2013 - The Year in Review

I can't believe I haven't posted since September.  Apparently it's now December.  WTF?  How did that happen?  And yet, here we are.

2013, where did you go?  You loomed over me for 40 years and then you came and went and didn't even leave a twenty on the nightstand.

How rude.

After all the expectation of the fanfare and the fireworks of turning 40, 2013 kinda felt like a stifled sneeze.  It wasn't so bad, but it wasn't that satisfying either.

I had some great times with great friends and wonderful family.

 
I paid a little more attention and realized who my true friends were.

 
But even still, I was "too busy" to see the people I loved as much as I would like, and even worse, they were "too busy" to see me.  I realized how much that hurts.
I realized how often I claimed to be "too busy."
I kept score.
I was a hypocrite.
I checked email and texted way too much.  I fought over text message.
I let most calls go straight to voicemail.  And answered most with a text.
I worked too much but took some days off here and there just to do nothing, or, even better, to do the things I love to do.   It felt great.
I stopped watching most television and read more.
I gained and lost the same 10 lbs over and over again.
I walked more and took fewer cabs.
I went to the gym only a handful of times, and one of those times, I just went in to use the bathroom.
I enjoyed Mallomars (see above) and discovered I might even like kale just as much.
I threw out bags and bags of clothes that no longer fit although it terrified me to do so.
I threw out some other things I had no use for.
I discovered my collarbones.
I realized I could wear a bathing suit on the actual beach in front of actual people and no one would be harmed.
 
I lost my temper and felt ashamed.
I said "I'm sorry" and meant it.
I talked way more than I listened.
I spent my 40th birthday in Vegas, spent time with my best friend in NM, saw how beautiful Minnesota is, and caught up with some terrific friends in Texas.
 




 
I stopped being afraid of riding the Jitney but am still scared of overhead bins on anything.
I sang out loud.
I embarrassed myself.  And didn't care.

I was tired.
I slept too little.
I worried about sleeping too little.
I mourned the days of sleeping until 2 pm.
I was a hypochondriac.
 
I was ridiculous.
 
I celebrated the happy events of others without feeling jealous of what I don't have.
I felt lucky to be in control of my own time and not beholden to anyone else, realizing that one day this will change, and I will feel nostalgic for the ability to just go to a movie spur of moment without consulting anyone else or finding a babysitter.
I beat myself up and spent more time second-guessing myself than I care to admit.
I was judgmental.
I obsessed over the tiniest things.  Over and over and over again.
I stopped feeling bad for having a cleaning lady.
I realized just how much live theater and live music bring me joy, and saw some life-changing shows (Big Fish, Shania Twain, Paul McCartney, Fleetwood Mac, Elton John, Pink).
I turned over the metaphorical wheel to other people now and then, even though it felt terrible, we all survived, and it was all okay.  I guess.
I learned a lesson from a newborn baby whose life has been nothing but a challenge since he took his first breath and yet he smiles and fights on.
I worked my ass off at work and did some great things.
 
I raised a lot of money but it's never enough.
I felt proud.
I fought with loved ones, and learned who will hang on, and who will drop off.
I let myself be disappointed instead of saying, "Oh it's fine."
I discovered my target demographic is two year old boys.
 
I gave up diet soda.
I started to realize that I don't have to do things I don't want to.
I finally relented to something I had put putting off for a long time and kicked myself for not doing it sooner.
I tried to remember that when I looked inside my junk filled closet, but instead closed the door for another day (that has yet to come).
I let things go unsaid and regretted it.
I didn't think before I spoke and regretted it.
I swallowed my pride and was shocked to see I didn't choke on it.
I realized I don't always know what's best for me.
I also realized that sometimes my instincts are spot on and I need to follow them more.
I said yes more times than I said no.
I felt lonely.
I felt loved.
I often felt that I felt lonely more times than I felt loved.
I felt overwhelmed.
I felt guilty.
I felt guilty for feeling overwhelmed.
I felt scared.
I felt excited.
I felt I couldn't always tell the difference scared and excited.
I felt happy.
I felt sad.
I felt happy I put down the potato chips and let myself feel sad.
I felt grateful.
I felt jealous.
I felt ashamed for being jealous when I should be grateful.
I felt old.
I felt young.
I felt lucky to feel all of these things even the bad ones.
And I feel fortunate to have 24 more days of this year to add more to this list.
 

Rockabye Len...

I used to be a good sleeper, and boy, do I miss those days.

I took it for granted then, sleeping until 2 in the afternoon on a Sunday after a late night/early morning.  "Catching up" on sleep on days when I could, my body cooperating and letting me, instead of punishing me for running myself ragged and going too long without enough sleep.

As the youngest child, I definitely have a pretty strong case of FOMO - fear of missing out.  So I'm usually the last one standing, you know, in case something exciting happens and I'm not there to see it.  Since my favorite thing in the world is collecting stories and retelling them again and again, I don't want to miss any opportunity to see someone, you know, fall off a bar stool.  I want to be there for the big reveal.

But even more strongly, as I've blogged about before, I just don't get tired that easily.  In college, I'd stay up most of the night to not miss a thing, and sleep through too many classes.  I have a huge amount of energy that frankly, given some minor medical issues, my overall conditioning and diet, I really don't deserve.  I can pretty much out outwork and outlast anyone, and I am not sitting down until "Last Dance" plays.  One of my fondest memories involves someone who doesn't like me very much looking at me on the dance floor at 4 in the morning and asking, "Don't you have an off switch?  I'm kind of impressed," before grabbing me for a twirl.

I often think that I'll be one of those people who just drops dead -- hopefully at a very ripe old age many years from now and hopefully in the middle of the Electric Slide (and maybe by then I'll be able to remember that it's right, left, backward, forward and not left, forward, backward, sonuvabitch what is it again, dammit?) -- but I can see it happening, essentially just like my batteries running out.  And the curtain falls on my life.  That wouldn't be such a bad way to go if you really think about it.

My concussion two years ago brought about insomnia, which, to be blunt, has been a bitch.  It has gotten much better since my accident first happened and I was spending most nights totally awake in an anxiety induced panic, worrying about my brain exploding.  Who would find me?  Was my apartment was clean enough so that the authorities wouldn't come in and think Big and Little Edie or the Collyer Brothers lived there?  How many days would pass before my fat cat ate my face off?   I'm guessing he wouldn't last a day.   My friend's husband is a firefighter in NYC so she decided that if I went quiet for too long, she was sending him over to break the door down with his fireman's ax or whatever it is he's got.  Even now, on a rare off day, if she doesn't hear from me for a few hours, I get a text reading, "I'm sending John..."  And, from my prone position on the couch in my yoga pants watching the 3rd Lifetime movie in a row, I'll come back to reality long enough to text her back, "Alive!"  Now that's a friend.

So things are much better from those days, but I'd be lying if I said I can remember a time when I slept through the entire night.  Sometimes I get lucky and get a few hours in a row.  Most nights, not so much, but enough to get by.

But recently, after a long period of drifting apart, sleep broke up with me.  I don't know why.  It didn't even leave a note on a Post-It Berger-style saying "I'm sorry, I can't, don't hate me."   Is it me?  Is it sleep?  I don't know, and sleep's not telling.  Just talk to me, sleep, whatever it is I did, I'm sorry.  Please come back.  What is it you want - you want the phone out of the bedroom?  It's gone.  You want me to appreciate you?  I'll do anything.

But everyone else has a theory.

Am I anxious?  Well, sure, always.  I live in New York.  And there's a continuous loop in my head.
Am I depressed?  See "Am I anxious?"
Do I need to exercise more?  Probably, yes, but I'm currently using up all of my energy, um, not sleeping, which leaves me not much energy for exercise.
Am I bored? Yes, because I am AWAKE 24 hours a day.
Is there a lot on my mind?  Yes, especially "not sleeping" and "how long someone can go without sleep."  See "Am I anxious?"

