Patience.
It's a virtue. Everyone needs a healthy dose. Some have more than others. I, however, have little to none. Of this I am aware. I'm pretty convinced that whatever patience I was born with ran out in 1980 when we were forced to wait till the fall to see "Who shot J.R.?" on Dallas.
I have always been short on patience, particularly when told to be patient. It's like telling someone to "Calm down," probably the worst thing you can say to anyone, as if those words will convince an already agitated person to chill. "Oh, what did you say? Calm down. Oh, okay, since you said it, I will. All better now."
Those who know me well will try to manage me, "Just so you know, we might have to wait." Being prepared helps, but it doesn't really make it better. Part of the problem is I'm chronically early, so, even when things start on time, they seem late. My mother says, "If you're late, you're sending the other person the signal that your time is more valuable than theirs." Which is a pretty powerful message if you think about it, so I try to never be late, even for people and things that always keep me waiting.
Remember those annoying Heinz ketchup commercials with Carly Simon's Anticipation playing while the ketchup sloooooowwllly made its way down the bottle? That commercial made me nuts. Smack that thing! Smash it on the table! I don't need to wait that long for ketchup! It's ketchup for God's sake! I'll do without, pass the mustard. Mustard wouldn't make me wait like that. Stupid ketchup, thinking it's so great that I will wait all day for it. I will not.
You get the idea.
I read an interesting article today about how we are conditioned to know we will have to wait certain places -- say, for example, online at Disney World, we'll wait for two hours for a two minute ride, but we go to the post office and there's one person in front of us and all of a sudden the sighing, and the stamping, and the groans of "C'mon!!!" start up.
Sighing. Don't even get me started on sighing. I know a few "sighers" and I'm sure you know some too. Make the mistake of asking them a simple question, actually anything at all, and you get enough airflow to power Christina Aguilera's highest note. But why? What is so awful about the sigher's life that he or she is so put out all of the time? Is he the title-holding "World's Most Put Out" person? I'll never know. I sometimes like to answer the sigher with, "Is there a problem?" Because I think it's kind of like a tic that they don't know they're doing, but let me tell you, I don't have patience for it. Go blow out someone else's eardrum with your mighty wind.
But I digress. Back to patience.
I feel like we're just getting more and more impatient. The more technology and services exist to make life easier, the less patience we have.
It's just that waiting, by its very definition, is this purgatory period between things. I'm not here, or there, I'm waiting. And waiting isn't doing anything but waiting. And the more time we spend waiting, the more time that seems wasted. For me, it's also definitely a control issue -- I'm at the mercy of when someone or something else decides my waiting period is over and the next activity can begin.
Smart and, yes, patient, people have found ways to make productive use of time spent waiting. They read. They meditate. They do crossword puzzles. They cure cancer. They play Angry Birds. They use the Twitter or the Facebook. They sometimes engage other humans in conversation.
My preferred use of waiting time is complaining and/or stewing. Usually silently, since I realize that, in most cases, it's no one's fault. Sometimes I use that time to compose complaint letters in my head about waiting that I will never send. "Dear Sir or Madam, Today I had to sit for..." Oh, what, wait, it's my turn? Already? Don't you push me, I'm going, I'm next...
Living in NYC everything is both easy and incredibly difficult, all at the same time. You have access to everything, but so do 8.2 million other people, so anywhere you go, you're going to have to wait. So a smart (read: crazy) person comes up with a game plan for everything - post office mid-morning, run out to grab lunch at 11:30, order groceries online, tell everyone dinner reservations are 15 minutes earlier than they actually are so people actually show up on time, drive to Long Island in the middle of the night to avoid traffic. Everything is planned with military-like precision that would make General MacArthur proud.
Until I embrace waiting for waiting's sake, that's how it's going to be. But the problem is, it all feels very, well, complicated and hurried, which I guess, is the opposite of waiting.
Mission accomplished?
So what's better? Should I slow down and, as Barbara Walters might say, "Take a little time to enjoy the view?" Embrace the wait? Learn to enjoy the journey? To me, the journey is like waiting, so maybe I just need to convince myself that the destination is the journey.
Yeah right. I couldn't even keep a straight face for that one.
I don't have the patience to wait for that day. But I can make sure I have a good book on me at all times. And I'll start referring to "waiting" as "reading."
It's a start.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Me the People
I'm not much for politics. I don't have the heart for it, or the stomach for that matter. I bet if I had a blood pressure monitor on between now and Election Day, my blood pressure readings would alternate between Damn Girl/Simmer Down and WTF/OMG.
I like it when people agree with me, and, although I respect differing viewpoints (truly), I admit I tend to go through life thinking that whatever views I have are shared by everyone else. Now, don't get me wrong, it's not that I even think I'm right on most issues. I just generally come from a "I like you, you like me, I like pizza, you like pizza too!" philosophy, and then when I hear you don't like pizza, it blows my mind. How could you not like pizza??? Who ARE you???
