aisle (what you didn't think I needed feminine hygiene, did you?) and decided that she could benefit from my helpful advice. Once the words, "Excuse me, do you have a yeast infection?" spilled out of my mouth, and I saw the sheer horror on her face, I realized that instead of helping her, I was instead creating several new conditions that might need subsequent treatment - panic, anxiety, ulcer, rash, perhaps diarrhea.
And so, trying to cover why any stranger would think it's appropriate to strike up this conversation, I announced, "Because that one won't work if you're on antibiotics. I know about these things because I am a nurse. Take this, all of my patients think it's the best." And, shoving something in her hand (Monistat 7 Day Dual Treatment, if you must know), I walked away authoritatively, essentially suggesting, "Take my advice or ignore it and suffer forever. Your choice." I didn't look back. I was afraid to, because part of me thinks she ran in fear or maybe needed to wander over to the adult diapers or the Pepto-Bismol. In fact, she probably still has that yeast infection.
I'd like to say that, if I ran into her again today, I wouldn't do it again, but I probably would. But instead of asking whether she had a yeast infection, this time, I would just say, "Show me your tongue."
Serenity Now!
We've all heard the AA messages, "One Day at a Time" (totally my favorite '70s television show) and the Serenity Prayer (God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.) Alcoholism is in my family, so these were messages I heard early on. But I'll be honest that I never really thought about what they meant, and how they could be applied until, well, today.
I am a total control freak, and spend my days consciously and subconsciously obsessing about how to control everything in my path. Intellectually I know this is a futile pursuit. It's impossible really because as a human on this tiny planet, I really don't have control over very much at all, which is most distressing.
I received scientific proof of this obsession with control last April when I was selected to attend a leadership development academy with a cohort of other nonprofit leaders (read: lots of other folks who share a love for helping others and, yes, control). Before the experience, we were all administered a battery of tests designed to give us insight into how we operate. One of those tests was the FIRO-B, which helps assess our need for interpersonal interaction in the areas of Inclusion, Control and Affection in terms of both ‘expressed’ and ‘wanted’ behaviors. I know, zzz, but stay with me.
So they took all of our scores and hung them up around the room -- one stood out as the highest control score -- 9 (max) on 'expressed' control (how much you want to control others) and a big old goose egg on 'wanted' control (how much you want to be controlled). And you guessed it, the owner of those scores was yours truly. So even in a room full of people who like to control, I had "won," so to speak. I had also really "won" because the test also showed my need for affection and inclusion were also high -- sparking jokes among us like, "I don't want to GO to your stupid party, but you better invite me." It was explained to me that this combo -- really wanting to be in control, yet also needing affection and needing to be included, could really be a recipe for disaster. A "winning" combination.
Only not so much. In a world where you can't control anything, it is NO good at all to want to be so controlling. But it was really eye opening for me to see these numbers and to really understand how I think, which embarrassingly, was alien to me, and, more importantly, how I come across. So, since then, I've been really trying to work on that, with mixed results. At work, it's been easier. I still freak out inside when a project I've delegated gets done and it's "not the way I would have done it," but it's done, and best of all, I didn't have to do it. And I've realized, if I stop trying to control everyone else's work, it leaves me time to do what I have actually been hired to do, and it actually gives the people I work with room to grow and learn.
In my personal life, it's been a bit harder. Among my friends, I am the planner, the organizer, so stepping back and not planning as much (trying not to control) has honestly meant that I don't get invited to much. Which is not an exercise I recommend because it doesn't feel great to not be included, and I really need that, but I understand how and why it happens. So I'm learning to strike a balance.
Which brings me to today, and finally learning the lesson that I can't control anything. Honestly, even as late as last week, in recovering from this accident, I thought I could control the process, even through crazy things. Like I moved my bed a little to the right so it's not under the ceiling fan, in case, you know, the fan, which is not even turned on, should go out of control and fall on me and give me another concussion. And wait, is the tub floor a little wobbly, maybe it is about to crash through the floor! Because everything is conspiring against me to slow down the healing. The logic being ... If I do X, I will feel better. And for God's sake, don't do Y
Wrong.