I wish I could use this time for good.  I wish I knew how to cure cancer but I slept through too many classes to know how to do that, which I wish I could say makes me wish I didn't sleep through all of those classes, but if I had to do it all over again, I'd do it the same way.  I'm still friends with all of those people I stayed up all night listening to, and that has to be worth something.

It makes me feel for new parents who are sleep-deprived, but not as much as I feel for me.  At least they have a baby, something to show for it and hopefully that baby will eventually sleep through the night and grow up to, I don't know, give you a funny story to endear you to the security guard who barely cracks a smile, or maybe take the trash out now and then or draw you pictures you can hang on the refrigerator.  I only have black circles under my eyes, a short temper, and a low bar for humor.

An acquaintance tells me that he gets angry when he sees people on the subway just sitting, taking up a seat and not doing anything.  It makes him mad when he sees people just staring off into space blankly.  If you're going to sit, he says, you should use the seat properly.  You should do things that you need to sit for, things that would be too dangerous or unpleasant or impossible to do while standing.  Like reading, or knitting, or eating chicken wings, or sleeping.

Ahh, yes, sleeping.

Pushing buttons ... Not thinking, I ask?  Not thinking.   What about talking?  No, not talking.  Definitely not talking.

I laugh and think about my bed where no sleeping happens and think about how, with this logic, that's a waste of a good bed.  Someone else should have it.  Should I keep it as a shrine until sleep happens again? Maybe I'll rent it out with the understanding that I'm allowed to sit and stare resentfully all night at the sleeping occupant.  It's my right.

I'm essentially willing to try anything at this point.  I read that the hops in beer makes you drowsy.  Done it.  Exercise early in the day wears you out.  Done it.  Magnesium.  Done it.  No fluids past 6 pm in case it's a pee thing.  Done it.  Shut off all electronics.  Done it.  Write down all of your worries.  Done it (or tried to, they don't make enough paper).  Keep a regular schedule.  Done it.  Meditation, yoga, visualization - done, done, and done.

And there are dozens more ideas that people have put forth to be helpful and supportive, but, frankly, I'm too tired to try a lot of them.

What I am trying are these herbs from my acupuncturist after refusing them for nearly two years.

Him:  Are you doing ok?
Me: No.
Him: Will you take the herbs?
Me: Yes.
Him: (Clearly prepared for a fight that didn't happen) That was easy.

They taste like dirty feet (I guess, not that I'd know what they taste like) and look like hamster pellets and smell like the woods and hurt my mouth and I have to take them FIFTEEN at a time twice a day but if they work, I'll throw a parade for them and make recipes and bake them into cakes and tarts.  Well, if I did that kind of thing.

Living in NYC, you can hire someone to do anything for you.  Grocery shopping.  Laundry.   Housecleaning.  Change a light bulb.  You can even pay to outsource emotional support.  My therapist gets paid to listen to my crazy.  My acupuncturist keeps track of my period, my moods, my sleep (or lack thereof), and my bowel habits (TMI, I know.  I went there, sorry.  But it's true.).

Really though, I pay them to listen and care (or pretend to) so no one else has to.

Especially me.

Which is maybe part of the problem.

They say that I talk a whole lot but don't say much.  You never talk about you, they say, and I guess they're right.  Don't be nice to me, I say, it'll make me cry, I can't take it.  Just tell me what to do, I say, and I'll do it.  What do you want to do, they ask.  I'm just tired, I say.  Tell me I have no choice but to do it and I'll do it, I say.  It's not that easy, they say.  We don't do that, they say.  It's better if you come to the realization yourself.  Didn't it feel good that you made the decision yourself, they ask.  No, I say, it felt the same to me, like something happened vs something not happening.  Isn't the end result the same?

I guess not.

I'm beginning to realize that I'm the only one who can repair this broken down relationship with sleep.   What drove it away?  Did I neglect it too much?  Did I push it away with a lack of trust?  Did I drive it crazy by talking too much?   Did I say too much or not enough?  Do I snore?  That seems unlikely.

Damned if I know, and ironically, I'm too tired to care.  But pass the Benadryl, and maybe, come morning, I'll be better equipped to tackle this.

But in the meantime, sleep, please come home.  I'll leave the light on for you.

Attachments

Everywhere I look this week people are killing themselves - or trying to.  That sounds funny and wrong, but I'm not trying to make light.  Public figures, strangers, people I once knew.  It's heartbreaking to think that a person can get to that point, the point where ending his or her life seems like the only option.

I get it.  I come from depressive, anxious stock.  I have my moments - not to the point where I have thought about something as serious as suicide - but where I feel disconnected, deflated, defeated, wondering how I have gotten here and where it's all going.

Part of it is that I confess I'm the person who likes to read the last page of the book first.  No surprises.  I need to approve of the ending.  And sometimes the sheer uncertainty of life makes me wonder where the escape valve is.

Stop the world I want to get off.

But I also have lived enough to know that this too shall pass, good or bad.  The old Buddhist concept of impermanence.  We live and die in each moment as each moment leads to the next.  It's depressing and liberating at the same time.  I mean, I want the bad things to end and the good things to last forever, we all do, but it just doesn't work that way.  Nothing is forever, even forever, which, even now, in the few seconds since I wrote it the first time, has now become forever minus one.

You get the picture.

Generally speaking I live by the mantra, "It'll seem better in the morning," and you know what, once I get past the fact that I am SO not a morning person, most things do.

It just makes me wonder, with so many ways for us to connect as human beings to one another, how is it that people can still feel so isolated and alone?  Why are we so stingy with the love and kindness that we all need?

I remember when I was in my early 20s and living in Boston.  I had a job I loved to pieces and a wonderful boss who still remains a mentor, but was absolutely miserable each and every day.  It was good times, I'll tell you.  I was isolated and lonely and felt that I was trying really hard to fit in and make friends with no results - in retrospect, maybe I wasn't trying hard enough, but coming out of college, where making friends had come so easily, where I had finally found my tribe, it was a shock to my system to have it be so hard.  I blamed the entire city of Boston and its Puritan ways.  I cultivated a hatred for the Red Sox, ignited by my Bronx birth but fueled by living so close to Fenway where people would be happily attending games en masse while I walked alone rooting for the Yankees.  I spent way too much time alone, brooding, watching movies, complaining on the phone to college friends, and plotting for a better day as I watched my world get smaller and smaller.

I hated it there so much that, when I made the decision to leave, I actually bought a Page a Day/Word a Day calendar (remember those?) and flipped it over and counted backward a full year to the day I was planning to move.  I don't remember what words I learned because I was too busy being depressed (adj., in a state of general unhappiness or despondency) and maudlin (adj., self-pitying or tearfully sentimental).  But it brought me a lot of comfort to be able to say, "326 days left ... 199 days left" until my exciting new life would begin.  Progress.

But then a funny thing happened.

As I got closer and closer to my move date, people started coming up to me and saying nice things like, "Hey, you're a cool girl, I wish you weren't leaving," and "I'll miss you."  They threw me parties and said nice things and made toasts and even shed a tear or two.  And my only real friend in town, who I had grown distant from and would see irregularly, all of a sudden was attentive to my needs, there all the time, consoling me as I cried and questioned my decision to pull up anchor.

And I remember thinking, "Where the f**k were you people this whole time when I was sitting alone every night in my tiny bedroom in an apartment where I lived with with two strangers watching The Rosie Show I had taped on VHS while eating Annie's macaroni and cheese?"

I mean, if I had known you all cared so damn much, maybe I wouldn't be leaving.  Cancel the U-Haul, I love this place!  They like me, they really like me!  I'm mayor of this town!  Red Sox rule (well, that's pushing it, scratch that).