Now, feel free to take "pizza" and substitute it with a word of your choosing, like puppies, or babies, or freedom, or equality, or Impractical Jokers, airing Thursday nights at 10 p.m. on TruTV. (Seriously, that show is hilarious.)
I just don't like dissent. As many can attest, I think even the most gentlemanly debates are agita-producing, and uncomfortable. I don't understand debate for debate's sake. I once actually developed an ulcer while two friends (you know who you are) debated probability at a dive bar one Friday night. I actually felt it happening. It's not their fault; just my own allergy to conflict.
I suppose it's related to my control freak nature. If we disagree, that means I've lost control of you and the situation, and well, that does not compute. This won't do at all.
So, except during major elections, like the Presidential race, I stay out of it. I am really and truly ignorant. And I like it that way. Unfortunately, my week off this summer fell during the Republican National Convention, and, having not planned anything major, this left me free to monitor every detail, and all of a sudden I was all riled up and into this election. I watched the Democratic Convention with equal gusto. I was disheartened by the lack of women and ethnic diversity -- better on the Democratic side, but still lacking. At the rate we are at currently, research says we won't achieve parity for women in Congress for 70 more years. Even more disturbing, assuming we keep the current pace, we won't achieve parity for women in corporate leadership ranks for another 500 years.
So I started to think, "Why not me? Why can't I be President?" Well, for one thing, I don't photograph well. That will hurt me. Look what happened with Nixon. And my main platform, "Less hydrants, more parking," wouldn't fly outside of the major cities, and may alienate the firefighter vote, not to mention the critical Dalmatian endorsement.
But seriously, I'm just not sure I'd ever feel like I KNEW enough to be President. That clearly hasn't stopped people before, but, the older I get, the more I'm like, "Seriously, someone could be 35 and be President of this country? Of America? The greatest country in the world? Maybe we want to raise that up a bit. To 10 years older than whatever age I am at this moment." Put that right into the Constitution. I have a friend at the National Archives; I bet she could just write that in by hand. 35 once seemed damn old to me, but now, not so much. I mean, Dawson from Dawson's Creek is 35 now.
I guess, what does it really mean to be President anyway? You have to be smart enough to surround yourself with good people, hopefully people smarter than you are, who know what you don't know, which, if you're like me, is probably a lot. And you have to like being in charge.
I like being in charge. I actually often take charge when I'm not supposed to. Like on the subway, I'm always the person people look to for directions. Having worked years running events, I pretty much can't attend an event without meddling in some way; so if I have any connection at all to an event, if a friend is running it or I know the organization, I'll go into the kitchen and tell everyone to quiet down if noise is disrupting the program. They're probably thinking, "Who the Hell is that?" but they quiet down. I can't help it. And some of you will remember how I took charge of a stranger's vagina by recommending feminine hygiene supplies. I'm not afraid to step up when it matters. Or when it doesn't matter one bit.
It's almost like a disease, I tell you.
It's also exhausting.
The problem with being in charge is, well, once you're in charge, you kinda own that role for life. Everyone sees you in that light and it becomes a huge part of your self-identity, so instinctual that it's totally against the grain and counterintuitive to take a backseat. Whether positive -- capable, can-do, she'll get the job done -- or negative - meddling, controlling, bossy -- it's hard to give up the mantle even when you want to. It disrupts the balance. You can't have passengers without a driver.
Somebody has to be in charge.
But maybe, just maybe, it doesn't have to be me. Maybe I can decline the nomination.
But I like being the leader of the Len Party, even on the days when it seems a little overwhelming and I feel maxed out. I think I need to learn to rely on people more, you know, build a stronger cabinet. Find me a good second in command, who doesn't really mind being second in command most of the time, but is more than happy to be Commander in Chief should I be unable to perform my duties, like say, a Real Housewives of New York marathon is on. And take more breaks. Taking breaks is good. Even the President gets to go to Camp David.
Make less promises, kiss more babies. Sleep more, work less. Choose battles carefully.
Sounds like a platform to win on.
I like it when people agree with me, and, although I respect differing viewpoints (truly), I admit I tend to go through life thinking that whatever views I have are shared by everyone else. Now, don't get me wrong, it's not that I even think I'm right on most issues. I just generally come from a "I like you, you like me, I like pizza, you like pizza too!" philosophy, and then when I hear you don't like pizza, it blows my mind. How could you not like pizza??? Who ARE you???
Now, feel free to take "pizza" and substitute it with a word of your choosing, like puppies, or babies, or freedom, or equality, or Impractical Jokers, airing Thursday nights at 10 p.m. on TruTV. (Seriously, that show is hilarious.)
I just don't like dissent. As many can attest, I think even the most gentlemanly debates are agita-producing, and uncomfortable. I don't understand debate for debate's sake. I once actually developed an ulcer while two friends (you know who you are) debated probability at a dive bar one Friday night. I actually felt it happening. It's not their fault; just my own allergy to conflict.
I suppose it's related to my control freak nature. If we disagree, that means I've lost control of you and the situation, and well, that does not compute. This won't do at all.
