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.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Hunger Games
So the Olympics are over.
That happened.
And now I can go back to my "programs," my
“stories.” Those Real Housewives episodes don't watch themselves, people.
At least that's what I've read. I wouldn't personally know. Although if I had known that Badminton was going to be an Olympic sport, I coulda been a contender. I play a mean game of Badminton.
I fancy myself a closeted athlete, and by that I mean, I have no athletic ability but I am very competitive, and appreciate most sports (even rhythmic gymnastics, ok, especially rhythmic gymnastics). I often think that, if I wasn't such a control freak perfectionist, I'd actually be more athletic and enjoy it. But, ever the overachiever, when I realized that I wasn't very good at sports, and that coordination and ability didn't come naturally to me, I stopped trying for fear of looking stupid or ungainly. I'm a fast learner and I learned fast that this was going to be hard work, so I retreated to the comfy chair with my Sweet Valley High books. The only adventures I was choosing were in my books. Reading I was good at. I didn't have to try or force anything. It was a nice safe space.
And, I've pretty much kept that up ever since, shunning exercise and participating in sports. I can pretty much outpace anyone in reading, but running the mile in PE? That's me bringing up the rear. No thanks. I'd rather be first than last.
So, while elite athletes were competing for their gold, and challenging their mental and physical limits, I've been reading a self-helpish book by a very unlikely self-helpish source, Augusten Burroughs of Running with Scissors fame, called This Is How: Proven Aid in Overcoming Shyness, Molestation, Fatness, Spinsterhood, Grief, Disease, Lushery, Decrepitude & More. For Young and Old Alike.
Despite the tongue in cheek nature of this book, it's actually chock full of straightforward advice. Witness the chapter, "How to be Fat." In this chapter, he talks about how becoming at peace with your body and losing weight is about need. All you need is need, he says. How much do you really want it? If you've allowed yourself to be at peace with food, and you're still overeating, you don't want it enough. Somewhere within you is a voice of dissent and sabotage and until you find it and understand it and address it, you'll never be at a happy and healthy weight, whether that weight is the weight you're at now that you accept, or fatter or thinner.
So lately I've been thinking more and more about why I haven't fully tackled my struggles with weight. I'm proud and excited to report that I have lost 50 lbs, but truth be told, it's taken a few years and, had I had, well, a little more NEED, I feel like I would have gotten there quicker.
So what's MY voice of dissent and sabotage saying? Sure it's saying fries taste better than celery but, for me, I think it's about self-identity and how being fat is what I know how to do best. I have been overweight most of my life, since age six, so my identity is really wrapped up in being fat -- the mental, emotional, physical reality, and the associated challenges. I know how to be fat. I know what a fat body feels like, how you dress it, where you shop for it. I have all the tips and tricks down pat. I'm good at it.
Where's my medal?
For me, being thin is totally unchartered territory. I don't know where to shop for a thin body. I don't know what you feed a thin body. I don't know which bones are supposed to jut out. I have no idea what I'd look like at a thinner weight, and, perhaps even more scary, I have no idea what I'd ACT like. Would I be different? Would I be me? Would I LIKE me at that size?
Intellectually I know that I probably would be the same old me but with a little less junk in the trunk. But emotionally, I'm not quite sure. Maybe I'm a mean girl tamed only by my insecurity about my weight, or maybe, even worse, perhaps I'd realize that the things that are wrong in my life that I like to blame on my weight are not caused by my weight at all.
Hmmm. Now that's unpleasant.
But this week NEED entered my life in pretty big way. After several months of healthy eating and regular exercise, the scale wasn't budging, so I went to the endocrinologist for some answers. I thought perhaps my thyroid problem was no longer regulated.