One of my favorite scenes from my favorite movie, "Grease," is the scene where Sandy first runs into Danny at school after spending their summer together, both convinced they'd never see each other again.  When she sees him, she's superexcited, and he essentially pretends she doesn't exist.  For the one person on Earth who hasn't seen it, it goes like this:

Danny: That's cool baby, you know how it is, rockin' and rollin' and what not.
Sandy: Danny?
Danny: That's my name, don't wear it out.
Sandy: What's the matter with you?
Danny: What's the matter with me, baby, what's the matter with you?
Sandy: What happened to the Danny Zuko I met at the beach?
Danny: Well I do not know. Maybe there's two of us. Why don't you take out a missing person's ad? Or try the Yellow Pages, I don't know.
Sandy: You're a fake and a phony and I wish I never laid eyes on you!

Preach, Sandy, preach!   You tell that fake and phony - find him in the Yellow Pages under D, not for Danny but for douchebag.  Or, totally change your personality, start smoking, and get a slutty wardrobe.

Fielder's choice.

Unlike Sandy, I decided to leave Boston as I had planned, but I do sometimes look back and think, "Hey, what if?  They love me in that town!"

Unfortunately, these are patterns that repeat too often in life -- not just in mine.  And it makes me wonder what comes first.  Was my vulnerability around this big life change the trigger for everyone to open up to me?  Or was it their opening up to me that made me feel safe to be vulnerable?   Or maybe, quite simply, because I was leaving, it was safe for all of us to be more open because we had nothing to lose.  If I had stayed, would I have not been surrounded by loving friends but instead by Danny Zukos rockin and rollin and what not?

I don't know, but I struggle with this every day.

There are so many times that I want to say something and don't.  And believe me, it's not for lack of talking as I say plenty, most of it totally meaningless.   But why is it so hard to say what we're really feeling - why is it so hard to say the things that need saying, the things that we really need to hear?  We punish each other and ourselves by withholding affection.  And why is it so hard to stay open to each other, to trust that we won't hurt each other, or even if we do, to have confidence that it wasn't the intention?

If only we could do as we used to do in middle school and high school and dedicate songs on the radio to one another.  I heard "Lean on Me" on the radio last week and it took me back to a time when a friend was having a hard time and we sent her support through this song on the airwaves.   And, if I recall, we felt pretty damn proud of ourselves too.   I mean, some-times in our lives, we all have pain, we all have sorrow, but, if we are wise, we know that there's always to-mor-row.  (We also be jammin' but that's another story.)

Now we have the Facebook and the Twitter where people can choose to share their thoughts and feelings with friends, relatives, and relative strangers, and find support in the most unlikely sources.  And it's comforting, sure, but it isn't enough.  It's especially disturbing to me when I see those posts that say things like, "I know you won't support me by reposting this.  You hate babies and animals."  You're right, I won't support you by reposting that, but it doesn't mean I don't support you or feel for you.  And I don't hate babies or animals, that's just not nice.

As I get older, and frankly don't care as much about how the world sees me -- I mean, I just wore an actual bathing suit to the actual beach for the first time in 25 years  -- I'm making it my mission to pry my heart open a little more each day and let the sun shine in, instead of occasionally swinging it open and then slamming it shut again so it feels like Groundhog Day every time.  And who are you again?  And what are your intentions?  Leave your application at the door; it should be processed in 6-8 weeks...

And, perhaps more importantly, I'm going to try to work to say some of the harder things that need saying.  It's not always popular, or even well-received, and it's always a risk, but if it's in my heart, I reckon it has to come out at some point.  I'm not saying I'm entirely there yet - I have about a 10% success rate at this point, but I'm trying.

But, in the meantime, as I continue to work up the nerve...

I'm sorry.  I'm here for you.  I see you.  I'm a bad friend/daughter/boss.  I'll try harder.  I'm glad we're friends.  I'll try to listen.  I need help.  You hurt my feelings.  I'm lonely.  I'm scared.  I'm grateful for you.  I just can't get onboard with the jeggings.  I understand.  I need you.  I trust you.  What happened to the Danny Zuko I met at the beach?  I want to see you more regularly.  I'm proud of you. I was wrong. I'm so happy for you. I really do watch Keeping up with the Kardashians.  I miss you.  I'm happy to see you.  We all need somebody to lean on.  I love you.

Lux et Veritas

My alma mater, Yale, today announced that, so far this year, six individuals have been found guilty of "nonconsensual sex," most commonly known as rape to you and me.  Not one of them was expelled.

I have always been a proud alumna of Yale.  Until today.

This news is maddening and sickening, sending a message that sexual violence (or violence of any kind really) is tolerated and accepted.

Yale was required to release this report (a biannual summary of complaints brought to the University's Committee on Sexual Misconduct) in response to a 2011 federal Title IX investigation into the University's handling of sexual violence on campus.

Even as I read about these complaints two years ago, I may have raised an eyebrow, but I turned a blind eye.  I had an amazing experience at Yale.  Many of the people I love most in this world I met at Yale.  I earned an excellent education -- one that would have been even better had I went to class a bit more often and studied a bit harder, but hey, coming to Yale from a small town, part of my education was staying up all night talking to people I never would have met had I stayed in my tiny hamlet of a hometown.  People so unlike me and like me at the same time.  It was mind boggling and my world cracked open because of it.  My experiences at Yale enriched my life in so many ways, and the friends I made there continue to do so every day since that late August day I first set foot on campus.

Growing up, well, let's face it, poor, maybe working poor as a stretch, I knew that education was my ticket out of poverty.  And Yale made it possible for me to achieve that education with generous scholarship funds.  Sure, I still have loans of my own that I'm paying off, but Yale made my dreams of higher education a reality with generous financial aid and work study, and I have always been grateful for it.

This is why this report, in black and white released by the University itself, is heartbreaking to me.

Now, I'm not naive.  I saw enough "legacy" students at Yale to know that the University is not entirely pure, students whose families had attended for generations, and whose family money had essentially built the very University they were attending.  I would talk to some of them and think of poor, smart kids I knew, and many more I didn't know, who would never have a chance to attend a place like Yale.

So perhaps what makes me most sick is thinking that this may have had something to do with money.   Well that and reputation.  What will make this go away quickest and most quietly?

The University says these matters are complicated, but, by finding these individuals "guilty," isn't that enough to warrant expulsion?  How can the University, in good conscience, allow these individuals to stay on campus alongside the victims the University itself has found them guilty of victimizing?  And aren't we afraid at all they might assault again?

Of the six, only one was suspended allowed to return to the University in a year.

With stats telling us that one in four college women are victims of rape, or attempted rape, I assume at least some of these victims are women.  At Yale, I certainly knew women who were raped -- in fact, I knew several, and I know for a fact not all of those rapes were reported.  RAINN (Rape Abuse and Incest National Network) reports that 54% of rapes across the board are unreported.

Now, sexual violence is not isolated to Yale, but, as an alum, I expected more of my alma mater.  Yale is one of the most respected universities in the world, producing the next generation of leaders, not rapists.  And, as a leader, it is the University's duty to send a strong signal that sexual violence is unacceptable and will not be tolerated.  They owe that not just to these victims, but to all attending students and their families, faculty, community, alumni, and, well, the world.  This was Yale's opportunity to step up to the plate, to shine a light into the darkness of sexual violence, reveal the truth, right any past wrongdoings, and be a leader. 

Instead, these six people found guilty of perpetrating "nonconsensual sex" (again, read: rape) will graduate with the same Yale diploma that I did.

Hoping for lux et veritas, instead I'm left thinking, "Et tu, Brute?"

It's not too late for Yale to take a stand here, and I hope that those who feel as strongly as I do about this will make their voices heard.  I want Yale to make me feel as proud today as I did the day I got my acceptance letter.  I want this too for these victims and for future generations who can attend Yale knowing that their University puts their safety and well-being above all else so that they can go about becoming the leaders and thinkers this world needs.

En Garde

"Please no more therapy/Mother take care of me/Piece me together with a/Needle and thread/Wrap me in eiderdown/Lace from your wedding gown/Fold me and lay me down/On your bed."
 -- Polaroids by Shawn Colvin

They say the best offense is a good defense.  If this is true, I've got the best game in town.