This is something that is really and truly out of my control. Sure, I can try to help it along by sleeping a lot, eating healthy, and trying not to get stressed, but really, a lot of it is out of my hands. So the other day I just made the decision that I was going to surrender to the process, and see where it goes. And let it take as long as it takes. I honestly said to myself, "Just let this go." And shockingly, I do feel better. This isn't the end of the world, it's not a life-threatening condition. And as frustrating as it is for me to not feel 100%, this is how it is, every day I'm a little better, and obsessing about it won't make me heal any faster.
But I'm still not moving my bed back under that fan...
I am a total control freak, and spend my days consciously and subconsciously obsessing about how to control everything in my path. Intellectually I know this is a futile pursuit. It's impossible really because as a human on this tiny planet, I really don't have control over very much at all, which is most distressing.
I received scientific proof of this obsession with control last April when I was selected to attend a leadership development academy with a cohort of other nonprofit leaders (read: lots of other folks who share a love for helping others and, yes, control). Before the experience, we were all administered a battery of tests designed to give us insight into how we operate. One of those tests was the FIRO-B, which helps assess our need for interpersonal interaction in the areas of Inclusion, Control and Affection in terms of both ‘expressed’ and ‘wanted’ behaviors. I know, zzz, but stay with me.
So they took all of our scores and hung them up around the room -- one stood out as the highest control score -- 9 (max) on 'expressed' control (how much you want to control others) and a big old goose egg on 'wanted' control (how much you want to be controlled). And you guessed it, the owner of those scores was yours truly. So even in a room full of people who like to control, I had "won," so to speak. I had also really "won" because the test also showed my need for affection and inclusion were also high -- sparking jokes among us like, "I don't want to GO to your stupid party, but you better invite me." It was explained to me that this combo -- really wanting to be in control, yet also needing affection and needing to be included, could really be a recipe for disaster. A "winning" combination.
Only not so much. In a world where you can't control anything, it is NO good at all to want to be so controlling. But it was really eye opening for me to see these numbers and to really understand how I think, which embarrassingly, was alien to me, and, more importantly, how I come across. So, since then, I've been really trying to work on that, with mixed results. At work, it's been easier. I still freak out inside when a project I've delegated gets done and it's "not the way I would have done it," but it's done, and best of all, I didn't have to do it. And I've realized, if I stop trying to control everyone else's work, it leaves me time to do what I have actually been hired to do, and it actually gives the people I work with room to grow and learn.
In my personal life, it's been a bit harder. Among my friends, I am the planner, the organizer, so stepping back and not planning as much (trying not to control) has honestly meant that I don't get invited to much. Which is not an exercise I recommend because it doesn't feel great to not be included, and I really need that, but I understand how and why it happens. So I'm learning to strike a balance.
Which brings me to today, and finally learning the lesson that I can't control anything. Honestly, even as late as last week, in recovering from this accident, I thought I could control the process, even through crazy things. Like I moved my bed a little to the right so it's not under the ceiling fan, in case, you know, the fan, which is not even turned on, should go out of control and fall on me and give me another concussion. And wait, is the tub floor a little wobbly, maybe it is about to crash through the floor! Because everything is conspiring against me to slow down the healing. The logic being ... If I do X, I will feel better. And for God's sake, don't do Y
Wrong.
This is something that is really and truly out of my control. Sure, I can try to help it along by sleeping a lot, eating healthy, and trying not to get stressed, but really, a lot of it is out of my hands. So the other day I just made the decision that I was going to surrender to the process, and see where it goes. And let it take as long as it takes. I honestly said to myself, "Just let this go." And shockingly, I do feel better. This isn't the end of the world, it's not a life-threatening condition. And as frustrating as it is for me to not feel 100%, this is how it is, every day I'm a little better, and obsessing about it won't make me heal any faster.
But I'm still not moving my bed back under that fan...
Monday, January 9, 2012
Anything but that...
