On Fathers and Father's Day...

A couple of months ago, one of my employees lost his dad unexpectedly.  He was sick, he was better, he was sick again, and then he was gone ... all within the span of two weeks.  This week, at work, as the weekend approached, Father's Day weekend, I kept debating whether to say something or to leave it be.  I wasn't sure if anything I would say would be the right thing or would help at all, but I wanted to let him know that I knew this time couldn't be easy for him.  I just couldn't seem to find the right words or the right time.

So there I was sitting my office, working, and working on the "right" thing to say, when these words appeared on my screen:

I'll be thinking of you this weekend.  I know it must be hard for you.

And there it was, the emotional equivalent of a drive-by shooting from another employee of mine, sending these words not to our colleague but to me.

As many of you know, as she knows, I lost my dad 25 years ago in an accident, but I hadn't even been thinking about what the lack of a father on Father's Day meant to me personally.  It's been so long that I had a dad that I don't find myself thinking about it, but the tears and sadness that her words brought made me realize that, like everyone who has ever lost someone, the loss is always there just beneath the surface, and sometimes it spills over when we least expect it.

And as I get older, as more of my friends become fathers in their own right, and my circle fills with fathers, somehow the loss feels sharper.  Maybe it's that I'm witnessing firsthand some of the things that I feel I missed.  The pat on the back comforting a cry.  The reassuring nod offered when a child turns around to make sure dad's there.  A steadying hand to wobbly footing.

It's also a bit ironic that the loss feels deeper since, as I age, more and more friends have lost their fathers so no longer am I part of some precious, rare group.  Every year I age, there are more of us in the fatherless category, and yet, it doesn't feel any better or easier.   Maybe it never will.   Maybe the loss is compounded by the inevitability and the unfairness of it all - not to mention the march of time.

It feels wrong to say that, when my father passed, the result of a violent accident that, somewhat ironically, was in no way his fault, I could finally breathe.  When someone you love is struggling, you're always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the phone to ring with the bad news that surely will come, it's just a matter of time.   Sure, I felt sad when he passed, but I also felt some relief - for him and for me and my whole family.  I didn't have to worry anymore that he'd show up at school again and try to take me with him.  I didn't have to feel guilty for not answering his calls or not returning his letters.  I didn't have to try to process feelings well beyond my emotional maturity level at 6 or 10 - or, who am I kidding? - 41.

So maybe it's that, now, as an adult, I can see beyond my fear of him to love and understanding, and that's where the sense of loss kicks in.

I've been open about the fact that my dad wasn't a perfect man and certainly not the perfect father.  No one is.  He struggled with alcoholism and his behavior was ruled by his disease.  As I get older, I realize more and more how much of a struggle he really had, and how, really, at the end of the day, we're all just doing the best that we can.  Sometimes it's not enough, but day after day, we're all just waking up, putting one foot in front of the other and giving it the old college try.

Sometimes I do things I'm not proud of.  I'm impatient and controlling and refuse to ask for help.  I'm overly sensitive to looking stupid and have an overdeveloped sense of justice.  Often, I say things I wish I hadn't and never say the things I should.  I haven't mastered the flow of thinking BEFORE you speak as I prefer to ruminate and obsess for years after instead of investing two seconds before in a moment of consideration that could save me a lot of grief - and sleep, and, on too many an occasion, calories.  But pretty much always, I come from a good place.

As I become more self-aware, I see how not having paternal support did impact who I've become - for better and for worse.   To every positive, a corresponding negative.  What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but it's better to be rubber - tough but flexible - than brick - thick and unyielding.  I've spend a lot of time working in brick.  Maybe it's time to switch to another medium.

Someone asked me recently if I felt cheated not really having a dad growing up.  Honestly, yes, but more in the fairytale way that probably never would have been a reality.  I think about being walked down the aisle at my wedding and other pop culture "dad" situations that I've seen on television and in the movies as being "perfect, bonding moments."  Aw, shucks, dad.