I am pretty much ready for battle at any moment - anticipating literal and metaphorical blows from every direction.

It's exhausting.

The stranger rushing for the subway doors, trying to push his way in front of me.  Not so fast buddy, although I don't let on, I see you, and turn my back ever so slightly so you're boxed out.   You're in a big hurry and I know you think you're more important than I am, but you're not.

The casual acquaintance whose probing questions always leave me feeling just a little bit worse about myself than before I sat down with her.  I steer the conversation, keeping it firmly focused on her, letting her exhaust her favorite topic of conversation - herself - until she is the one with more questions than answers.  I leave fatigued but with ego intact.

And myself.  I stifle introspection with worry and anxiety, focusing on what will most likely never come to bear.  But I'm prepared for it.  And when that doesn't entirely cut it, I throw myself into work.  There is always plenty to do.  I could work 365 days a year/24 hours a day and never be "done."  In nonprofit, you can always use more resources, more creativity -- there is no such thing as enough or too much.

Thankfully for my health, I've stopped escaping into food, previously my numbing agent of choice.

I can't pinpoint the day that I started to use food to self-medicate but what I do know is that I was a shy and anxious child.  I cried a lot.  In one early grade, I cried every single day at school, so much so that my teacher that year, who was more than a bit scary in my eyes (and I think objectively so), dragged me into the closet one day, closed the door and asked, somewhat tearfully herself, "Why do you hate me?"  Protip:  I'm no child psychologist, but I can tell you that dragging a crying kid into a closet with you, closing the door and yelling in her face isn't exactly going to stop the tears from flowing.   And I kinda remember thinking that at the time too, even at, what, 7 years old.

I don't know how, when or why it happened, or what triggered in my little brain, but I can look back and see that when my overeating started, the crying pretty much stopped.  As I became softer on the outside, building up layers of protection, I became harder on the inside.   More closed off and fixated on trying to control whatever I could, and whatever emotions or situations I couldn't close off or control, I soothed with food.

De-fense, de-fense.

I'm not exactly sure why soothing yourself with food works, but I'm here to tell you it does.  And I have over thirty years of practice, so I'm really good at it.  I can also tell you it's a form of self-abuse and self-hatred.  In many ways, you are literally killing yourself slowly by your own hand.

I don't know if I'll ever be entirely done self-medicating with food -- old habits die hard -- but I can tell you I don't do it as much anymore, and that's just as much by accident (literally) as it is by design.

When I had my first concussion, I became obsessed with trying to maintain a sense of control and stasis.  I felt terrible, and spent my days really simply just trying to feel better, or, at best, maintaining.  I didn't want to slide backward.  I started eating more healthfully, convinced that the right nutrients would help my brain heal.  I also had a neck injury that made me feel like I was choking all the time.  Consumed with worry, I was rarely, if ever, hungry, and although that didn't stop me from overeating before, what did stop me from overeating at that point was fear.  I found myself thinking, "If I eat too much, I may feel sick, and I can't go backward."

Candidly, it was essentially another kind of eating disorder.  Food became scary to me.  I found myself eating really small portions so I wouldn't choke, and only eating things that I knew well and that I associated with good health.  With food on the DL, I needed to find other ways to deal with my emotions.  I started this blog and discovered not only an outlet for my complicated, sometimes scary, ugly thoughts and feelings, but a way to connect with people.  Acupuncture helped me find a connection between mind and body, two things that I had kept divorced from one another for so long.

Over time, as I began to feel better, it dawned on me that I wasn't eating as much for comfort anymore because food was no longer a source of solace for me.  Overeating and food had played such a major role in my life, and now I feel like I don't have much use for it anymore.  Its kinda run its course.  I've retired its number.

And as I've given up overeating, and have lost weight as a result, I struggle with my identity.  Being overweight is such a huge part of how I see myself that I sometimes find myself lost.  Although I am by no means slim, or even close to the weight that I want to be, I find myself grappling with questions big (can I still blame the fact that this person doesn't like me on my weight?) and small (where do I buy clothes now?).

More and more, I try to not be so critical of everyone and everything, especially myself.  I don't claim to be particularly successful with this, but I'm trying.  As the song goes, "We all got holes to fill, and them holes are all that's real."  Some wounds are best left to heal on their own, some we help along.

I think I'll always struggle to find the right game plan, the ideal balance of offense and defense.  But I've had some amazing coaches and teammates helping me figure it out.  And I guess all that matters is that I'm in the game and not on the sidelines.

As long as I have my helmet.  And some full body armor.  And Dr. Phil on retainer.

Mirror Mirror...

Since I'm now 40 and very wise (ahem), I can report that one of the best things about getting older is becoming a little more self-aware.  I'm not sure what it is exactly that helps self-awareness as you age.  Is it not caring quite as much about what others think (mainly due to lack of time or energy), or maybe it's just spending so much time with yourself that, after 40 years, even if you're not paying attention, you kinda start to know a person, mmm, or perhaps it's the self-analysis that happens inevitably as you realize we're all marching toward death.  Hmm.  I don't know.  All I know is, at least for me, I feel like I have a better handle on who I am most every day.

Now, I'm not saying that I actually DO anything with this information about myself.  Let's not go crazy.  But it's there.  And most of it just is something that I become aware of over time, without much fanfare, but just another fact about who I am, like my star sign (Aries) or hair color (scratch that, that's impossible to determine, but likely grey under all that dye).

But recently I had a big birthday - 40 - and somehow, amidst all of the fanfare and the literal bells and whistles (of the slot machines - after all, I did celebrate in Vegas), I had an epiphany and within this post, I will confess it to you right now:

My name is Lynn and I am an aggressively helpful person.

That's right, you heard me.  I am an aggressively helpful person.  Don't pretend you didn't know.   Even Meryl Streep couldn't act her way around this bombshell.  We all know it.  I'm just saying it out loud.

I like helping.  I REALLY like helping.  I will help you so hard that it hurts.  I have a problem seeing the line between helping and hurting.  I don't know when to stop and I cannot tell the difference between those who want my help and those who don't.  I am blind and deaf to all signs that my helping is not welcome, or that I have gone too far.

It's like I'm an alcoholic, but for helping.

My name is Lynn and I'm a helpaholic with aggressive tendencies.

Sometimes people tell me they want help -- they may even ask for it.  That's their first mistake.  But most often, I deliver it unsolicited.  Now, from time to time, we all NEED help.  The problem is, when it comes right down to it, most people don't really want help unless it's on our terms.  As humans, we don't like to be vulnerable or appear stupid, and needing help implies an admission that we can't do everything, and that we don't know it all.  That we need another human for something, anything.

The ironic thing is that I personally hate asking for help, and rarely do so.  I've gotten better over the years, particularly in my work life, but mainly because my overdeveloped sense of helping is matched only by my overdeveloped sense of justice, and I looked around and thought, "Gee, these people get paid to do something, and they're here and they want to work and learn so I guess it's okay if they have something to do."  Hmm.

And I really hate unsolicited advice.  My body and brain essentially start going on lock down when I think someone is telling me what to do; I immediately start shutting down.   Since I know everything (ahem), I don't need you telling me what to do.  How I can I process something when I allegedly know it already?  I cannot compute.

In my personal life, I've caused injury to my physical and mental well-being by refusing to ask for help when I've clearly needed it.  I've thrown out my back and fallen off chairs in the name of pride.  At least the physical injuries heal -- the emotional damage I've done by weathering emotional crises solo by choice, choosing solitude and loneliness over camaraderie and support, is much more long-lasting.

I wish I could say that I came to all of this self-awareness on my own, by looking inward or by seeing the reactions of friends and family that brought me to this realization, but it was really by looking outward, at the world, and through my own interactions with others that made me realize, "Hey, if when this person does that, *I* don't like it, maybe when *I* do that, others don't like it..."  Isn't it like the law of transitive property or something?   Essentially when certain people would treat me a certain way, I'd think, "Now Len don't YOU do that," over and over until, in turning the lens on myself I realized, "Yeah, I do do that.  I'm no better."