Turns out everything in Thyroidville was just fine but my insulin levels weren't. I'm not diabetic, but in that lovely little appetizer before the main course of diabetes (or as Wilfred Brimley would say, diabeetus) called insulin resistance. I know that from the interwebs, not because the doctor said it. He wouldn't even call the medicine a diabetes medicine. It was my hypochondriac self, having been convinced I've had diabetes before, who tuned into the fact that it's a drug that is, in fact, for diabetes. I think he wanted to give them to me and say, "Take these, they're candy, nom nom nom" without me knowing any better. But, as always, Dr. Google told me what the real scoop was.
My levels are JUST on the edge -- normal is 5.7 and below, mine is at 5.7. But with a family history of diabetes and my own history of weight issues, he's concerned enough to have me start the medicine. I don't need to take it forever, unless, well, I don't actually take this seriously and decide I'm going to keep choosing Entenmann's over eggplant.
Seriously, diabeetus medicine? Man. I don't wanna have to be on Wilfred Brimley's home delivery service. This seems unfair.
But, apparently, sometimes, if you've been overweight a long time, your body starts to hold onto it, and it's actually more difficult to lose weight on your own, your body essentially won't budge.
So, I guess, I'm both physically and emotionally tied to my weight. My body likes it so much it refuses to lose it, despite the fact that it's, well, killing me, killing us.
Enter NEED, stage right, cutting a svelte figure and eating a string cheese, a low carb, high protein, approved snack.
So, even though at most times in my life I've wanted to lose weight, and tried to, sometimes harder than others, and have actually succeeded at losing weight, now I actually NEED to.
I didn't want to be up at bat, but now I am, and I'm going to crush the hell out of this ball. It won't come naturally. It'll go totally against the grain and out of my comfort zone, but I have to step up to the plate, of greens, if you will.
And hopefully the NEED will evolve from I NEED to do this or join a club I don't want to be a member of, to I NEED to do this to be healthier and happier for me.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll uncover a hidden jock. As a good friend reminded me this week on what would have been the 100th birthday of Julia Child, she didn't even start cooking lessons until she was 37.
So maybe my big Olympic moment is here. And although I won't medal, or get to stand up on any podium, that's okay.
I'm afraid of heights anyway.
Friday, July 27, 2012
I ? New York
I've been having lots of random incidents lately that are making me question my decision to live in this fair city.
Witness...
So last night, there I was, walking hurriedly through Times Square -- well, I was trying to walk hurriedly, but the tourists had other ideas, so let's just say, I was doing my best to make tracks through Times Square -- looking forward to meeting a friend that I hadn't seen in months, and trying to beat the apocalyptic storm that the weather people were predicting, when it happened:
I got Carrie Bradshawed by a city bus. One that didn't even have my picture on the side of it. And instead of the catchy theme music, all I had was honking horns and screeching brakes.
There I was, standing on the corner, waiting for the light, when I saw a little kid in a stroller enjoying an ice pop. So I leaned down and cooed, "Looks like you're enjoying that ice pop! I'd like one of those on a day like today," and before I could straighten up - SPLAT.
It was orange.
It was chunky.
It was cold, so it couldn't be vomit, could it?
And it was all over me.
Now, I know I have a flair for the dramatic and I have been known to exaggerate, so I'll just state the facts and let you decide:
It was on my bare arms.
It was on my shirt sleeves.
It was on my back.
It was on my butt.
It was up and down both legs.
It was on my shoes.
It was on my glasses.
It was on my face, people.
I don't know if I should be proud or disgusted with myself that instead of canceling my plans and immediately rushing home to take a Silkwood shower, I just kept walking to the restaurant at a normal pace, trying to push through the crowds, who were looking at me as if I was the grossest thing in Times Square that night -- trust me, I still wasn't. "What's the matter people, you've never seen a woman covered in vomit before? I bet you have, and at least it's not mine."
Anyway, I get to the restaurant and push past the hostess, who doesn't blink an eye, to try to clean myself up in some way, but aside from just cleaning my skin and wetting down my arms, it's a fruitless exercise, so I emerge from the bathroom.
Again, you'd think a person, covered in what is probably another human's vomit, would feel embarrassed and run home to flee, or at least think, "Well, perhaps the other diners don't want to sit among me and my vomit...", or even, maybe *I* don't want to sit stewing in vomit for any longer than I have to.