Real life is far messier, so I know that, in reality, my life wouldn't have played out in those ways.  In real life, I've had amazing uncles, cousins, brother-in-laws, teachers, mentors, coworkers and friends who have filled various "dad" roles at certain points in my life and will continue to do so.  I have been very fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful, caring men.  My friend Antonio is impatiently waiting for me to find someone and get married so he can walk me down the aisle and do the father/daughter dance - a role he is taking very seriously.

And my mother, as a single mom for most of my life, did a pretty great job as both mom and dad.  Which is why on Father's Day, I try to send her a small gift -- just a little something to acknowledge that, finally, as an adult, I know how hard it must have been being both parents.  And, as I get older and consider my own options, I don't know if being a single parent is something that I would be by choice, and yet, there she was.

So, on Father's Day, sure I feel a little sad, a little wistful, but mostly I feel happy watching the joy the great dads I know feel having children, and hoping they soak up the much-deserved love and appreciation on this day.

And to those who have lost their dads too soon - it's always too soon - I simply say:

I'll be thinking of you this weekend.  I know it must be hard for you.

Half Empty

I like to say that I'm an optimistic pessimist.  I'm always waiting for something to go wrong, for the other shoe to drop.  But I also hold onto a glimmer of hope that maybe I'll be wrong and something good will happen, and I always believe that only good things will happen to people I care about.  If you're going for a job interview -- friend, you're gonna get it!  Having a test?  It's nothing, it's nothing at all, you'll be fine.  It's just me that travels under a black cloud.  If this were The Brady Bunch, I'd cast myself as Oliver the jinx.

And yet I don't live under any black cloud.  And I'm not a jinx.  Bad things happen to people, even me.  Good things happen to people, even me.  Why should I be any different? 

So why do I think that way? 

It's certainly not a particularly uplifting way to spend my days.  And it's certainly not smart or efficient, and I like to think that I'm both of those things.  As Michael J. Fox (who by the way, has real problems to worry about) said, "If you get caught up in [thinking about] the worst case scenario and it doesn't happen, then you've wasted your time. If you get caught up in the worst case scenario and it does happen, you've lived it twice."

Yeah, that doesn't sound very smart or efficient, and, given the choice, I'd rather live the worst case scenario once, thank you very much.

Obsessing does have its benefits.  I've put my free time to work solving problems I don't have that I pray I never will, but, if I am ever in the position, I'll be ready.  If you went through the bookmarks on my computer, you'd think I have every major illness and problem known to man.  Being ready, so to speak, makes me feel a bit better.  But I sometimes wonder, what if I could harness all of that mental obsessing and worrying into something good?  Like, I don't know, curing cancer, or, say, solving the problems I actually have.

Now there's a thought.  I could solve the problems I actually have, you know, like why I spend so much time worrying about problems I don't have.

I read that, if you are plagued with worries, set aside a window of time each day or each week where you will do nothing but worry.  And if you find yourself worrying or obsessing at any other time, you're supposed to tell yourself, "Not now, you get to worry Tuesday from 11 to 11:15."

It sounds like it could work, but what if a meteor strikes Earth precisely in that window?

Sounds like something else to worry about.

Things I Am Loving/Hating Right Now (Part II)...

I can't believe it has been nearly a month since I posted here.  I really am awful and have no good excuse. 

It's high time for another installment of Things I Am Loving/Hating Right Now...

Jessica Simpson as the new Weight Watchers Spokesperson:  Hating it.  Well, I think we all saw that one coming, now didn't we?  Rumor has it she's getting $4M.  So let me get this straight -- Jessica got to eat and eat and eat and sit on her butt to the point where she actually looked deformed, and now she gets to make money off of it too?  I got fat for free.  I didn't know you could paid for it.  I wish that Weight Watchers would stop with the celebrity spokespeople, who have access to personal trainers and chefs, and pick a real person, like me, who is actually eating their frozen "meals," if they can be called that, and trying to fit exercise into my busy day of work and a$$-sitting.

