As I've said in this space before, I hate the heat. I like sweater weather vs. sweating weather, being able to snuggle up in a cozy blanket. I don't like sweating or being uncomfortable, which is probably another reason that I'm not such a fan of the exercising, although I know it's a necessary evil. On that front, I'm trying to motivate myself by taking some sessions with an amazing trainer and Nike athlete, Ary Nunez, who, among many other people, has trained Rihanna. I will never look like Rihanna, nor should I, but it would be nice to push myself and see what I can do. Stay tuned on that.
Back to the heat.
The extreme heat here in New York - and many other places - this week gave me an "ah-ha" moment of Oprah proportions. I realized the main reason I hate the summer and the heat is that it's something beyond my control, and we all know how much I like and need control. The heat makes me feel like I can't breathe and that I can't escape -- there's no way out. Unlike the cold, where I can put on as many layers as I need to, in heat, you can only go so far in cooling yourself down. I mean, I don't look like Rihanna so I can't get away with parading down Wall Street naked. I'm trapped.
So this week I felt my anxiety ramping up with each degree. I kept watching the weather and the giant LCD screen out my work window that shows the temperature. Tick, tick, tick. 89, 93, 97. The media doesn't help - making it sound like a heatpocalypse, that I'll burst into flames as soon as I step outside. So I started doing what I like to do -- trying to control what I could. I came up with a contingency plan should my A/C break. I took cabs to and from work. I mega hydrated -- you know because the grueling work I do SITTING AT A DESK INSIDE AIR CONDITIONING --puts me at high risk for heat stroke...
I made all kinds of small talk about the weather with strangers, including the dreaded, "Hot enough for you?" which normally would make me want to smack someone. I worried about those working outside. Worrying about other people helps me deal with my own anxiety -- like a few weeks ago, when, mid panic attack, I met up with a friend who was having a panic attack too. Somehow my own anxiety seemed far away as I tried to help talk him down from the ledge.
But I didn't just worry about the heat. I worried about my health. I worried about getting the bugs that are going around the office making everyone sick. I worried about the actual bug I found on the floor of my apartment -- so much so that I actually took a photo of it and sent it for review to make sure it wasn't anything too nefarious, i.e. a bedbug. Which then made me start worrying about having them -- and what I'd do/how I'd handle it. That kept me awake the entire night because mentally I started putting the wheels in motion, having imaginary conversations, cancelling imaginary plans to "take care of the problem." A game plan, so to speak, because that's what I do best. And good game plans take time to build, i.e. an entire night awake.
Intellectually I know all of the obsessing is ridiculous. As my mother said when I called her to freak out, "If any of these things happen, they can be fixed. These are fixable problems. The only thing that can't be fixed is death."
Great, so now I'm afraid of dying. Only not so much. I reckon if I die, I die, and I won't know about it. Even if I die in an embarrassing way, that's my family and friends' problem -- they'll be the ones who will have to retell the story. "It grieves me to talk about it, but yes, it did involve Barry Manilow, a slot machine, a little person, and the over-consumption of Diet Coke, and yes, it's true, she wasn't wearing clean underwear. But please no more questions."
(Now that's a lie. I'd never wear dirty underwear. Defend my good name.)
A few weeks ago I had a dream with ALL of the Kardashians -- even Rob, Bruce Jenner, Lamar Odom, and Scott Disick. When the boys show up, you know that it's serious. In said dream, the Kardashian ladies were trying to convince me that I need medication for my anxiety. Maybe they're right. I lost interest in what they were saying when Dionne Warwick appeared, reclining on a chaise lounge. You'd think that, given her psychic connections, I might have gone up to Dionne and asked her for some advice, you know, "Dionne, do you know the way to San Jose?" I mean, that's what friends are for, right? Wrong. Instead I asked her, "Hey, where did you get that pillow?" and proceeded to admire the pillow where she was laying her probably-not-even-psychic head.
Even in dreams I avoid -- transferring the seriousness of this Kardashian konversation over to my second favorite past-time: hoarding things. I could have even been a nice person and asked Dionne how she was grieving the loss of Whitney and at least given her a sympathetic look. But I really wanted that pillow. It was silver and glittery and would look really nice on my couch and if I didn't move fast Kim was going to get to it, and unlike me, she'd just get bored with it and discard it after 72 days, whereas I'd keep it forever, laying my still-dyed-red-head on it as I uttered my last words on my death bed in Shady Pines:
"The Kardashians were right."