But not me. I go over to the waitstaff and I'm like, "Look, look what happened!" And when my friend Kim arrived, I said, "Don't touch me!" But we still sat down for dinner. Come to think of it, we got a table pretty quick -- a table on the side by ourselves. Consider that a NYC dining tip from me to you - look like a crazy person covered in vomit and you'll get a table quickly, a nice quiet one far from the other patrons. And I have to give Kim credit for being a good sport and being willing to sit down and enjoy her meal opposite me - now there's a friend.
When I got home and could see in a full length mirror the extent of the grossness, my first question to myself was, "What is wrong with you? You weren't even embarrassed to be marching around in public like this?" And you know what, I really wasn't. It was just all in a NYC minute, which made me think, "Is this what living in NYC does to you?"
And then I laughed thinking of how this woman was trying to push around me on the steps to the subway and how, when she apologized meekly and said, "I'm just trying to get to the subway," I turned around and said, "We're ALL just trying to get to the subway," she must have been very afraid at the sight of me. You'd think that a person covered in vomit would keep to herself. Yeah, not so much.
Oprah says (c'mon, did you really think that I could get through a post without quoting Oprah?) the universe speaks to us all the time -- first in whispers (clearly, I have whisper deafness), then with a brick upside the head (okay, check), then the brick wall falls down.
Was getting Carrie Bradshawed by a city bus, and not even being splattered by dirty rain water, but bodily fluids, my brick wall falling down?
I have thought often over the past well, maybe two, years about not being entirely happy here, two years of debating and hand-wringing and sleepless nights. But I usually quickly follow that thought with others like, "But who really is happy? And what's happy anyway?" And even more along the lines of, "You can make yourself happy. Happy is a state of mind. Try not to be so negative." Even Yoda weighed in, "Do or do not, there is no try."
The problem is, as a native New Yorker, actually born here in the city and raised on Long Island -- except for college years and two pretty unhappy years spent in Boston where I loved my work but hated everything else about my life so much so that I actually had a page a day calendar that I numbered backward from the day that I was leaving the city, I couldn't wait to get out -- New York has always been the center of my universe and it's hard to see a path out and away from it.
With millions of people trying to fight their way here, why would I want to get out? I mean, I made it here -- I have a good job, an apartment in a coveted neighborhood, friends, family -- so, why would I want to try to make it anywhere else? Isn't achieving here in the city that does its best to break you, the end-all, be-all?
And it's not like the line is, "If you can be happy there, you can be happy anywhere." So what I struggle with the most is, "Well, maybe I wouldn't be happy anywhere." Maybe I'd go through the hassle of uprooting my life and starting over, and I'd be just as miserable. Maybe I wouldn't sleep in a new city either. And moving sucks. I'd have to find a new hairdresser, and a new laundromat, one who wouldn't kick me out when they saw a Ziploc full of vomit clothes, and a new fruit guy who would bless me every day on the walk to work.
So I don't know what the answer is. I don't know what the road holds, but at least, last night, covered in a part of this city and one or more people who live in it, I finally allowed myself to entertain the question.
But until I figure it out, I will be wearing my helmet, hefty bags over my clothes, and sensible shoes, and staying alert for signs from the universe.
I can't afford to miss any more of them.
Witness...
So last night, there I was, walking hurriedly through Times Square -- well, I was trying to walk hurriedly, but the tourists had other ideas, so let's just say, I was doing my best to make tracks through Times Square -- looking forward to meeting a friend that I hadn't seen in months, and trying to beat the apocalyptic storm that the weather people were predicting, when it happened:
I got Carrie Bradshawed by a city bus. One that didn't even have my picture on the side of it. And instead of the catchy theme music, all I had was honking horns and screeching brakes.
There I was, standing on the corner, waiting for the light, when I saw a little kid in a stroller enjoying an ice pop. So I leaned down and cooed, "Looks like you're enjoying that ice pop! I'd like one of those on a day like today," and before I could straighten up - SPLAT.