Summer:  Hating it.  Maybe it was growing up in a resort town or reluctance to be seen in anything more revealing than a burka, but I am not a fan of summer.  I find the statement that work/life slows down in the summer to be a total myth; I'm working just as hard, if not harder, I'm just hotter while doing it.  The only things I can see that are decent about summer are The Real Housewives of NYC coming back, trashy summer reading, and the Rock of Ages movie.  I can appreciate that other people love the summer, but I just can't get onboard that bus.  I'd rather stay inside in the air conditioning.  Wake me when I can wear my sweaters again and when Mallomars are back on the shelves.

Summer Reading:  Loving it.   I read the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy and I couldn't put them down.  Yes, they are porn, and poorly written, but somehow they just get under your skin.  Like Shingles or something.  I highly recommend them.  I also loved Heft by Liz Moore, This is How ... by Augusten Burroughs, These Girls by Sarah Pekkanen, I Couldn't Love You More by Jillian Medoff, and eagerly await the new Jennifer Weiner (The Next Best Thing) and the Shawn Colvin autobiography (Diamond in the Rough).  I'm sure that 70% of my after-tax income goes to Amazon.com.  It's way too easy to One-Click and essentially buy a house or something.  When I'm in debtors prison, remind me that the road to Hell was paved with books...

Marina Keegan's Now Viral Last Column:  Loving it.  A friend I hadn't spoken to, well, in years, sent this to me in the middle of the night Sunday, long before it became a sensation.  It broke my heart, and made me cry and made me think, and above all, it made me hopeful. 

If you are one of the three people who hasn't read it yet, go here.  I dare you to not be moved: http://www.yaledailynews.com/news/2012/may/27/keegan-opposite-loneliness/?cross-campus

Every day that we are alive we have a chance to turn it around.  To do something awesome or waste precious time.  To choose to hold a grudge, or finally let it go.  To apologize, or let it fester.  To take the high road, or be petty and judgmental. To let people know  that they matter, or continue to be disconnected and isolated.

Marina's column makes me feel uplifted and hopeful and grateful that I have a gift of another day -- to make mistakes and learn from them, and to try to do and BE better.  And I thank Marina for this gift of perspective and send my heartfelt condolences to her family and loved ones. 

As she says, "We’re in this together, 2012. Let’s make something happen to this world."

Indeed.

The Dr. is In...

I've said it before and I'll say it again:  This whole process of healing over the past five months has made me wish that I had gone to medical school.  Not so much that I actually think I'd be a better doctor than the doctors I've seen, but perhaps I wouldn't feel so much in the dark and feel the need to consult Dr. Google several times a day.

My friend MaryD, who suffers from a variety of annoying ailments, and I were howling a few weeks ago looking at our Google search history on our phones.  Among the winners were:  Feel like choking on nothing. 

I'd share more but that about sums it up.

And it makes me even more convinced that my acupuncturist was right when he said that Google should only allow you to search the same symptom, say, three times, and then after that, you're locked out, done, you can no longer obsess.

But then what would I do for fun?  I've built an entire life around obsessing.

Right now, I'm averaging at least three doctor appointments a week.  Most of them aren't helpful.  And it's not like I'm being a hypochondriac, which I have been guilty of on many occasions.  Each time I go to the doctor, he or she decides I need to come back again or go somewhere else or have a test of some kind that seems unnecessary to me and seems like they're grasping at straws, which maybe they are, and maybe it's no longer helpful to keep going, but I'm too much of a hypochondriac not to follow their advice.

It just seems like sometimes they're not paying very much attention -- like the doctor who called to announce a vitamin deficiency that I already have and take medicine for.  When I countered with, "Yeah, I've had that for years, and I take three supplements a day," the reaction was, "Oh, okay, forget that then."  Or the URGENT test that I had to rush in to take the NEXT day because I was having horrible symptoms (which I still have) -- and then had to chase the office down for two weeks to get results only to get a voicemail from the doctor saying, "Showed nothing, call if more questions." 

Yeah, I've got some questions.  Questions like, "Well then what is wrong?  And why am I still having symptoms?"

Thank goodness Dr. Google is always there.  I can always get an appointment anytime day or night.  Dr. Google always has an answer.  Dr. Google never keeps me waiting.  Dr. Google tells it to me straight:  It could be very very serious or it could be nothing at all.