Hopefully those words will come far, far from now, when maybe the 20 year old orderly at Shady Pines won't even know who the Kardashians are.
And in the meantime, I'll continue to find ways to not obsess, or at least find healthier, more productive things to obsess about. There are 72 days left of summer, and by the end, I either want to have managed my anxiety a bit better (however/whatever it takes) or used the anxiety as fuel to cure cancer (stretch goal) or clean out my closet (doable). If Kim and Kris kan kill a marriage in 72 days, I can make progress on my own personal goals.
Call me crazy but I think I can do it.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
On Fathers and Father's Day...
A couple of months ago, one of my employees lost his dad unexpectedly.
He was sick, he was better, he was sick again, and then he was gone ...
all within the span of two weeks. This week, at work, as the weekend
approached, Father's Day weekend, I kept debating whether to say
something or to leave it be. I wasn't sure if anything I would say
would be the right thing or would help at all, but I wanted to let him
know that I knew this time couldn't be easy for him. I just couldn't
seem to find the right words or the right time.
So there I was sitting my office, working, and working on the "right" thing to say, when these words appeared on my screen:
I'll be thinking of you this weekend. I know it must be hard for you.
And there it was, the emotional equivalent of a drive-by shooting from another employee of mine, sending these words not to our colleague but to me.
As many of you know, as she knows, I lost my dad 25 years ago in an accident, but I hadn't even been thinking about what the lack of a father on Father's Day meant to me personally. It's been so long that I had a dad that I don't find myself thinking about it, but the tears and sadness that her words brought made me realize that, like everyone who has ever lost someone, the loss is always there just beneath the surface, and sometimes it spills over when we least expect it.
And as I get older, as more of my friends become fathers in their own right, and my circle fills with fathers, somehow the loss feels sharper. Maybe it's that I'm witnessing firsthand some of the things that I feel I missed. The pat on the back comforting a cry. The reassuring nod offered when a child turns around to make sure dad's there. A steadying hand to wobbly footing.
It's also a bit ironic that the loss feels deeper since, as I age, more and more friends have lost their fathers so no longer am I part of some precious, rare group. Every year I age, there are more of us in the fatherless category, and yet, it doesn't feel any better or easier. Maybe it never will. Maybe the loss is compounded by the inevitability and the unfairness of it all - not to mention the march of time.
It feels wrong to say that, when my father passed, the result of a violent accident that, somewhat ironically, was in no way his fault, I could finally breathe. When someone you love is struggling, you're always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the phone to ring with the bad news that surely will come, it's just a matter of time. Sure, I felt sad when he passed, but I also felt some relief - for him and for me and my whole family. I didn't have to worry anymore that he'd show up at school again and try to take me with him. I didn't have to feel guilty for not answering his calls or not returning his letters. I didn't have to try to process feelings well beyond my emotional maturity level at 6 or 10 - or, who am I kidding? - 41.
So maybe it's that, now, as an adult, I can see beyond my fear of him to love and understanding, and that's where the sense of loss kicks in.
I've been open about the fact that my dad wasn't a perfect man and certainly not the perfect father. No one is. He struggled with alcoholism and his behavior was ruled by his disease. As I get older, I realize more and more how much of a struggle he really had, and how, really, at the end of the day, we're all just doing the best that we can. Sometimes it's not enough, but day after day, we're all just waking up, putting one foot in front of the other and giving it the old college try.
Sometimes I do things I'm not proud of. I'm impatient and controlling and refuse to ask for help. I'm overly sensitive to looking stupid and have an overdeveloped sense of justice. Often, I say things I wish I hadn't and never say the things I should. I haven't mastered the flow of thinking BEFORE you speak as I prefer to ruminate and obsess for years after instead of investing two seconds before in a moment of consideration that could save me a lot of grief - and sleep, and, on too many an occasion, calories. But pretty much always, I come from a good place.
As I become more self-aware, I see how not having paternal support did impact who I've become - for better and for worse. To every positive, a corresponding negative. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but it's better to be rubber - tough but flexible - than brick - thick and unyielding. I've spend a lot of time working in brick. Maybe it's time to switch to another medium.
Someone asked me recently if I felt cheated not really having a dad growing up. Honestly, yes, but more in the fairytale way that probably never would have been a reality. I think about being walked down the aisle at my wedding and other pop culture "dad" situations that I've seen on television and in the movies as being "perfect, bonding moments." Aw, shucks, dad.