I heard myself saying - and still hear, this is a work in progress - two of the ugliest phrases on the planet used in polite human interaction:

"You should..."  and "If I were you..."

I shudder just reading them (if I were you, I'd never use those again).  They kinda make me throw up in my mouth a bit (you should drink some water).  And I use them about 100 times a day, with every good intention.  But what the person on the other side hears is, "Since I know better and you clearly are incapable, allow me to tell you what you're too stupid to know..."

Ugh.

In my defense, I swear that I think my helping, um, helps.  Without any ego at all, I feel like I've been through a lot in my life, big and small, and if I can tell you where the best public restroom is in midtown NYC (Mandarin Oriental Hotel, Lobby, 35th floor),or, I don't know, what to do with your life (do as I say, not as I do), then I feel like it's my duty.  As I often "joke," "If you're not helping, you're hurting."

Deep, right?

And sure, sometimes I am, but sometimes, I'm not.

As I heard one of my friends say, "She's got a lot of ideas."

Yeah, I do, yay me and my ideas, lots of them, but, oh, no, wait a minute, hmm, ouch.

I don't want to be that person.  We all know that person.  I don't want to be all up in your bizness.  Especially if you don't want me there.  I have my own problems that, if I only turned this helpfulness on myself, could keep me quite busy for the rest of my life, thank you very much.

So here in this post, I announce my retirement from the business of helping.  Now, it won't happen overnight.  Old habits die hard.  I've been doing this for 39 years - at least.  So consider it a gradual phase-out -- I'll start cutting back my hours, work from home a bit, then go part time, consult on a few projects, transition to Helper Emerita, until I phase out completely.

For now, you'll have to help me stop helping you.  Maybe we should have a safe word.  Whenever I start "helping" and you don't want it, just scream (subtlety is lost on me): "HURTING!"

Let's practice:

"You should think about calling your-----"
"HURTING!"
"If I were you, I'd shave some of that..."
"HURTING!"

Kinda like Marco Polo.

That oughta get my attention.

And if all else fails, just interrupt me to ask my advice.  I love that stuff.
"You see, I have this friend who won't stop helping and I hate it."

It may take me awhile, but eventually I'll get the picture.

There's No Place Like Home

Scarecrow: "Well, some people without brains do an awful lot of talking, don't they?"

Wizard of Oz: "As for you, my galvanized friend, you want a heart. You don't know how lucky you are not to have one. Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable."

Tinman: "But I still want one. "

------
 My senior year of high school I was cast as Dorothy in our high school production of The Wizard of Oz.

It was an amazing experience on so many levels and I look back on that time as one of the best in my life.  And not just because of the show.  I was turning 18.  And I was anxiously waiting to hear from colleges.  It was during rehearsal for the show that I called home and found out I had gotten into Yale.  It was an exciting time.

Like most of the world, I had always loved The Wizard of Oz.  It was on television so much that it was just one of those movies that you just knew.   It had everything I loved -- the singing, the dancing, the classic battle of good vs. evil, humor, heart, soul, a very cute dog, and yes, some pretty hot shoes.

You can't see my ruby slippers here, but let me tell you, they were something.  $9.99 at Payless, then hours and hours of hot glue gun action and red sequins and glitter.

It was fun to be cast as the lead.  My tiny high school's musical theater program wasn't that robust -- I mean, we performed in what we called "the cafetorium."   Let's give a shout out to the multi-purpose room, shall we?  And let's face it, the overweight girl doesn't usually get cast as the romantic lead, which is generally the focal point most musicals are built around.

But it was fun being a part of something that we created together out of nothing (ahh the magic of theater), and yes, I liked being a little catered to.  I had a real dog for Toto who, when not peeing on me, would lick my face and pretend to love me at just the right moments.  Somehow my "ruby slippers" would disappear overnight - polished and stocked up with new "rubies" for the next show by a dedicated guidance counselor with a glue gun and, I'm sure, lots of coffee and patience.  I can see how "real" celebrities become divas.  I could get used to that kind of treatment.

The best Tin Man, Lion, and Scarecrow a girl ever had.

Riding on the high of this experience, I entered college thinking, hey, I might study acting -- something Yale, with a reputation for a strong theater program, prepared for by requiring anyone who was remotely thinking about pursuing a Theater Studies major to take a 101 class that quickly separated the serious and talented from, well, me, and those like me, who thought that, um, yeah, getting cast in a high school production meant that I was a star.  There were a lot of us who entered that class first semester who knew by semester's end (or, who am I kidding, the second week of class) that our glory days were over, and many of them are my closest friends to this day.  We still love all things theater - we just love it from our seats in the audience and not up onstage.

In truth, even though I have a flair for the dramatic, I'm not an actor.  And I was essentially cast as myself when I was cast as Dorothy -- as our director put it, "You ARE Dorothy."  I didn't understand what she meant then, but as I get older, I can see what she meant.

Growing up in a tiny hamlet, like Dorothy I always dreamed of getting out.  This wasn't true of everyone I grew up with, many of whom still live in our hometown.   I grew up in a place people spend their lives trying to get into -- one of the tiny towns which comprise the Hamptons.  Small town living yet relatively close to NYC, on the water, where many of the wealthiest people vacation, with some of the most gorgeous beaches in the world.  So, many of my peers stayed -- why leave a place so beautiful and coveted?

See what I mean?

But I always wanted out.  And not just because with skin as fair as mine I can't go to the beach without wearing body armor.  Even though I had a rich and robust experience growing up and lots of friends, good memories and a strong connection to my family, I always felt I was meant to be somewhere else.

Does this look like someone who belongs on the beach?

There was no question in my mind that, if I could afford it, I'd go away to college, and, I knew, ultimately, I'd end up in NYC.  Living outside NYC my whole life, it almost seemed inevitable that I'd live there -- close enough to family, but where the action was, so to speak, where all the opportunity was.

So it was off to college in New Haven, and then a two year stint in Boston where I was so miserable every day that I actually numbered a page a day calendar backward and counted down to the day that I was leaving.  Boston is a wonderful town with a lot of things going for it, but coming out of a college experience that I Ioved and heading into a city where I was forced to deal with the reality of living as an adult -- working full time, living in an apartment, commuting, keeping house, and well, supporting myself, it really had no chance.  The role of the villain will be played by ... the entire city of Boston.

Gone were the dozens of friends willing to chat at any hour and the limitless social opportunities, here were early mornings, deadlines, and bills.  Although I loved my job, it wasn't a happy time.

College -- beautiful Davenport.  If you look closely, you can see the ghost of me hammering out a paper on ye olde word processor.

So off to New York I went, joining many of my closest college friends and really, living within just a few blocks of the majority of them.  We were some of the early pioneers of the rediscovered Park Slope, Brooklyn when it was just beginning to be hip and wasn't currently THE place to live as it is now.  Things were different, in that we had responsibilities now, but similar enough, and there was comfort in proximity.  And my social circle expanded to many more people that I loved, even as it was rooted in the comfort of familiarity.

That was 1997.  I was 24.

Since then, many of my friends have left the city.  Some, for literally greener pastures like the suburbs of CT.  Others to cities and countries very unlike New York.  Some remain.  We don't see each other as much as we used to; some I don't see at all.

Gone is the free and easy social life where spontaneous plans came together on a moment's notice, as is the assumption that there's nobody else we'd rather spend time with than each other.  Enter reality and increased responsibilities.  Enter evolved priorities, politics, interests, interesting people.  Enter exhaustion and inertia.  Enter husbands, wives, children, mini-vans.  Some are settled down, some have families, some don't.  But somehow, all of our axes shifted, away from one another in varying degrees.