Aside from Dr. Google, I'm pretty sure that the only doctors I would fully trust at this point are Dr. Oz and Dr. Drew.  Dr. Oz had put out a call for guests to be on his show and I'm ready to say I'm a man trapped in a woman's body who needs to lose weight (Dr. Oz loves weight loss shows so that would be my hook) just to get close to him.   I'd even eat the twigs and eye of newt that he's always pushing on the audience to demonstrate how committed I am to health.  But then he'd try to shove me in the Truth Tube, where they announce on national television how much you weigh, and I'd fight like a cat going into a carrier, and scratch up poor Dr. Oz, who, ever resourceful and a teacher at heart (like our Oprah), would use that as an opportunity to demonstrate to everyone how to properly dress a wound and educate everyone on what booster shots we need as adults (tetanus).

 So far everyone seems able to agree on two diagnoses:

"Too much" and "A lot."

And by that I mean, when I go in and describe what's going on, they're always like, "Wow, that sounds like a lot" or "You must feel like it's too much."

I agree.  And I didn't even go to medical school.

At this point though, I've crossed over into laughing about it.  I know that this situation won't last forever and that I will be fortunate enough to feel 100% very soon.  I wish it would come quicker, but I know too that my anxiety about feeling better (or not feeling better) is slowing down the process, so I'm my own worst enemy.

When I think about how I felt a few months ago, when my head was pounding 24/7 and I couldn't even open my eyes because the lights were so bright, I know I've come a long way and I'm grateful for it.

As I said, I don't necessarily blame the doctors.   As my mother once said, "They're humans too, and they learned out of books just like you did."  But as a control freak, it kills me to not know what's going on and to be at the mercy of other people to validate how I'm feeling.  One doctor said, "Your neck is really locked up," and my response was, "I know, I LIVE in this body."  I've already diagnosed myself for free with much of what the doctors have confirmed.

I'll just wait for the day that Google starts handing out medical degrees from GoogleMed.

Dr. Len does have a nice ring to it.

So much to say...

Again I promised you I'd post more regularly, and again I turned out to be a liar.

Oh well.  Such is life.

Sometimes, despite having a lot to say on a regular basis, too much to say, some might say, I often feel like I have nothing to say.

So today, instead of a post of fully formed musings and deep thoughts, here's a glimpse into what's really on my mind...

Bullying:  I literally can't take it if I see another news story about a kid being bullied.   It makes my heart and head hurt and makes me want to be a nicer person, which brings me to ...

My Starbucks Nemesis:  I am nervous because I have not seen her in a few weeks.  I hope she is okay, mainly because I have a new technique for dealing with people who annoy me.  Essentially I pretend like my heart is lighting up like ET's and that I love everyone, which brings me to ...

Neil Diamond:  Mazel Tov on your wedding, Neil.  Look at you, turning on your heart light and marrying a 42 year old lady.  I wish I had thought of marrying Neil Diamond.  I could do worse.  I have done worse, which brings me to ...

Ray J:  Seriously, Ray J is getting a $1M endorsement deal?  What has Ray J done besides Whitney and Kim Kardashian?  So far no one has been able to answer that question.   I can't.  I just can't, which brings me to ...

Zoos:  I went to one this weekend in Philly, and for the first time ever, a zoo made me depressed.  All of the animals looked like the people you'd find in a bar at 3 a.m. on a Monday night -- smoking cigarettes and essentially wondering how they got there, which brings me to ...

Marilu Henner's Mega Mind:  Marilu claims that she can remember everything that ever happened to her.  I have always been a little skeptical of Marilu ever since I read that she decorates her house so that it flatters her hair and skin color.  I'm not sure that I would want that as there is plenty I'd like to forget.  I think you'd have to be more accepting of yourself than I am to live with that gift.  I mean, everything seems like a good idea at the time, right?  Which brings me to...

Tanning Mom:  This woman from NJ is accused of putting her six year old in a tanning bed.  I don't want to believe this, but one look at this woman makes me believe that she clearly appreciates a deep dark tan.  I've never seen anything like that in nature, which brings me to ...