So, except during major elections, like the Presidential race, I stay out of it. I am really and truly ignorant. And I like it that way. Unfortunately, my week off this summer fell during the Republican National Convention, and, having not planned anything major, this left me free to monitor every detail, and all of a sudden I was all riled up and into this election. I watched the Democratic Convention with equal gusto. I was disheartened by the lack of women and ethnic diversity -- better on the Democratic side, but still lacking. At the rate we are at currently, research says we won't achieve parity for women in Congress for 70 more years. Even more disturbing, assuming we keep the current pace, we won't achieve parity for women in corporate leadership ranks for another 500 years.
So I started to think, "Why not me? Why can't I be President?" Well, for one thing, I don't photograph well. That will hurt me. Look what happened with Nixon. And my main platform, "Less hydrants, more parking," wouldn't fly outside of the major cities, and may alienate the firefighter vote, not to mention the critical Dalmatian endorsement.
But seriously, I'm just not sure I'd ever feel like I KNEW enough to be President. That clearly hasn't stopped people before, but, the older I get, the more I'm like, "Seriously, someone could be 35 and be President of this country? Of America? The greatest country in the world? Maybe we want to raise that up a bit. To 10 years older than whatever age I am at this moment." Put that right into the Constitution. I have a friend at the National Archives; I bet she could just write that in by hand. 35 once seemed damn old to me, but now, not so much. I mean, Dawson from Dawson's Creek is 35 now.
I guess, what does it really mean to be President anyway? You have to be smart enough to surround yourself with good people, hopefully people smarter than you are, who know what you don't know, which, if you're like me, is probably a lot. And you have to like being in charge.
I like being in charge. I actually often take charge when I'm not supposed to. Like on the subway, I'm always the person people look to for directions. Having worked years running events, I pretty much can't attend an event without meddling in some way; so if I have any connection at all to an event, if a friend is running it or I know the organization, I'll go into the kitchen and tell everyone to quiet down if noise is disrupting the program. They're probably thinking, "Who the Hell is that?" but they quiet down. I can't help it. And some of you will remember how I took charge of a stranger's vagina by recommending feminine hygiene supplies. I'm not afraid to step up when it matters. Or when it doesn't matter one bit.
It's almost like a disease, I tell you.
It's also exhausting.
The problem with being in charge is, well, once you're in charge, you kinda own that role for life. Everyone sees you in that light and it becomes a huge part of your self-identity, so instinctual that it's totally against the grain and counterintuitive to take a backseat. Whether positive -- capable, can-do, she'll get the job done -- or negative - meddling, controlling, bossy -- it's hard to give up the mantle even when you want to. It disrupts the balance. You can't have passengers without a driver.
Somebody has to be in charge.
But maybe, just maybe, it doesn't have to be me. Maybe I can decline the nomination.
But I like being the leader of the Len Party, even on the days when it seems a little overwhelming and I feel maxed out. I think I need to learn to rely on people more, you know, build a stronger cabinet. Find me a good second in command, who doesn't really mind being second in command most of the time, but is more than happy to be Commander in Chief should I be unable to perform my duties, like say, a Real Housewives of New York marathon is on. And take more breaks. Taking breaks is good. Even the President gets to go to Camp David.
Make less promises, kiss more babies. Sleep more, work less. Choose battles carefully.
Sounds like a platform to win on.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Never Forget...
I debated whether to do a post about 9/11. I mean, what could I really add to the conversation? What could I say that hasn't already been said or written about a million times over?
I ultimately decided to post because, like others I am sure who have come before me, in reference to major events like Pearl Harbor, I worry I'm starting to see signs of people forgetting. I see it in the people I work with, some of whom are fifteen or more years younger. Some were 10 or 11 when it happened, and their memories are fuzzy and sheltered by their parents. If they grew up outside NYC, it's even more distant a memory to them, as incomprehensible as it should be.
I treat 9/11 as a sacred day -- and I impose rules at work. I don't want any of my team fundraising -- no calls to anyone around fundraising, even to thank them for donating. You don't know who might be on the other end of the line and what this day means to them.
I don't claim to have had the worst 9/11 experience. On the contrary, I was very fortunate. But what I have is my own, and it affects me to this day. I can't watch any programming about 9/11, or I'll start to cry and shake. I can't explain it and I can't control it. It's a part of me and my experience and has colored who I am.
The morning of 9/11, I had arrived at work at NASDAQ in Times Square, as I usually did, between 7 and 7:30. My colleagues and I were responsible for the daily opening bell ceremony, which meant that our guests would be arriving and we needed to be there to welcome them and make the day a special celebration.
9.11.01 the company scheduled to ring the opening bell was Thoratec Corporation, a California based medical device company. We were gathered in the studio on the street level of Times Square when the news broke on the broadcast studio monitors that a plane had hit the North Tower. At first, it seemed like a horrible accident. Then, the second plane hits and it's clear that this is intentional.