It would be sad if it weren't an age-old story; such is life.  Nothing stays the same.  But as the landscape changes, I ask myself, is this New York my New York?  Is this New York my home?  And if not, where is home?  And what does home mean exactly?

For most of my life, my true home was my family home on Long Island and in many ways it will always will be.  And with so many friends and loved ones here in the city, the actual space I lived in was immaterial.  So living in a one bedroom apartment with a lack of a truly homey feeling was just fine.  But, as I get older, and as friends shift away from one another, I find myself craving normalcy and comfort, ease and familiarity -- things that New York both has in spades and doesn't possess at all.  I find myself coveting basic things like a washer and a dryer, or a car, or dare to dream, a second bathroom.

Although it's big enough space physically, I get emotionally claustrophobic in my apartment - my big dreams penned in by the reality of New York real estate and the awareness that I couldn't afford anything much better here unless I am willing to sacrifice in any number of ways that I feel I shouldn't have to - location, size, add roommates, etc.  But who wants to go backward at any age when I feel like I should be going forward?

Unlike a lot of die hard New Yorkers, I don't love New York.  Sure, there are days when I love living here and having access to theater, culture, and experiences you can't find anywhere else.  And the ease and freedom of it is nice - being able to walk, especially in my neighborhood, and find essentially anything you want or need, at essentially any time of the day or night.

But it's also noisy and dirty and crowded and loud and hectic.  Peace can be hard to come by.   The subway is both miraculous and awful - miraculous that you can get anywhere in the city for $2.25, and awful that you are so close to your fellow riders that you can tell their brand of deodorant, or worse, if they're not wearing any at all.  The walls of my apartment shake like an earthquake when my upstairs neighbor burps too loud, and I get first degree burns every time I'm in the shower and someone flushes their toilet.

All of that somehow seemed ok in 1997, but now, not so much.  And I'm left wondering what home looks like for me.  With so many of those I love most scattered like marbles, home isn't as easy to identify.  If I click my heels three times, where will I end up?  Will it be right here in my one bedroom apartment?  Back home on Long Island?  Or somewhere I never dreamed of?

Is home constant and steady and reassuring or always evolving?  Is it a mindset or a place?  Is home where those I love are or where I am?

Some days I think about packing up everything I own, and well, giving most of it away.   I spent a lot of years acquiring stuff (read: junk), and now I think, for what purpose?  And maybe then I'll see where the road leads -- not that I'm going to be a wandering traveler, but just pull up roots for awhile until I decide where to put them down.

But until I figure it out, I'll invest in some Purel for the subway and maybe leave a canister of Tums as an anonymous gift for my neighbor.  All of that dashing away from the scalding hot shower spray is building my coordination and reaction time so I'll be ready when it's time for my big move -- whether it's down the hall or across the country.

All I need are some hot red shoes.

"Who me?  I'm not a witch at all."

Who's on First?

I think I broke my therapist.

Let me explain.

I recently started therapy again after unceremoniously quitting last summer.  I never really clicked with the original therapist I started seeing last January after my head injury.  I left each session more stressed out and anxious than I had arrived, largely, I'm sure, due to me and being closed off to therapy, and not her.  The old, "It's not you, it's me," was definitely true in that case, but long story short, it wasn't working.

I started back up this January (trend?) when I realized all of the things that I had been feeling a little cray cray about were popping up again and thought maybe I'd have better luck with someone else.  Happily, we click in a much better way -- she talks more, which in turn makes ME want to talk more, because there's nothing I like more than cutting people off and interrupting them.  And she uses complementary therapies like yoga, qi gong, and meditation, all of which I love because they give me tools for my little toolkit of "How I Can Help Fix Myself When My Mind Goes Bananas."  Perfect for someone who hates asking for help and who likes to think she knows it all.  Love.

So, after a few weeks of gently easing her into my crazy, without even planning it, I just let 'er rip:

"Is this it?  I mean, is this all there is?

And I mean, maybe this is all there is, or maybe this isn't all there is.

Maybe I deserve more, but I don't know what that is, but maybe I don't deserve more because who am I to deserve more than anyone else and maybe there isn't anything else anyway and maybe really it's not about having more or something different but accepting what you have and being happy with it.   But I don't want to just accept what I have if I really should have more, you know?

So I guess what I'm asking is, how do I tell the difference?"

Or, perhaps Whitney Houston said it best when she asked, "How Will I Know?"

It was the psychotherapy equivalent of "Who's on first?"

And, unfortunately for her, since I speak a mile a minute, I essentially only burned through 47 seconds with all of that so she couldn't even say, "That's all for today, thanks for playing."

To her extreme credit, she didn't try to answer what really are unanswerable questions but she try to help me through them with a doozy question of her own:

"Well, are you happy?  And if not, when were you last happy?"

I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with the term.  Happy?  I'm not sure what that is.  Sure, I have moments of happiness and sadness, and love and indifference, and kindness and cruelty, and peace and worry, and hope and despair, and connection and isolation.  But happy as a full-time state?  As in, all the time?  Hmmm.  Does that, like, happen for people?  I mean, I live in New York City, I'm not sure that's a characteristic I've seen native to this environment.  Maybe I saw it once when I saw ANNIE on Broadway and once at Chili's during half-priced happy hour.  Do I need to go to Iowa to see it or do they have it in the Bronx Zoo?

Oh wait, yeah, I was happy that one time -- no, wait, sorry, I just got myself confused with someone else there for a second.  I was thinking of Liz Lemon and 30 Rock.

Like Prince Charles said when he was asked if he was in love with his new fiancee Diana Spencer, "Whatever in love means."  Whatever "happy" means, sure, yes, I guess so.

Ask again later.

I've never been a fan of asking questions that don't have clear cut answers.  Too messy, what's the point?  Just keep your head down and keep moving forward.

And I'm not sure why these questions popped up today -- maybe it's that February has been the longest shortest month, maybe it's turning 40 shortly, maybe I just wanted to see someone's head explode in real life, I'm not sure.

My people, and by "people" I mean both the Irish and Long Islanders, are not a particularly, shall I say, "sunny" lot.  They are always on high alert for the black cloud.  Thar she blows again, the winds of bad luck.   You'll pay penance for any stroke of good fortune with something disproportionately nasty down the line.   And don't even think about keeping that dollar you found on the ground.  You WILL get struck by lightning.  Don't get too comfortable.   Don't get too smug; God will wipe that smile right off your face.  This won't last.  Hoard the potatoes.  Kids are starving somewhere.  People have real problems.

All of that's well and good.  By no means do I have a bad life.  And many, many, many people in this world are worse off.  But is it so wrong to want more?  And if not more, different?

The problem is, if you're used to living life waiting for the other shoe to drop, maybe the more that you need is simply to accept that the other shoe WILL drop, so you just have to enjoy all the days in between.

So, maybe the better question is, "Which comes first?  The chicken or the egg?"  Does happiness come when you realize you have everything you need as it is now?  Or does it come when you look around and say, "This isn't all there is and I am going to make a change (or ten)."

Don't look at me.  I asked you first.

Damned if I know.

But I'm beginning to think you have to find out who's on first to help figure out what's on second, especially when I don't know's on third.

All I can hope is that Hugh Jackman's at home plate.

A girl can dream, right?

Carry That Weight

So many people have weighed in (no pun intended) on the Rex Reed-Melissa McCarthy situation.  Old news, I know, but, candidly, I was debating whether to add my voice to the fray, but, in the end, we all know I just have to have my say, so here it is.

For those who might have missed it, or have forgotten, essentially Rex Reed used a good portion of his review of the recent (I can't in good faith call it "new" anymore given the lateness of this piece) Melissa McCarthy-Jason Bateman movie, Identify Theft, to make negative comments on Melissa's weight, calling her a "female hippo" and "tractor-sized."

I know:  Way to stay classy, Rex.

And I know:  Old news.