Jessica Simpson's Baby:  Baby girl is finally here, has a relatively normal name (Maxwell Drew) and is ginormous, weighing in at nearly 10 lbs.  Poor Jess seemed to be pregnant forever.  I swear, one more week, and that baby would have been giving birth to Jessica, which brings me to ...

Giuliana and Bill Rancic's Baby News:  Very happy news that they are expecting a baby via surrogate.  For some reason, I like these two, despite the fact that they are kinda media wh*res, which brings me to...

Lisa Rinna's Depends Ad:  Apparently, Depends is now making sexy adult diapers, ones that aren't quite so, well, obviously diapers.  Lisa says she didn't do it for the money or the buzz, but for female empowerment and for charity, as a fat donation was made to the wonderful organization, Dress for Success.  I gotta hand it to Depends for making it easier for those who need to use their product to wear them with confidence, and whatever Lisa's motivation, I say good for her for shining the spotlight on an embarrassing topic, which brings me to ...

Dr. Oz:  I have talked about my love for Dr. Oz before, but I watched an episode this week where the good doctor encouraged audience members to ask their most personal questions.  I'm not gonna lie, I'm all for being honest with your doctor and not being ashamed of your body, but these questions were essentially causing me to vomit in my mouth a little bit and pray that I never run into some of those people, who clearly walk among us. 

It reminds me of the time I was working at NASDAQ with Riina and a CEO came for an event.  He had what we thought was a hair on his collar, so we pulled it.  I can't remember which of us pulled it because it was a traumatic memory.  What we didn't know was that it was actually growing out of him from God knows where, which we only learned when he screamed "Ow" at the top of his executive lungs.   Dr. Oz would have wanted me to experience that and realize everyone is human and we all have flaws, but all I can think is, "He is a Manimal." 

With the embarrassing revelations, I felt that Dr. Oz had preyed a little bit on their love for him -- why would anyone ever agree to do go on tv and ask those kinds of questions?  What would Dr. Drew say about this?  Don't they have bosses and family members and friends?  Which brings me to...

One of the Great Mysteries of Life:  I'm told that everyone, even the most annoying and hateful people, perhaps even my Starbucks Nemesis, have friends and families who love them.  Maybe there is good in everyone.  I'm still not convinced, but maybe if I leave my heart light on, it'll make it easier to find everyone's lovable qualities. 

I'm clearly not as evolved as ET, Dr. Oz, Marilu Henner, or possibly even Ray J, but I'm getting there.

Me, Myself, and Oprah

As regular readers know, Oprah appears here on this blog with a fair amount of frequency, some might even call it an alarming amount of frequency, but I think it's proportionate to the level of influence Oprah has exerted on our culture.  I certainly grew up with Oprah, and although I wasn't a daily viewer of her show, I always liked her and candidly feel a certain kind of kinship, perhaps because, like Oprah, I, too, was a poor black girl from Mississippi.

Or something like that.

The delusional part of me thinks that Oprah and I could be friends.  We'd have a fair amount in common.  We'd bond over our weight issues, and then split two orders of nachos, because if you share two, that's fewer calories than each of us having one, right?  Everyone knows that.

I wouldn't ask a lot of Oprah, except that she finance my dreams and bankroll my lavish lifestyle, which, for those familiar with my "List of Things I Would Have if Rich" include:

Car and driver.  Masseuse.  Fountain soda machine.

I would always be ready when the jet came to pick me up.  I wouldn't make her wait.  And I would be sure to eye roll at Stedman on cue and say, "Oh Stedman," because he clearly doesn't get it and never will.  Whatever "it" is.

And if Oprah and I couldn't be friends, certainly Gayle and I could.  It could happen.   Gayle knows her way around the finer things *and* her way around a country fair, and like me, seemingly her biggest talent is knowing all of the words to every song on the radio.