Real life is far messier, so I know that, in reality, my life wouldn't have played out in those ways. In real life, I've had amazing uncles, cousins, brother-in-laws, teachers, mentors, coworkers and friends who have filled various "dad" roles at certain points in my life and will continue to do so. I have been very fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful, caring men. My friend Antonio is impatiently waiting for me to find someone and get married so he can walk me down the aisle and do the father/daughter dance - a role he is taking very seriously.
And my mother, as a single mom for most of my life, did a pretty great job as both mom and dad. Which is why on Father's Day, I try to send her a small gift -- just a little something to acknowledge that, finally, as an adult, I know how hard it must have been being both parents. And, as I get older and consider my own options, I don't know if being a single parent is something that I would be by choice, and yet, there she was.
So, on Father's Day, sure I feel a little sad, a little wistful, but mostly I feel happy watching the joy the great dads I know feel having children, and hoping they soak up the much-deserved love and appreciation on this day.
And to those who have lost their dads too soon - it's always too soon - I simply say:
I'll be thinking of you this weekend. I know it must be hard for you.
So there I was sitting my office, working, and working on the "right" thing to say, when these words appeared on my screen:
I'll be thinking of you this weekend. I know it must be hard for you.
And there it was, the emotional equivalent of a drive-by shooting from another employee of mine, sending these words not to our colleague but to me.
As many of you know, as she knows, I lost my dad 25 years ago in an accident, but I hadn't even been thinking about what the lack of a father on Father's Day meant to me personally. It's been so long that I had a dad that I don't find myself thinking about it, but the tears and sadness that her words brought made me realize that, like everyone who has ever lost someone, the loss is always there just beneath the surface, and sometimes it spills over when we least expect it.
And as I get older, as more of my friends become fathers in their own right, and my circle fills with fathers, somehow the loss feels sharper. Maybe it's that I'm witnessing firsthand some of the things that I feel I missed. The pat on the back comforting a cry. The reassuring nod offered when a child turns around to make sure dad's there. A steadying hand to wobbly footing.
It's also a bit ironic that the loss feels deeper since, as I age, more and more friends have lost their fathers so no longer am I part of some precious, rare group. Every year I age, there are more of us in the fatherless category, and yet, it doesn't feel any better or easier. Maybe it never will. Maybe the loss is compounded by the inevitability and the unfairness of it all - not to mention the march of time.
It feels wrong to say that, when my father passed, the result of a violent accident that, somewhat ironically, was in no way his fault, I could finally breathe. When someone you love is struggling, you're always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the phone to ring with the bad news that surely will come, it's just a matter of time. Sure, I felt sad when he passed, but I also felt some relief - for him and for me and my whole family. I didn't have to worry anymore that he'd show up at school again and try to take me with him. I didn't have to feel guilty for not answering his calls or not returning his letters. I didn't have to try to process feelings well beyond my emotional maturity level at 6 or 10 - or, who am I kidding? - 41.
So maybe it's that, now, as an adult, I can see beyond my fear of him to love and understanding, and that's where the sense of loss kicks in.
I've been open about the fact that my dad wasn't a perfect man and certainly not the perfect father. No one is. He struggled with alcoholism and his behavior was ruled by his disease. As I get older, I realize more and more how much of a struggle he really had, and how, really, at the end of the day, we're all just doing the best that we can. Sometimes it's not enough, but day after day, we're all just waking up, putting one foot in front of the other and giving it the old college try.
Sometimes I do things I'm not proud of. I'm impatient and controlling and refuse to ask for help. I'm overly sensitive to looking stupid and have an overdeveloped sense of justice. Often, I say things I wish I hadn't and never say the things I should. I haven't mastered the flow of thinking BEFORE you speak as I prefer to ruminate and obsess for years after instead of investing two seconds before in a moment of consideration that could save me a lot of grief - and sleep, and, on too many an occasion, calories. But pretty much always, I come from a good place.
As I become more self-aware, I see how not having paternal support did impact who I've become - for better and for worse. To every positive, a corresponding negative. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but it's better to be rubber - tough but flexible - than brick - thick and unyielding. I've spend a lot of time working in brick. Maybe it's time to switch to another medium.
Someone asked me recently if I felt cheated not really having a dad growing up. Honestly, yes, but more in the fairytale way that probably never would have been a reality. I think about being walked down the aisle at my wedding and other pop culture "dad" situations that I've seen on television and in the movies as being "perfect, bonding moments." Aw, shucks, dad.