In a follow-up interview, Rex went on to accidentally call Melissa McCarthy "Melissa Manchester," which shows you what decade he's stuck in.  Don't cry out loud ... He's so irrelevant, I say with no meanspiritedness, that I thought he was already dead.  Good for you, being alive, Rex.  But anyway, Rex claims in said interview, "I have too many friends that have died of obesity-related illnesses, heart problems and diabetes. … I have helped people try to lose weight, and I don't find this to be the subject of a lot of humor," Reed said.

Yeah, neither does Melissa McCarthy, or any overweight person for that matter.  So what exactly what was his intention?

I'm supposing that Rex is showing his overweight friends some love and helping them lose weight by calling them tractor-sized also?  Nothing says I love you and care for you than calling someone a hippo.  And nothing is more motivating than verbal abuse.   Too bad Valentine's Day has come and gone; I'm sure Rex could have a whole line of Valentine's Day ideas - perhaps a chocolate heart that says, "Eat Me, Fat Pig?"  "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number so call me tractor-sized..."

Now, Melissa McCarthy is overweight.  And yes, she knows it.  It's her business not anyone else's.  And, if, as Rex says, she's made a career of playing overweight characters, good for her, that's her choice, and frankly, none of my business.  Given that weight discrimination is rampant in this country, she's probably one of a handful of people making money off her weight.  But in this country, we vote with money, and if there's anyone out there who thinks she is too "unhealthy" and they don't want to encourage her, they don't have to see her movies.

And let me be straight:  I am not advocating that people be overweight.  On the contrary, as someone who has been overweight 35 of my 40 years, I don't recommend it.   But why do we judge overweight people so harshly?  What is it about them that irks us so much?  Why can't we just let them be?  I guarantee they are aware they are overweight and are struggling -- maybe they've come to accept and love their bodies as they are, and that's their business, not ours.  Sure, there are people who are genuinely concerned about their loved one's health and well-being when they're fat -- I get that, but that's not what's fueling most of the fat discrimination out there and the negative comments.  In fact, research has shown that criticism has the opposite effect on those struggling with their weight.

Every day I'm on Facebook, a community of roughly 400 of my friends, loved ones, and random people I've met in various circumstances.  Most of them I'd be able to pick out of a line-up.  And every day at least one of them calls someone fat as a disparaging remark, or makes a joke at a fat person's expense.

And every time, I cringe.  Because, again, as an overweight person, what I immediately think is, "What do they think of me?"

If this seems a bit deja vu, I've blogged a bit about this before.

You can't hide being fat.  It's out there for the world to see.  As much as I'd like to think that people don't see it, they do.  I've lost 65 lbs in the past few years but I am still far from thin, and I am still far from accepting my body as it is.  And I fear that I may never accept my body.  I am a perfectionist and highly critical of myself and I can almost guarantee that my weight will always be something I'm unhappy with, as much as I wish that weren't so.

I have never been one of those people who is happy with my body overweight.  It just didn't -- it just doesn't -- feel right to me.  I feel that my heavy body weighs me down and betrays my energetic spirit.   And I feel judged.  I have a lot of energy and stamina -- I'm often the first person up and the last one standing.  But I'm sure people would look at me and think the opposite.  That bothers me.  I don't want to be judged on what I weigh.   Love me, hate me -- but make it for a good reason, not because of my dress size.  There are plenty of things to love and hate about me -- you don't need to make that decision based upon my weight.

So when I see or hear a friend make a fat joke, it breaks my heart a little.   First, I wonder if they're that shallow that they are judging ME on my weight.  And if you aren't, and I'm more to you than that, shouldn't others be granted the same courtesy?   If you can see beyond my weight, can't you do the same for others to see their heart and soul and personality and intelligence and humor and worth?  Their humanity?

Then I get offended because I think any friend of mine should have a little more in their arsenal than fat jokes/comments-- can't you be a little more clever than stating the obvious, i.e. making a comment about something the world can see?   Don't you have anything more to add than that?  Any humor?  Insight?  Commentary?  And if a person is truly terrible, seriously is the worst thing about them their weight?  As I've said about Chris Christie, if you have an opinion of him, have it be an informed opinion about his politics and views, not the size of his fleece.

But mostly, these comments just hurt.  I can't hear someone being talked about in a negative way in regards to their weight without feeling it -- because I'm fat too.  The comment applies also to me.  It's like, physics, or something.  A universal truth.  Fat is fat.

And even comments less severe than Rex's -- comments about Lena Dunham's body or Kate Upton's.  They still sting.  How can an average person accept his or her body as it is with this kind of dialogue happening constantly?  PS, I wish that Lena Dunham would put clothes on, but not because she doesn't have a perfect body.  I just don't think it personally adds anything anymore -- point taken.

Being overweight in a thin-obsessed world, you learn to swallow the hurt when people make comments and jokes.  Sometimes you make them yourself  -- they're practically guaranteed to get a laugh -- and feel ashamed.   Doing so betrays yourself and those who share your struggle.

I wonder how Rex Reed's overweight friends (that he claims to have, kinda sounds like, "Some of my best friends are black, I mean, fat.") felt when they read that review.  I'm sure they weren't proud.  I'm sure they didn't feel good. I'm sure they hurt a bit deep down in that place of their heart that has scabbed over from one too many comments.  And I hope at least one of them had some choice words for him to help him understand why his words were so biting.

Just because someone may be taking up more space in the world doesn't give us the right to comment on it.  Melissa McCarthy's body is her body and none of our business.

I'm not here to preach, although I know it sure sounds like it, mainly because writing in this tone is helping me conceal the hurt I feel from a lifetime of dealing with this.  Comments, stares, well-meaning and well-intentioned "advice."   My favorite piece of advice comes from my grandmother, who, when I was 16, recommended that I not buy any additional clothing until I was "thin."  Thankfully I didn't listen because nudity is not acceptable in the workplace, at Barry Manilow concerts, or at Starbucks.  And it's questionable on the subway.

I guess all I'm trying to say is, I just invite everyone to just think twice -- before making a comment about anyone's body or weight -- fat, thin, in between -- think of them as a person first, and let that be your guide. And if that doesn't work, ask yourself "What would Rex Reed do?"

And then do the opposite.

(Anyone care to help me down from this soapbox?  It's a long way down and I'm not wearing my helmet...)

Show Me the Funny

So Tina Fey and Amy Poehler hosted the Golden Globes last night, and they were funny.  Totally underutilized but very funny.  And not just funny to those with ladyparts, but, I daresay, to everyone.  Well, except Tommy Lee Jones.  Tommy Lee Jones, we learned at the Globes, seems to have no sense of humor whatsoever, leaving me to wonder if, when he and Al Gore were roommates back at Harvard, he made Al Gore look like the funny one.  Now that's an accomplishment.  But I digress.

I confess that, way, way back in college, I once expressed the opinion, out loud even, "I don't think women are as funny as men."  Shocking, right?  Thankfully the male friend to whom I expressed this ill-informed and downright incorrect opinion didn't agree, but replied, "That's because you haven't met you."

Aww, thanks.  And deep, right?  You can really read a lot into that.   But being 18, I didn't.  I think I probably just poured another beer.

But what I realized in that moment, and in countless moments after, is that, of course I thought I was funny.  I mean, show me the rare person who thinks he/she has no sense of humor - even when they don't.  And I knew plenty of funny women in my real life - family, friends, coworkers.  Where I wasn't really seeing them was on tv or in the movies, and we all know that being funny is like a tree falling in the woods -- if someone is funny but not on television or in the movies, does it really count? 

Sure they were there but generally in support of a male lead like Jerry Seinfeld, who, of course, as the star of the show, was allowed to be funnier.  Better, smarter people than me have done analysis of the portrayal of women and girls in pop culture so I'm not even going to go there - it's too deep a subject.  But what fascinates me is the external validation that 18 year old me needed that women were funny.   Working for a youth development organization, I can't overestimate the importance of role models - kids need to see people who look like them doing well, succeeding, it makes you think that if they can do it, so can you.