As someone who likes to experience things and be a part of big pop culture phenomenons, I always wanted to see her show in Chicago, and when I heard she was giving it up after 25 years, I became a little frantic.  My window was closing.  I started thinking of who I might know who could score me tickets.  And perhaps worse, I started getting annoyed at those who I thought might be able to who weren't stepping up to reveal themselves.  If they loved me, they would get me Oprah tickets.

So when I heard that Oprah was coming to NYC to film her new series, "Lifeclass," and that they were looking for audience members, I threw my hat in the ring.  Shockingly, I actually got tickets.  I say shockingly because, as anyone who has ever played a game of chance with me knows, I have no luck with these things, but alas, it was meant to be:  Oprah and I were finally going to be in the same room together.

Even now, at my ripe old age, I get a certain thrill at being in the same room with someone I admire - even if the "room" is Yankee Stadium and the person I admire is Paul McCartney, and there are 50K other people there.

Joining Oprah and me at Radio City Music Hall were motivational guru Tony Robbins, such friends of Oprah as Dr. Oz and Gayle (of course), about 6,000 strangers, and my good friend Mary D.

Mary was my natural choice to be my "date" so to speak for Lifeclass because, between the two of us, we have enough anxiety and restless energy to power a medium size nation.   We also travel under the same black cloud -- which, using the half-empty approach to the world we share -- means that we live in a world where the other shoe drops so often that each of us must own 5,000 complete pairs by now.  And unfortunately, they're all Payless and not any pair you'd want to own, unlike the Louboutins Oprah wears.

Mary and I met a dizzying 15 or so years ago when I was leaving a job and she was coming onboard as my replacement.  We had an immediate connection and I thought, "Too bad I'm leaving because this girl and I could be friends."

Cut to several months later when I returned to the company for a slightly better position, working with Mary confirmed my initial thinking that we had a lot in common, including a shared work ethic, worldview, sense of humor, and sometimes, during lean months, we shared a credit card, each maxing out our card on alternating pay periods.   I followed Mary to another company and position, and when I did, our boss said to me, "I knew she'd come back for you."   We just clicked.

And even though we don't see each other that regularly now and live very different lives -- Mary is long married with two kids living in the suburbs while I am single in the city -- we continue to stay in touch and bond over various misfortunes and maladies.

When I had my accident, Mary was right there, asking what she could do, and, when my birthday rolled around, knowing that I wasn't feeling festive but that it would be a depressing bummer to be alone on my birthday, she made the hour trip in to spend the weekend with me.  On a rare few days away from her kids, in the city that never sleeps, where we could have done anything or gone anywhere, we sat on my couch in my tiny apartment, talked, ordered in BBQ, and each read our respective copy of Fifty Shades of Grey.

Now that's a friend.

So when the Oprah opportunity presented itself, I knew Mary was my girl.  With some recent misfortunes on both sides, we could both use a dose of sunshine and a more positive attitude, and at the very least, I knew we would laugh our heads off and have a story we could tell for the rest of our lives.  Because that's another thing we have in common -- we essentially will do anything for a good story.  We will embarrass ourselves without any shame as long as it can be retold for a laugh or a cry.

Off Mary and I went to join the other 5,000 women, 990 gay men, and ten straight men (including Tony Robbins, Dr. Oz, and Oprah's crew) at Radio City Music Hall where Oprah and Tony were going to help us "Live Fearlessly."

As audience members, we had all been invited to share our stories in advance, with the hopes of being chosen to share the stage at Radio City.  I got to a certain point in my email submissions to producers, but I guess my stories weren't compelling enough, which is probably a good thing, because I probably would have been too nervous to participate.  But I admit, the deluded part of me thought that this was my big break.  Oprah was going to meet me, and demand that I come to work for Harpo right now.  She would order me onboard the jet, and a nameless minion would be sent to my apartment to burn all of my now unacceptable belongings, and pack my cat in his new Vuitton carrier, sending us both to a new life in Chicago or Santa Barbara.  But alas, not.

There was a huge amount of energy there in Radio City.  Everyone had come to worship at the church of Oprah.  They encouraged us to be active on Facebook and Twitter and spread the Oprah gospel around the world.