Real life is far messier, so I know that, in reality, my life wouldn't have played out in those ways. In real life, I've had amazing uncles, cousins, brother-in-laws, teachers, mentors, coworkers and friends who have filled various "dad" roles at certain points in my life and will continue to do so. I have been very fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful, caring men. My friend Antonio is impatiently waiting for me to find someone and get married so he can walk me down the aisle and do the father/daughter dance - a role he is taking very seriously.
And my mother, as a single mom for most of my life, did a pretty great job as both mom and dad. Which is why on Father's Day, I try to send her a small gift -- just a little something to acknowledge that, finally, as an adult, I know how hard it must have been being both parents. And, as I get older and consider my own options, I don't know if being a single parent is something that I would be by choice, and yet, there she was.
So, on Father's Day, sure I feel a little sad, a little wistful, but mostly I feel happy watching the joy the great dads I know feel having children, and hoping they soak up the much-deserved love and appreciation on this day.
And to those who have lost their dads too soon - it's always too soon - I simply say:
I'll be thinking of you this weekend. I know it must be hard for you.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Half Empty
I like to say that I'm an optimistic pessimist. I'm always waiting for something to go wrong, for the other shoe to drop. But I also hold onto a glimmer of hope that maybe I'll be wrong and something good will happen, and I always believe that only good things will happen to people I care about. If you're going for a job interview -- friend, you're gonna get it! Having a test? It's nothing, it's nothing at all, you'll be fine. It's just me that travels under a black cloud. If this were The Brady Bunch, I'd cast myself as Oliver the jinx.
And yet I don't live under any black cloud. And I'm not a jinx. Bad things happen to people, even me. Good things happen to people, even me. Why should I be any different?
So why do I think that way?
It's certainly not a particularly uplifting way to spend my days. And it's certainly not smart or efficient, and I like to think that I'm both of those things. As Michael J. Fox (who by the way, has real problems to worry about) said, "If you get caught up in [thinking about] the worst case scenario and it doesn't happen, then you've wasted your time. If you get caught up in the worst case scenario and it does happen, you've lived it twice."
Yeah, that doesn't sound very smart or efficient, and, given the choice, I'd rather live the worst case scenario once, thank you very much.
Obsessing does have its benefits. I've put my free time to work solving problems I don't have that I pray I never will, but, if I am ever in the position, I'll be ready. If you went through the bookmarks on my computer, you'd think I have every major illness and problem known to man. Being ready, so to speak, makes me feel a bit better. But I sometimes wonder, what if I could harness all of that mental obsessing and worrying into something good? Like, I don't know, curing cancer, or, say, solving the problems I actually have.
Now there's a thought. I could solve the problems I actually have, you know, like why I spend so much time worrying about problems I don't have.
I read that, if you are plagued with worries, set aside a window of time each day or each week where you will do nothing but worry. And if you find yourself worrying or obsessing at any other time, you're supposed to tell yourself, "Not now, you get to worry Tuesday from 11 to 11:15."
It sounds like it could work, but what if a meteor strikes Earth precisely in that window?
Sounds like something else to worry about.
And yet I don't live under any black cloud. And I'm not a jinx. Bad things happen to people, even me. Good things happen to people, even me. Why should I be any different?
So why do I think that way?
It's certainly not a particularly uplifting way to spend my days. And it's certainly not smart or efficient, and I like to think that I'm both of those things. As Michael J. Fox (who by the way, has real problems to worry about) said, "If you get caught up in [thinking about] the worst case scenario and it doesn't happen, then you've wasted your time. If you get caught up in the worst case scenario and it does happen, you've lived it twice."
Yeah, that doesn't sound very smart or efficient, and, given the choice, I'd rather live the worst case scenario once, thank you very much.
Obsessing does have its benefits. I've put my free time to work solving problems I don't have that I pray I never will, but, if I am ever in the position, I'll be ready. If you went through the bookmarks on my computer, you'd think I have every major illness and problem known to man. Being ready, so to speak, makes me feel a bit better. But I sometimes wonder, what if I could harness all of that mental obsessing and worrying into something good? Like, I don't know, curing cancer, or, say, solving the problems I actually have.
Now there's a thought. I could solve the problems I actually have, you know, like why I spend so much time worrying about problems I don't have.
I read that, if you are plagued with worries, set aside a window of time each day or each week where you will do nothing but worry. And if you find yourself worrying or obsessing at any other time, you're supposed to tell yourself, "Not now, you get to worry Tuesday from 11 to 11:15."
It sounds like it could work, but what if a meteor strikes Earth precisely in that window?
Sounds like something else to worry about.
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