But still, it blows my mind that I couldn't just think about the women I knew who made me laugh on a regular basis and KNOW with every fiber of my being that women were and are funny, or even, really just using common sense, even thinking what the heck gender had to do with funny?  I needed pop culture to tell me, to show me, put a blinking neon arrow over Kristen Wiig, Melissa McCarthy, Chelsea Handler, Kathy Griffin, Ellen, etc. reading "Funny."  I guess that's also cutting to the heart of comedy - it's not funny unless someone outside of the person telling the joke laughs. 

You know, like that tree that fell in the woods earlier.  At least I think it fell.  I wasn't there, someone told me.

Which is why I was really pulling for Tina and Amy.  I know they're funny from countless hours of watching both of them perform but I was holding my breath to see how they'd do.  Don't blow it, ladies.  The fate of your gender is riding on you.  Because everyone knows that every time Jerry Seinfeld makes a bad joke, male comedians are sent off to the bread line.  And it took years for male actors to carry a movie after Eddie Murphy's one, two, ten unfunny movies.  Right?

What did Tina and Amy have to prove?  Pretty much everything.   What did they actually succeed in proving?  Not that women are funny, but that Tina and Amy are funny.  Because women aren't funny, and neither are men.  But Melissa and Chelsea and Kathy certainly are.  Ray and Eddie and Will?  Also funny.  And so is Lynn, as a matter of fact. 

But not you, Anne Hathaway, sit down already; we've heard enough out of you.

(Just to be clear, when I say Lynn, I mean me, and not Lynn Swann, who may or may not be funny.  I asked Tommy Lee Jones, but he's not a credible source on the matter, and Al Gore says he needs to do do some more quantitative research and see some more pie charts of data before he can decide.)

This is 39 3/4...

I've yet to see Judd Apatow's "new" film THIS IS 40, but, in keeping with my personality, that doesn't stop me from forming an opinion of it.  And that opinion, again, having not seen the movie, is that I bet I'll like it (I tend to like his stuff, going back to "Freaks and Geeks") but I'll walk away thinking, "No, THEY are 40.  I am nothing like THEM."  These people are married and live in the suburbs and have children and cars and look a lot like Paul Rudd and Leslie Mann.

Well, except that I'll actually BE 40 in a little over two months.  Okay, from the time of this writing, 81 days.  But who's counting?

Oddly, I don't really feel a lot of anxiety about turning 40, probably because I feel anxiety every day of my life about every single thing.  What's one more thing to worry about?  In the words of Laura Bennett from season 3 of Project Runway, "Just throw another one on the pile."  Now Laura was talking about her kids, but since I don't have kids yet, my worries are like my children:  each one is special to me in its own way, but, unlike most mothers, I'll admit I have my favorite.  Like they say with kids, having one is like none, but having two is like ten.  Although I bet the parents of any number between one and ten children would debate that statement mightily, theoretically I agree, once you have two, what's the difference?  Pile 'em on.

I think I don't feel anxiety because it's no secret that the things that I wish weren't true about my life are true every day and not just on my birthday.   And maybe it's maturity but I no longer feel competitive or jealous about what my friends and neighbors are doing.  I wish them well, and sometimes I even feel happy for them.  Go figure.  I realized, more recently than I'd care to admit, that there's not a direct correlation between someone having gotten or done something and my lack of something.  Your promotion doesn't mean I can't find my dream job.  Your wedding has nothing to do with me being single.  And your baby isn't the reason I'm pushing a cat in a stroller and not a baby.  There's plenty to go around.  Just as important, I realized that whether or not I achieve the things I'd like in life, above all, contentment, has nothing to do with anyone else and everything to do with me.  Boring, I know.  It's so much more entertaining to blame other people.

I remember being younger and thinking about what 40 would look like for me.  The year 2013.  It seemed so alien and far away.  I mean, out of the 20th century and everything.  Would we wear actual clothes?  Would Champion sweatshirts and rubber bracelets still be in style?  Could I wear my cuffed jeans and Stan Smiths?  Would every home have a hot tub in the future?  Will I be married to Rick Springfield?

So many questions then, and yet, now, so few answers.  Never predicted that one.

I thought that at some point between, I don't know, 14 and 40, I would have figured it out.  Whatever "it" is.  But I actually feel less knowledgeable now.  What is it they say?  Old enough to know what you don't know?  I remember coming home from my first job at age 13, and announcing, "I know everything there is to know about working."  Except I worked there for several more years and was still learning right up to the day I left.  And I still have no idea.

In many ways, I feel younger now than I ever did.  I think I was born 40.  I've always worried a lot under the guise of thinking.  It was only a matter of time until I reached an age where my worrying and thinking could be put to productive use in the workforce, calling it "management." 

A young me, assuming a worrying position.  There are many.

"Management" in action, sporting a Snuggie.

Except now that I am actually 40 39 and 3/4, I feel like I'm 25.   When I go to online dating sites and they suggest I search up to age 45, I'm like, No way!  I'm not dating some old dude.  What is he going to pick me up in his Jazzy?   Do we have to be home by 8 to watch his programs on CBS?  And forget my favorite restaurants -  he'll be watching his diabeetus Wilford Brimley-style.  No thank you.  I am not dating some old person.

Apparently, somewhere along the way, I didn't get the memo that I'm not 25 but 40 39 and 3/4.  Even still, I don't want to date a 25 year old either.  I don't want to hang out at raves in converted warehouses in Williamsburg, or, honestly, pretty much anywhere in Williamsburg (well, except the Brooklyn Bowl).  I don't have that kind of wardrobe; I don't own a single hoodie or an ironic t-shirt.  And I want to be in bed at midnight, not going out at midnight.  I have a job.  I have to bring home the bacon and convert that bacon into food that arrives hot at my door through one click of the interwebs.  I am an adult responsible for supporting myself, my cat, and the Turkish restaurant.

As much as I feel 25, and as much as I like to think I'm not getting older, I know that the young people look at me and think differently.  How do I know that?  Well, for starters they call me "Ma'am."  And on the rare occasion I get carded, it's done with a "Sorry, ma'am, it's our company policy" versus any real thinking that I might be 20 years old.  But when I look at my peers -- those who I grew up with and went to college with -- they look the same as ever to me.  I'd like to say when I look at them they look 18, but I think what they really look like is love.  Through my hazy lens of warm feelings, they just look like love to me.  Now, if you're wondering what this looks like, it's similar to how Barbra Streisand and Barbara Walters appear on camera.

I'm actually excited to be 40, and you know, catch up to the age I've always felt.  I'm grateful to be feeling better and better and I feel like I have a little perspective on things.  As much as I worry, I know that, for better or for worse, this too shall pass, and I also know that tomorrow isn't guaranteed.  Seriously, getting older is SO much better than the alternative.

Now, my words don't mean that tears won't be shed.  I will feel entitled to my midlife crisis/breakdown just like everyone else come March.  I will certainly have doubts and wonder WTF happened to my life, but overall, things don't look so bad at 39 3/4.  Dare I say they even look a little promising?  Is this odd, vaguely nauseous feeling happiness?  I have no idea.

It's okay if the young people think I'm ancient and that they smile a little when they see me singing along to the Maroon 5 and the Ke$ha.  I know better.  They still need old folks like me because they don't know how to interact with other humans in person or talk on the telephone.  Someday when someone says to them, "I'm sorry, but who is this Taylor Swift you refer to?" they'll be just as horrified as I was when a girl at work didn't know who Kenny Rogers was.

And they'll think that, when they're 40, they'll have it all together.  That they'll have all the answers.  And they'll be, like, so wrong.  They will never, ever, ever have all the answers, and I mean, ever.  Like, never.

This is 40 on the left; this is 400 on the right.

He's no Rick Springfield, but he'll do.

This is also 40.  Notice marked drop in maturity level from child photo.