It was orange.
It was chunky.
It was cold, so it couldn't be vomit, could it?
And it was all over me.
Now, I know I have a flair for the dramatic and I have been known to exaggerate, so I'll just state the facts and let you decide:
It was on my bare arms.
It was on my shirt sleeves.
It was on my back.
It was on my butt.
It was up and down both legs.
It was on my shoes.
It was on my glasses.
It was on my face, people.
I don't know if I should be proud or disgusted with myself that instead of canceling my plans and immediately rushing home to take a Silkwood shower, I just kept walking to the restaurant at a normal pace, trying to push through the crowds, who were looking at me as if I was the grossest thing in Times Square that night -- trust me, I still wasn't. "What's the matter people, you've never seen a woman covered in vomit before? I bet you have, and at least it's not mine."
Anyway, I get to the restaurant and push past the hostess, who doesn't blink an eye, to try to clean myself up in some way, but aside from just cleaning my skin and wetting down my arms, it's a fruitless exercise, so I emerge from the bathroom.
Again, you'd think a person, covered in what is probably another human's vomit, would feel embarrassed and run home to flee, or at least think, "Well, perhaps the other diners don't want to sit among me and my vomit...", or even, maybe *I* don't want to sit stewing in vomit for any longer than I have to.
But not me. I go over to the waitstaff and I'm like, "Look, look what happened!" And when my friend Kim arrived, I said, "Don't touch me!" But we still sat down for dinner. Come to think of it, we got a table pretty quick -- a table on the side by ourselves. Consider that a NYC dining tip from me to you - look like a crazy person covered in vomit and you'll get a table quickly, a nice quiet one far from the other patrons. And I have to give Kim credit for being a good sport and being willing to sit down and enjoy her meal opposite me - now there's a friend.
When I got home and could see in a full length mirror the extent of the grossness, my first question to myself was, "What is wrong with you? You weren't even embarrassed to be marching around in public like this?" And you know what, I really wasn't. It was just all in a NYC minute, which made me think, "Is this what living in NYC does to you?"
And then I laughed thinking of how this woman was trying to push around me on the steps to the subway and how, when she apologized meekly and said, "I'm just trying to get to the subway," I turned around and said, "We're ALL just trying to get to the subway," she must have been very afraid at the sight of me. You'd think that a person covered in vomit would keep to herself. Yeah, not so much.
Oprah says (c'mon, did you really think that I could get through a post without quoting Oprah?) the universe speaks to us all the time -- first in whispers (clearly, I have whisper deafness), then with a brick upside the head (okay, check), then the brick wall falls down.
Was getting Carrie Bradshawed by a city bus, and not even being splattered by dirty rain water, but bodily fluids, my brick wall falling down?
I have thought often over the past well, maybe two, years about not being entirely happy here, two years of debating and hand-wringing and sleepless nights. But I usually quickly follow that thought with others like, "But who really is happy? And what's happy anyway?" And even more along the lines of, "You can make yourself happy. Happy is a state of mind. Try not to be so negative." Even Yoda weighed in, "Do or do not, there is no try."
The problem is, as a native New Yorker, actually born here in the city and raised on Long Island -- except for college years and two pretty unhappy years spent in Boston where I loved my work but hated everything else about my life so much so that I actually had a page a day calendar that I numbered backward from the day that I was leaving the city, I couldn't wait to get out -- New York has always been the center of my universe and it's hard to see a path out and away from it.
With millions of people trying to fight their way here, why would I want to get out? I mean, I made it here -- I have a good job, an apartment in a coveted neighborhood, friends, family -- so, why would I want to try to make it anywhere else? Isn't achieving here in the city that does its best to break you, the end-all, be-all?