One of the worst parts about the last eight weeks (not that I am counting) has been the disappearance of my sense of humor. The worst part is that I didn't even notice it was missing until my mother, somewhat wistfully, innocently proclaimed, "You used to have such a great sense of humor..." To which I snapped back, "I also used to not have a head injury!" I'm laughing as I type that now, because it's hilarious in its drama, but believe me, I was not laughing at the time. I did not find it funny at all, much like I don't find Two and a Half Men funny, but I digress.
Truth be told, I think I have laughed about five times this whole experience, and I was probably faking it half of the time (reference earlier paragraph). There's really not that much funny about not feeling well and not understanding how or why you feel this way and when you won't feel this way.
But I've decided if this takes my sense of humor, the injury wins, and I refuse to let that happen. So, instead of deciding to look back on this experience and laugh later, I've decided to start laughing now. So I'm going to start compiling a list of things that are usually guaranteed to make me laugh:
Stepbrothers. Man, I love that movie.
People falling. Wait, scratch that; no longer funny as I see concussions everywhere.
Having the hiccups. I always add insult to injury when cursed with a case of the hiccups by laughing on top of them. Why? Because they're ridiculous.
Eddie Murphy's Delirious. Offensive and hilarious.
Old people cursing. It just seems so wrong.
They do say laughter is the best medicine, so go on, tell me a joke; let's see what you got. I dare you.
Truth be told, I think I have laughed about five times this whole experience, and I was probably faking it half of the time (reference earlier paragraph). There's really not that much funny about not feeling well and not understanding how or why you feel this way and when you won't feel this way.
But I've decided if this takes my sense of humor, the injury wins, and I refuse to let that happen. So, instead of deciding to look back on this experience and laugh later, I've decided to start laughing now. So I'm going to start compiling a list of things that are usually guaranteed to make me laugh:
Stepbrothers. Man, I love that movie.
People falling. Wait, scratch that; no longer funny as I see concussions everywhere.
Having the hiccups. I always add insult to injury when cursed with a case of the hiccups by laughing on top of them. Why? Because they're ridiculous.
Eddie Murphy's Delirious. Offensive and hilarious.
Old people cursing. It just seems so wrong.
They do say laughter is the best medicine, so go on, tell me a joke; let's see what you got. I dare you.
Surrender Dorothy...
There are a lot of inspiring, motivational blogs out there written by brave people battling serious, life-threatening illnesses. People who face life without complaint, with saint-like resolve.
This is not one of those blogs. I am not one of those people.
I was conked on the head minding my own business eight weeks ago and have been complaining about it ever since. But when not complaining, I keep having flashes that this happened for a reason. And I'm determined to find out why.
I'm someone who likes to believe that everything happens for a reason. Otherwise, how can you explain a lot of the really awful things that happen in the world, like how Snooki makes millions of dollars a year. Or seriously, really terrible things that defy explanation, like that woman who was crushed on the elevator in NYC on the way to work, or how the woman in CT lost her parents and daughters in that awful house fire.
I know that this irritation has been brought to me for a reason, and I'm determined to figure it out. Hence this space, which will mostly be filled with complaints, but perhaps between the bitches and moans, I might just hit on something. And as long as it doesn't hit me in the head, I should be fine.
I invite you along for the ride...
This is not one of those blogs. I am not one of those people.
I was conked on the head minding my own business eight weeks ago and have been complaining about it ever since. But when not complaining, I keep having flashes that this happened for a reason. And I'm determined to find out why.
I'm someone who likes to believe that everything happens for a reason. Otherwise, how can you explain a lot of the really awful things that happen in the world, like how Snooki makes millions of dollars a year. Or seriously, really terrible things that defy explanation, like that woman who was crushed on the elevator in NYC on the way to work, or how the woman in CT lost her parents and daughters in that awful house fire.
I know that this irritation has been brought to me for a reason, and I'm determined to figure it out. Hence this space, which will mostly be filled with complaints, but perhaps between the bitches and moans, I might just hit on something. And as long as it doesn't hit me in the head, I should be fine.
I invite you along for the ride...
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