We all stand riveted, not quite sure what to do. They make the decision with the NYSE not to open the stock markets that day, so we're really just standing there with our guests, honestly in shock, no one saying much at all, but fear palpable in the air. I remember looking outside into Times Square. Traffic has stopped, pedestrians are standing hysterically crying, everyone watching the monitors in Times Square carrying the coverage. One of the most surreal moments of my life.
When the news stations announce that a plane out of Newark en route to San Francisco has been hijacked, our guests start to panic. Their COO was on a flight out of Newark that morning returning to San Francisco. They all jump on their cell phones desperately seeking information.
At that point, it's too much for me to bear, so I head upstairs nervously to my desk to watch CNN.
We later find out that their COO was indeed on that plane, Flight 93. His name was Tom Burnett and he was one of the three men who tried to overthrow the hijackers, ultimately deciding to bring the plane down in Shanksville, PA. I always have felt awful that I fled the room and didn't stay to support them as they tried to find him. I have no idea what happened to them that day, where they went, what they did.
Upstairs at my desk, one of our senior executives, who I have always loved and respected, comes racing into my shared office, affectionately called the "bullpen," because it's a space that several of us share, and on many levels, is a hub of activity. He tells us that we all need to get out -- he actually says, "Get the f**k out now." It's believed that, as a major tourist landmark and a representative of the financial industry, we may well be a target.
I don't want to leave. I'm unsure this is the best move, to be out in the streets wandering. We've heard that no transportation is running. How will I make it back to Brooklyn from midtown? Even more oddly, I'm concerned about chemical warfare and convinced we're going to be gassed outside. I'm not sure why I thought that. Too much movie watching I guess. It sounds insane, but it was a day for the unthinkable to happen.
My friends at work won't let me stay. They literally won't leave me behind. I leave with a group and head to Bryant Park, where we sit confused, and unsure what to do next. We see a tower fall, I think it's the first one, but honestly, I have lost track of time at this point. Each of us are from different parts of the city, but we all want to get home. We hear that trains may be running out of Grand Central, so we decide to head there to see if we can get part of our group on a train. On the way, a splinter group heading to Brooklyn, where I need to go, asks me if I want to walk to Brooklyn with them. I'm concerned about the larger group and so I hem and haw, ultimately telling them to go without me. My friend MaryD tells me I have to go with them, that it's my best shot to get home, so I run after them. By doing so, I lose my original group and now can't find either group in the crowd. With cell phones not working, I'm now alone. Great.
I decide to head south in the direction of Brooklyn. I'm wearing a dress and high heels and just keep putting one foot in front of the other. By some miracle, my boss Riina, who was off that day having surgery, gets through on my cell phone. She helps me contact a good college friend I haven't seen in years, but who still lives in Manhattan, in the Village.
On my walk downtown, I get hit by a bicycle. It's almost funny. I'm not hurt, it's just more evidence of how insane the day was. It was mayhem, everyone like pinballs bouncing here and there. I keep asking cops what I should do and they tell me to keep walking. It's not their fault, they have no information and are just as stunned as we are.
I end up at my friend's apartment, joined by other orphans. We go to the grocery store to try to get food for everyone. How much do we need? How long will people be there? The lines are long and we are confused. I can't remember what we purchased, or if we even ate at all.
For some reason, my friend's boyfriend will not let us watch any of the coverage of what is happening in the world. Instead, we watch C-SPAN, which is airing some debate on the house floor. I want to jump out of my skin not being able to access information.
Around 5, I decide that, if I have any chance of making it to Brooklyn walking before daylight is totally gone, I need to go now. With ballet slippers provided by my friend, I set out for the walk back to Park Slope.
On the way, a fellow journeywoman tells me the subways are now running. The platforms are jammed, but everyone is silent. As we cross from Manhattan into Brooklyn, someone says, "Thank God" and the whole train erupts into applause.
As I exit the station at my stop, I am never so happy to see Brooklyn. Manhattan has become a godforsaken, terrifying place. I cry on the 15 block walk home but I am not alone in my crying.
***
The stock market was closed the rest of that week and I stayed home until that Friday, when I was asked to go in to help get everything in shape to reopen that following Monday, 9/17. I held my breath the whole ride in on the subway. I came in to dozens of voicemails from concerned work contacts -- people who I barely knew but who were concerned about my well-being.
When we reopened the market, we welcomed first responders and government officials. It's decided that one of my new job responsibilities is to lead everyone in singing "The Star Spangled Banner" each morning. I am now the unofficial "voice" of NASDAQ -- having had to sing "Happy Birthday" to Michael Jackson just a month earlier. I sing the Hell out of the national anthem that first day, and every day after that.
It continued like this for weeks -- with each day the market welcoming a different group related to terrorist attacks. At first it was people who had lost loved ones and were putting out urgent pleas to find them alive. As the days went by, we were presenting bouquets to widows and mothers who had lost their children. It felt like an important job -- publicly commemorating what had happened and mourning those who were lost. I was pulled down by the weight of it all. It was heartbreaking.