The actual Lifeclass experience was interesting, but I'm sure played better on television -- or rather, someone who doesn't have ADD, who wasn't busy trying to find him or herself in the camera shots of the masses of Radio City and instead was focusing on the show, might have had a better experience than we did.

Tony Robbins has a lot of energy, and even succeeded in getting the room up and moving and hugging each other.  Embracing strangers was practically required as part of an exercise designed to help us understand that "Emotion follows motion," essentially a play on "Fake it till you make it."  So we were challenged to greet strangers as warmly as we would family - not a strong suit for me, especially since my family isn't really the hugging kind.  And, after all, I do live in NYC, and have a fear of getting bedbugs, but I threw myself into it and embraced strangers ... and then promptly threw all of my clothes into an air-tight laundry bag when I got home.  You can't expect miracles, people.

My favorite part was actually a behind the scenes exchange between Oprah and Tony that went something like this -- clearly not verbatim, and with my liberal editorializing:

Oprah:  So, here's what we're gonna do:  I will do x and then you do y.
Tony:  Or, I have an idea, it might work better if I do y and THEN I do x and you watch.
Oprah:  Perhaps you didn't hear me -- I SAID "I will do x and then YOU will do y."  And now I'm annoyed so now you are not even allowed to do y; you can just sit there and behold my power.  And by the way, I'm Oprah Winfrey, b*tch.

You get the idea.

I got nervous for Tony  -- I immediately reached into my bag to eat the forbidden nuts I had smuggled in to start stress eating on his behalf (Oprah understands) -- but he got what what he deserved on that one.  You don't question Oprah:  you do as you're told and say thank you.  Besides, he made some other comments that evening that were a little homophobic and misogynist -- in my opinion -- and if you're gonna pick a room to be either of those things, Oprah's Lifeclass is not that room, especially with the Fox studios right across the street.

The biggest takeaways I had from the evening were:

Action is the solution to fear.
The past does not equal the future unless you live there.
You become who you spend your time with.
Courage is feeling the fear, and yet going ahead anyway - you can't have courage without fear.
Change the story you tell yourself, change your life.

The last was pretty eye opening for me  -- we all have perceived truths about our lives -- who we are, what we are, what we do.   Until we see ourselves a different way, we can't affect change.  Or, simply put, many of us aren't living our LIVES but living the STORIES we've created for ourselves.  We get caught in thinking of ourselves a certain way, i.e. fat, thin, loved, unloved, rich, poor, single, codependent, stupid, smart, ugly, pretty.  And those are tied to the "if onlys" -- if only I were x, my life would be better.

All of this makes a lot of sense.  For many people, it's time to rewrite the story.  I believe we don't fail or succeed DESPITE where we come from or who we are, but BECAUSE of those things.

Pretty deep stuff.

Seeing Oprah live in person fulfilled a pretty-much lifelong wish of mine -- and seeing her with a friend who loves me unconditionally despite my story, or perhaps, even because of it, was an even bigger gift.  As we say a lot at Girls Inc., one of the greatest things the people who love us can do for us is see in us things we don't in ourselves -- and imagine greater things for us than we could ever dream of for ourselves.

Ever the good student, I am going to get to work doing what Oprah said and start changing my story, dreaming bigger.

So scratch the masseuse off my list of must haves -- I can do better than that.

But I still want that fountain soda machine.

I have to have SOMETHING to serve when Oprah and Gayle come over.

I Worry, Therefore I Am...

Back in the saddle blogging after several weeks. I wish I could say that I was off doing something exciting or newsworthy, but the truth is I've just been busy working. And when not working, I've been indulging in my favorite hobby: Worrying. And I use the remaining time not spent working or worrying on my second favorite hobby: Worrying about worrying.

This time of year is always particularly anxiety-filled for me. My life is generally anchored in my work, and I have a very busy season that starts in September, peaks in January, and then, come end of April, it settles down with a bit of a breather until September rolls around again. So, when allergies flare up, so does my anxiety; April-August are peak worrying months.