And it's not like the line is, "If you can be happy there, you can be happy anywhere." So what I struggle with the most is, "Well, maybe I wouldn't be happy anywhere." Maybe I'd go through the hassle of uprooting my life and starting over, and I'd be just as miserable. Maybe I wouldn't sleep in a new city either. And moving sucks. I'd have to find a new hairdresser, and a new laundromat, one who wouldn't kick me out when they saw a Ziploc full of vomit clothes, and a new fruit guy who would bless me every day on the walk to work.
So I don't know what the answer is. I don't know what the road holds, but at least, last night, covered in a part of this city and one or more people who live in it, I finally allowed myself to entertain the question.
But until I figure it out, I will be wearing my helmet, hefty bags over my clothes, and sensible shoes, and staying alert for signs from the universe.
I can't afford to miss any more of them.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Crazy From the Heat...
As I've said in this space before, I hate the heat. I like sweater weather vs. sweating weather, being able to snuggle up in a cozy blanket. I don't like sweating or being uncomfortable, which is probably another reason that I'm not such a fan of the exercising, although I know it's a necessary evil. On that front, I'm trying to motivate myself by taking some sessions with an amazing trainer and Nike athlete, Ary Nunez, who, among many other people, has trained Rihanna. I will never look like Rihanna, nor should I, but it would be nice to push myself and see what I can do. Stay tuned on that.
Back to the heat.
The extreme heat here in New York - and many other places - this week gave me an "ah-ha" moment of Oprah proportions. I realized the main reason I hate the summer and the heat is that it's something beyond my control, and we all know how much I like and need control. The heat makes me feel like I can't breathe and that I can't escape -- there's no way out. Unlike the cold, where I can put on as many layers as I need to, in heat, you can only go so far in cooling yourself down. I mean, I don't look like Rihanna so I can't get away with parading down Wall Street naked. I'm trapped.
So this week I felt my anxiety ramping up with each degree. I kept watching the weather and the giant LCD screen out my work window that shows the temperature. Tick, tick, tick. 89, 93, 97. The media doesn't help - making it sound like a heatpocalypse, that I'll burst into flames as soon as I step outside. So I started doing what I like to do -- trying to control what I could. I came up with a contingency plan should my A/C break. I took cabs to and from work. I mega hydrated -- you know because the grueling work I do SITTING AT A DESK INSIDE AIR CONDITIONING --puts me at high risk for heat stroke...
I made all kinds of small talk about the weather with strangers, including the dreaded, "Hot enough for you?" which normally would make me want to smack someone. I worried about those working outside. Worrying about other people helps me deal with my own anxiety -- like a few weeks ago, when, mid panic attack, I met up with a friend who was having a panic attack too. Somehow my own anxiety seemed far away as I tried to help talk him down from the ledge.
But I didn't just worry about the heat. I worried about my health. I worried about getting the bugs that are going around the office making everyone sick. I worried about the actual bug I found on the floor of my apartment -- so much so that I actually took a photo of it and sent it for review to make sure it wasn't anything too nefarious, i.e. a bedbug. Which then made me start worrying about having them -- and what I'd do/how I'd handle it. That kept me awake the entire night because mentally I started putting the wheels in motion, having imaginary conversations, cancelling imaginary plans to "take care of the problem." A game plan, so to speak, because that's what I do best. And good game plans take time to build, i.e. an entire night awake.
Intellectually I know all of the obsessing is ridiculous. As my mother said when I called her to freak out, "If any of these things happen, they can be fixed. These are fixable problems. The only thing that can't be fixed is death."
Great, so now I'm afraid of dying. Only not so much. I reckon if I die, I die, and I won't know about it. Even if I die in an embarrassing way, that's my family and friends' problem -- they'll be the ones who will have to retell the story. "It grieves me to talk about it, but yes, it did involve Barry Manilow, a slot machine, a little person, and the over-consumption of Diet Coke, and yes, it's true, she wasn't wearing clean underwear. But please no more questions."
(Now that's a lie. I'd never wear dirty underwear. Defend my good name.)