They sent us all to group grief counseling at work -- many people in the financial services industry had been lost. Our main location was downtown right opposite the WTC. My colleagues there had seen unspeakable things happen. They moved some of our downtown colleagues into our offices; we became one unhappy grieving family.
At counseling, in typical fashion, I announced publicly that we don't need grief counseling, we need to be able to move on. As the weeks wore on, instead of getting better, it was getting worse. I felt like I was being held hostage. Each day we had to go into work with a stiff upper lip and not show any emotion. Who was I to break down while I was holding a mother grieving her lost son? What did my experience matter?
As October came in and moved on, we returned to relative normal. Relative normal meant that we were evacuated pretty often due to potential threats. Like many people did after that day, I kept sneakers in my desk and wouldn't even go to the bathroom without bringing my entire purse in case we had to leave the building in a hurry.
I will never forget the colleagues I spent that time with. We are forever bonded. I worked at NASDAQ for four years after that, and I can honestly say one reason I stayed so long is that I felt such a kinship to my colleagues, largely because of 9/11. We had been through the worst together, and I had found people that were more than colleagues, I had found friends, friends who did their best to help each other during a horrible time. When we evacuated that day, we looked out for one another, we stuck together, and that was something that I didn't want to give up. I was afraid I would never find it again.
Along with the sadness, I try to remember those feelings of love, support, and friendship on 9/11. Remembering them reminds me to be sure to let people know how I really feel - something I am not very good at -- as life is so uncertain and fragile. And it leads me to a 9/12 where I can feel truly blessed and grateful.
I ultimately decided to post because, like others I am sure who have come before me, in reference to major events like Pearl Harbor, I worry I'm starting to see signs of people forgetting. I see it in the people I work with, some of whom are fifteen or more years younger. Some were 10 or 11 when it happened, and their memories are fuzzy and sheltered by their parents. If they grew up outside NYC, it's even more distant a memory to them, as incomprehensible as it should be.
I treat 9/11 as a sacred day -- and I impose rules at work. I don't want any of my team fundraising -- no calls to anyone around fundraising, even to thank them for donating. You don't know who might be on the other end of the line and what this day means to them.
I don't claim to have had the worst 9/11 experience. On the contrary, I was very fortunate. But what I have is my own, and it affects me to this day. I can't watch any programming about 9/11, or I'll start to cry and shake. I can't explain it and I can't control it. It's a part of me and my experience and has colored who I am.
The morning of 9/11, I had arrived at work at NASDAQ in Times Square, as I usually did, between 7 and 7:30. My colleagues and I were responsible for the daily opening bell ceremony, which meant that our guests would be arriving and we needed to be there to welcome them and make the day a special celebration.
9.11.01 the company scheduled to ring the opening bell was Thoratec Corporation, a California based medical device company. We were gathered in the studio on the street level of Times Square when the news broke on the broadcast studio monitors that a plane had hit the North Tower. At first, it seemed like a horrible accident. Then, the second plane hits and it's clear that this is intentional.
We all stand riveted, not quite sure what to do. They make the decision with the NYSE not to open the stock markets that day, so we're really just standing there with our guests, honestly in shock, no one saying much at all, but fear palpable in the air. I remember looking outside into Times Square. Traffic has stopped, pedestrians are standing hysterically crying, everyone watching the monitors in Times Square carrying the coverage. One of the most surreal moments of my life.
When the news stations announce that a plane out of Newark en route to San Francisco has been hijacked, our guests start to panic. Their COO was on a flight out of Newark that morning returning to San Francisco. They all jump on their cell phones desperately seeking information.
At that point, it's too much for me to bear, so I head upstairs nervously to my desk to watch CNN.
We later find out that their COO was indeed on that plane, Flight 93. His name was Tom Burnett and he was one of the three men who tried to overthrow the hijackers, ultimately deciding to bring the plane down in Shanksville, PA. I always have felt awful that I fled the room and didn't stay to support them as they tried to find him. I have no idea what happened to them that day, where they went, what they did.
Upstairs at my desk, one of our senior executives, who I have always loved and respected, comes racing into my shared office, affectionately called the "bullpen," because it's a space that several of us share, and on many levels, is a hub of activity. He tells us that we all need to get out -- he actually says, "Get the f**k out now." It's believed that, as a major tourist landmark and a representative of the financial industry, we may well be a target.
I don't want to leave. I'm unsure this is the best move, to be out in the streets wandering. We've heard that no transportation is running. How will I make it back to Brooklyn from midtown? Even more oddly, I'm concerned about chemical warfare and convinced we're going to be gassed outside. I'm not sure why I thought that. Too much movie watching I guess. It sounds insane, but it was a day for the unthinkable to happen.