Without the distraction of too much work, I'm left to focus on the other areas of my life that I have been neglecting for eight months: Should I change jobs? Should I move out of NYC or somewhere else within the city? Was that crack always in the shower door? Why are those raisins in the refrigerator? Oh wait, I think those were grapes at some point ... Can I still eat them?

Some people feel pressure in work and relax when it dies down. Not me. I start to panic inside thinking of everything that I'm now going to have to handle. Work is such an easy excuse - I'm too busy to focus on that, it'll have to wait.

And this year with the accident and related annoyances -- doctors' appointments, bills, and paperwork, I've felt more maxed out than ever. So much so that I essentially took a vacation from dealing with it - shoving everything into a metaphorical box for a few weeks and refusing to even look at the mounting paperwork or deal with test results.

It was worrying about worrying that sent me to my doctor ("Are you sure that my brain isn't irretrievably broken?"), who suggested I might try a little talk therapy. Since there are few things I like more than the sound of my own voice, I decided to give it a try.

All went great the first session -- she asked me a lot of questions, and I told her all about me, a favorite topic. The second session, I showed up, said hello, she smiled at me, I smiled back. She smiled at me again, I smiled right back in my most charming fashion, although I was getting irritated inside. Sensing I wasn't getting it, she said, "I don't talk anymore, you talk."

Um, okay.

So, I talked for about 10 seconds, about what, I don't know, and then said, "That's all I've got." "That's okay," she replied, "We'll sit quietly."

Now, my version of sitting quietly is reading a book with my iPod on while Khloe and Lamar plays in the background. I don't know from quietly. I don't even sleep in peace, but instead have vivid dreams.

So after about what seemed like an hour but was really about 30 seconds, I said, "So, what's the deal here? How much longer is this going to go on with the no talking?" and she said, "Until you start talking again. It's up to you."

Okee.

Then she said, "I get the impression that you're uncomfortable being quiet." And even though, inside I was thinking, "No, what I'm uncomfortable with is paying to sit here in uncomfortable silence with a stranger when I could do this for free anywhere in this city, and if this is therapy, I just did that for 45 minutes on the way over here on the subway," I had to admit she was right. ''

My brain never stops and I'm always obsessing about something. I don't know how it is for most people, but I'm told that some people are actually able to relax every now and then. To me, those people are like unicorns. If you are one of those people, please self-identify, because I've yet to really find one, and everyone I ask says they are similarly tortured. Which I believe wholeheartedly, especially here in 21st century New York.

I can tell you this much -- I totally understand why people who have anxious brains self-medicate with drugs and/or alcohol. Or, in my case, food and work. Anything to turn down the noise. When I'm forced into periods of quiet, it's harder to tune out what's really important, as opposed to, say, how adorable Bo Obama is, so I cover that up with obsessions like, "Did I leave the stove (the stove that I have never once turned on for four years living in this apartment) on?" and "Let's use this relaxation time to determine a detailed evacuation plan for this building in an event of a fire."

I'd rather cover up with the noise with other things. Which is, apparently, the total wrong thing to do. So I'm supposed to try to sit quietly as much as I can, so sayeth the therapist, even if it's uncomfortable, especially if it's uncomfortable, because that's where all of the good stuff is waiting to be mined.

So far, none of the good stuff has shown up yet but it's definitely there; I just need to step up the excavation. Somewhere under old episodes of The Brady Bunch and song lyrics to every song released in the 80s, lie some key questions and answers to the questions above - and beyond, maybe even some juicy ones like, "What do I want to be when I grow up?" But like any archaeological dig, I need to be patient and careful. I don't want to destroy any precious artifacts nor do I want to lose any of those treasures buried on top of them like Sam the Butcher's last name (for the record, it's Franklin). All of that is what makes me who I am.

I don't know if therapy is something I'll continue forever. I've yet to see a bill so somehow I think that will, unfortunately, be a determining factor, and when I see that, I'll have something else to worry about. So I'll have to take quiet where I can find it, which sounds like an urban quest in and of itself!

Or perhaps simply the topic of a future blog post ...

PS, stay tuned for a second blog I'm launching soon with my good friend Mary D. called "The Hypochondriacs Are In." Bring your best Google searches of symptoms...