My friends at work won't let me stay. They literally won't leave me behind. I leave with a group and head to Bryant Park, where we sit confused, and unsure what to do next. We see a tower fall, I think it's the first one, but honestly, I have lost track of time at this point. Each of us are from different parts of the city, but we all want to get home. We hear that trains may be running out of Grand Central, so we decide to head there to see if we can get part of our group on a train. On the way, a splinter group heading to Brooklyn, where I need to go, asks me if I want to walk to Brooklyn with them. I'm concerned about the larger group and so I hem and haw, ultimately telling them to go without me. My friend MaryD tells me I have to go with them, that it's my best shot to get home, so I run after them. By doing so, I lose my original group and now can't find either group in the crowd. With cell phones not working, I'm now alone. Great.
I decide to head south in the direction of Brooklyn. I'm wearing a dress and high heels and just keep putting one foot in front of the other. By some miracle, my boss Riina, who was off that day having surgery, gets through on my cell phone. She helps me contact a good college friend I haven't seen in years, but who still lives in Manhattan, in the Village.
On my walk downtown, I get hit by a bicycle. It's almost funny. I'm not hurt, it's just more evidence of how insane the day was. It was mayhem, everyone like pinballs bouncing here and there. I keep asking cops what I should do and they tell me to keep walking. It's not their fault, they have no information and are just as stunned as we are.
I end up at my friend's apartment, joined by other orphans. We go to the grocery store to try to get food for everyone. How much do we need? How long will people be there? The lines are long and we are confused. I can't remember what we purchased, or if we even ate at all.
For some reason, my friend's boyfriend will not let us watch any of the coverage of what is happening in the world. Instead, we watch C-SPAN, which is airing some debate on the house floor. I want to jump out of my skin not being able to access information.
Around 5, I decide that, if I have any chance of making it to Brooklyn walking before daylight is totally gone, I need to go now. With ballet slippers provided by my friend, I set out for the walk back to Park Slope.
On the way, a fellow journeywoman tells me the subways are now running. The platforms are jammed, but everyone is silent. As we cross from Manhattan into Brooklyn, someone says, "Thank God" and the whole train erupts into applause.
As I exit the station at my stop, I am never so happy to see Brooklyn. Manhattan has become a godforsaken, terrifying place. I cry on the 15 block walk home but I am not alone in my crying.
***
The stock market was closed the rest of that week and I stayed home until that Friday, when I was asked to go in to help get everything in shape to reopen that following Monday, 9/17. I held my breath the whole ride in on the subway. I came in to dozens of voicemails from concerned work contacts -- people who I barely knew but who were concerned about my well-being.
When we reopened the market, we welcomed first responders and government officials. It's decided that one of my new job responsibilities is to lead everyone in singing "The Star Spangled Banner" each morning. I am now the unofficial "voice" of NASDAQ -- having had to sing "Happy Birthday" to Michael Jackson just a month earlier. I sing the Hell out of the national anthem that first day, and every day after that.
It continued like this for weeks -- with each day the market welcoming a different group related to terrorist attacks. At first it was people who had lost loved ones and were putting out urgent pleas to find them alive. As the days went by, we were presenting bouquets to widows and mothers who had lost their children. It felt like an important job -- publicly commemorating what had happened and mourning those who were lost. I was pulled down by the weight of it all. It was heartbreaking.
They sent us all to group grief counseling at work -- many people in the financial services industry had been lost. Our main location was downtown right opposite the WTC. My colleagues there had seen unspeakable things happen. They moved some of our downtown colleagues into our offices; we became one unhappy grieving family.
At counseling, in typical fashion, I announced publicly that we don't need grief counseling, we need to be able to move on. As the weeks wore on, instead of getting better, it was getting worse. I felt like I was being held hostage. Each day we had to go into work with a stiff upper lip and not show any emotion. Who was I to break down while I was holding a mother grieving her lost son? What did my experience matter?
As October came in and moved on, we returned to relative normal. Relative normal meant that we were evacuated pretty often due to potential threats. Like many people did after that day, I kept sneakers in my desk and wouldn't even go to the bathroom without bringing my entire purse in case we had to leave the building in a hurry.
I will never forget the colleagues I spent that time with. We are forever bonded. I worked at NASDAQ for four years after that, and I can honestly say one reason I stayed so long is that I felt such a kinship to my colleagues, largely because of 9/11. We had been through the worst together, and I had found people that were more than colleagues, I had found friends, friends who did their best to help each other during a horrible time. When we evacuated that day, we looked out for one another, we stuck together, and that was something that I didn't want to give up. I was afraid I would never find it again.
Along with the sadness, I try to remember those feelings of love, support, and friendship on 9/11. Remembering them reminds me to be sure to let people know how I really feel - something I am not very good at -- as life is so uncertain and fragile. And it leads me to a 9/12 where I can feel truly blessed and grateful.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
The Autumn of Len
Summer hath endeth. Well, allegedly. It still feels like summer to me, with the 300% humidity, and t-storms hanging over our heads every day this week.
But, true Fall will be here soon enough, and it's probably no surprise, being a Nerdy McNerderson and all, I love this time of year. Even though it's been 17 some odd years since I've been a student, I love September with all of its Back to School goodness. It makes me want to buy myself a vintage Wonder Woman lunchbox, stuff it with a little carton of chocolate milk, a PB&J, raisins (to throw away), and an apple (to pretend to eat while looking pensive), and sit all daydreamy in a corner with my denim three ring binder, doodling hearts with my purple smelly pen while huffing freshly sharpened pencils.
But alas, today, I'm more likely to be found ordering off Seamless web hunched over my desk, telephone headset on, BlackBerry in one hand while the other hand types on the computer keyboard.
This, they tell me, is called progress.
I was always a good student, but truth be told, with a hefty dose of what I'm sure would now be diagnosed as ADD, I didn't always love sitting in class, and well, I didn't love the being in school part. I loved learning for learning's sake, but I got bored often -- not through any fault of the teachers, but just had trouble sitting in one place for very long. As you all know, I hate being trapped places, and knowing that I have to be somewhere for a certain length of time gives me hives. Where's the exit?
When they were doing Kindergarten testing before I entered school, I failed. They told my mom I was probably developmentally challenged, which she didn't accept because I was already reading. In actuality, I had decided that looking at all of the musical instruments hung on the walls in the room they were testing us in was far more fun then their stupid, "Is this a fish or a dog?" questions. Even then I knew that was an asinine question.
As a student, I was mostly bored. And so I mastered the art of paying attention without really paying attention, knowing without really absorbing, so, although I learned a fair amount in school, to this day, I am amazed at how my knowledge has real gaps in it, like I don't even remember ever studying certain subjects that I'm sure I knew at the time. Well, enough to do well on the test. It's like my brain did a catch and release -- catch the information, ace the test, release, free brain up to hold onto things I really cared about like the lyrics to every song I've ever heard. It's probably no surprise that the thing I liked to do most in school -- creative writing -- didn't really involve any real learning, but just doing, and putting my own thoughts to paper.
Without really connecting to any subject, I continued to be bored in school, but, since I was a really shy kid, I didn't mouth off, I just did my work as fast as I could and then drifted off into a daydreamy land where I lived alongside the characters from my favorite soap operas. Sometimes I daydreamed about having an alternate persona -- my name was Jessica, I was 24, lived in a mansion, and by that point, was married, sometimes to Dr. Noah Drake from General Hospital, played, as we know, by Rick Springfield, other times to Lee Stetson, otherwise known as Scarecrow from Scarecrow and Mrs. King played by Bruce Boxleitner. And much later, Agent Cooper of Twin Peaks, and Fox Mulder of The X Files, but more often, to Randy Randersons I concocted in my brain. I was a top fashion model AND a veterinarian, which we know is very common. The role of my father, replacing my actual father who wasn't really in the picture (not that this is reality...), was played by Robert Wagner, then of Hart to Hart, and cutting a very dashing, wealthy international figure.
It was all very glamorous indeed, and a far cry from my reality then, and any reality I know now, especially the reality of my actual age of 24, which, although not too shabby, involved maxed out credit cards and three roommates in a Brooklyn apartment with bars on the windows, instead of a mansion and a rock star doctor husband. The closest I got to rock stars at 24 was at this local dive bar's karaoke night where one of the regulars, 75 if he was a day, and with a body made up of about 90% alcohol, sang Mack the Knife and then did an eye popping, incredible full-on split, which I wouldn't have believed if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Even more incredibly, he was able to get back up again.
At least that's how I think it happened. I wasn't really paying attention.
Somewhere along the lines, when, perhaps, reality set in, my daydreams became less about being a model or married to an international spy, and more about my actual own life and thinking about how situations will unfold. I imagine the most outlandish, good or bad (depending on how my mood is that day) situation, and hone in on that. It's a cross between being delusional and being a control freak. Like Len on steroids, or as the commercial goes, me, only better. Bizarro world. It's definitely entertaining, but the trouble is, I tend to miss what's right in front of me, and can't live in the moment. And, imagining the most ridiculous situations means that even good situations end up being disappointing, like how when Oprah didn't handpick me out of her studio audience and anoint me her successor. Didn't she get the memo about how that evening was supposed to happen?
I think that's why I love Back to School time so much. It seems like a time to start fresh, to begin again, a mini new year's, so to speak. Time for self-evaluation and reinvention, a time to begin again and challenge the way we've always done things. Time for new clothes without rips or stains, and a new outlook without any negativity or bias. A time to undo and redo all the things that I wish I did better.
Therefore, like George Costanza before me, who declared the Summer of George, I am declaring this the Autumn of Len. I'd declare it the Fall of Len, but that sounds painful; part of the Autumn of Len involves avoiding any trips, slips, drops, or falls.
So, if, at tonight's Madonna concert, she doesn't change the lyrics to Vogue to say, "Lauren, Katherine, Lana too, Lynn Hepburn, we love you," I'll try not to be disappointed.
But I'll still be pretty sure she looked directly at me that one time.
But, true Fall will be here soon enough, and it's probably no surprise, being a Nerdy McNerderson and all, I love this time of year. Even though it's been 17 some odd years since I've been a student, I love September with all of its Back to School goodness. It makes me want to buy myself a vintage Wonder Woman lunchbox, stuff it with a little carton of chocolate milk, a PB&J, raisins (to throw away), and an apple (to pretend to eat while looking pensive), and sit all daydreamy in a corner with my denim three ring binder, doodling hearts with my purple smelly pen while huffing freshly sharpened pencils.
But alas, today, I'm more likely to be found ordering off Seamless web hunched over my desk, telephone headset on, BlackBerry in one hand while the other hand types on the computer keyboard.
This, they tell me, is called progress.
I was always a good student, but truth be told, with a hefty dose of what I'm sure would now be diagnosed as ADD, I didn't always love sitting in class, and well, I didn't love the being in school part. I loved learning for learning's sake, but I got bored often -- not through any fault of the teachers, but just had trouble sitting in one place for very long. As you all know, I hate being trapped places, and knowing that I have to be somewhere for a certain length of time gives me hives. Where's the exit?
When they were doing Kindergarten testing before I entered school, I failed. They told my mom I was probably developmentally challenged, which she didn't accept because I was already reading. In actuality, I had decided that looking at all of the musical instruments hung on the walls in the room they were testing us in was far more fun then their stupid, "Is this a fish or a dog?" questions. Even then I knew that was an asinine question.
As a student, I was mostly bored. And so I mastered the art of paying attention without really paying attention, knowing without really absorbing, so, although I learned a fair amount in school, to this day, I am amazed at how my knowledge has real gaps in it, like I don't even remember ever studying certain subjects that I'm sure I knew at the time. Well, enough to do well on the test. It's like my brain did a catch and release -- catch the information, ace the test, release, free brain up to hold onto things I really cared about like the lyrics to every song I've ever heard. It's probably no surprise that the thing I liked to do most in school -- creative writing -- didn't really involve any real learning, but just doing, and putting my own thoughts to paper.
Without really connecting to any subject, I continued to be bored in school, but, since I was a really shy kid, I didn't mouth off, I just did my work as fast as I could and then drifted off into a daydreamy land where I lived alongside the characters from my favorite soap operas. Sometimes I daydreamed about having an alternate persona -- my name was Jessica, I was 24, lived in a mansion, and by that point, was married, sometimes to Dr. Noah Drake from General Hospital, played, as we know, by Rick Springfield, other times to Lee Stetson, otherwise known as Scarecrow from Scarecrow and Mrs. King played by Bruce Boxleitner. And much later, Agent Cooper of Twin Peaks, and Fox Mulder of The X Files, but more often, to Randy Randersons I concocted in my brain. I was a top fashion model AND a veterinarian, which we know is very common. The role of my father, replacing my actual father who wasn't really in the picture (not that this is reality...), was played by Robert Wagner, then of Hart to Hart, and cutting a very dashing, wealthy international figure.
It was all very glamorous indeed, and a far cry from my reality then, and any reality I know now, especially the reality of my actual age of 24, which, although not too shabby, involved maxed out credit cards and three roommates in a Brooklyn apartment with bars on the windows, instead of a mansion and a rock star doctor husband. The closest I got to rock stars at 24 was at this local dive bar's karaoke night where one of the regulars, 75 if he was a day, and with a body made up of about 90% alcohol, sang Mack the Knife and then did an eye popping, incredible full-on split, which I wouldn't have believed if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Even more incredibly, he was able to get back up again.
At least that's how I think it happened. I wasn't really paying attention.
Somewhere along the lines, when, perhaps, reality set in, my daydreams became less about being a model or married to an international spy, and more about my actual own life and thinking about how situations will unfold. I imagine the most outlandish, good or bad (depending on how my mood is that day) situation, and hone in on that. It's a cross between being delusional and being a control freak. Like Len on steroids, or as the commercial goes, me, only better. Bizarro world. It's definitely entertaining, but the trouble is, I tend to miss what's right in front of me, and can't live in the moment. And, imagining the most ridiculous situations means that even good situations end up being disappointing, like how when Oprah didn't handpick me out of her studio audience and anoint me her successor. Didn't she get the memo about how that evening was supposed to happen?
I think that's why I love Back to School time so much. It seems like a time to start fresh, to begin again, a mini new year's, so to speak. Time for self-evaluation and reinvention, a time to begin again and challenge the way we've always done things. Time for new clothes without rips or stains, and a new outlook without any negativity or bias. A time to undo and redo all the things that I wish I did better.
Therefore, like George Costanza before me, who declared the Summer of George, I am declaring this the Autumn of Len. I'd declare it the Fall of Len, but that sounds painful; part of the Autumn of Len involves avoiding any trips, slips, drops, or falls.
So, if, at tonight's Madonna concert, she doesn't change the lyrics to Vogue to say, "Lauren, Katherine, Lana too, Lynn Hepburn, we love you," I'll try not to be disappointed.
But I'll still be pretty sure she looked directly at me that one time.
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