A few weeks ago I had a dream with ALL of the Kardashians -- even Rob, Bruce Jenner, Lamar Odom, and Scott Disick. When the boys show up, you know that it's serious. In said dream, the Kardashian ladies were trying to convince me that I need medication for my anxiety. Maybe they're right. I lost interest in what they were saying when Dionne Warwick appeared, reclining on a chaise lounge. You'd think that, given her psychic connections, I might have gone up to Dionne and asked her for some advice, you know, "Dionne, do you know the way to San Jose?" I mean, that's what friends are for, right? Wrong. Instead I asked her, "Hey, where did you get that pillow?" and proceeded to admire the pillow where she was laying her probably-not-even-psychic head.
Even in dreams I avoid -- transferring the seriousness of this Kardashian konversation over to my second favorite past-time: hoarding things. I could have even been a nice person and asked Dionne how she was grieving the loss of Whitney and at least given her a sympathetic look. But I really wanted that pillow. It was silver and glittery and would look really nice on my couch and if I didn't move fast Kim was going to get to it, and unlike me, she'd just get bored with it and discard it after 72 days, whereas I'd keep it forever, laying my still-dyed-red-head on it as I uttered my last words on my death bed in Shady Pines:
"The Kardashians were right."
Hopefully those words will come far, far from now, when maybe the 20 year old orderly at Shady Pines won't even know who the Kardashians are.
And in the meantime, I'll continue to find ways to not obsess, or at least find healthier, more productive things to obsess about. There are 72 days left of summer, and by the end, I either want to have managed my anxiety a bit better (however/whatever it takes) or used the anxiety as fuel to cure cancer (stretch goal) or clean out my closet (doable). If Kim and Kris kan kill a marriage in 72 days, I can make progress on my own personal goals.
Call me crazy but I think I can do it.
Back to the heat.
The extreme heat here in New York - and many other places - this week gave me an "ah-ha" moment of Oprah proportions. I realized the main reason I hate the summer and the heat is that it's something beyond my control, and we all know how much I like and need control. The heat makes me feel like I can't breathe and that I can't escape -- there's no way out. Unlike the cold, where I can put on as many layers as I need to, in heat, you can only go so far in cooling yourself down. I mean, I don't look like Rihanna so I can't get away with parading down Wall Street naked. I'm trapped.
So this week I felt my anxiety ramping up with each degree. I kept watching the weather and the giant LCD screen out my work window that shows the temperature. Tick, tick, tick. 89, 93, 97. The media doesn't help - making it sound like a heatpocalypse, that I'll burst into flames as soon as I step outside. So I started doing what I like to do -- trying to control what I could. I came up with a contingency plan should my A/C break. I took cabs to and from work. I mega hydrated -- you know because the grueling work I do SITTING AT A DESK INSIDE AIR CONDITIONING --puts me at high risk for heat stroke...
I made all kinds of small talk about the weather with strangers, including the dreaded, "Hot enough for you?" which normally would make me want to smack someone. I worried about those working outside. Worrying about other people helps me deal with my own anxiety -- like a few weeks ago, when, mid panic attack, I met up with a friend who was having a panic attack too. Somehow my own anxiety seemed far away as I tried to help talk him down from the ledge.
But I didn't just worry about the heat. I worried about my health. I worried about getting the bugs that are going around the office making everyone sick. I worried about the actual bug I found on the floor of my apartment -- so much so that I actually took a photo of it and sent it for review to make sure it wasn't anything too nefarious, i.e. a bedbug. Which then made me start worrying about having them -- and what I'd do/how I'd handle it. That kept me awake the entire night because mentally I started putting the wheels in motion, having imaginary conversations, cancelling imaginary plans to "take care of the problem." A game plan, so to speak, because that's what I do best. And good game plans take time to build, i.e. an entire night awake.
Intellectually I know all of the obsessing is ridiculous. As my mother said when I called her to freak out, "If any of these things happen, they can be fixed. These are fixable problems. The only thing that can't be fixed is death."
Great, so now I'm afraid of dying. Only not so much. I reckon if I die, I die, and I won't know about it. Even if I die in an embarrassing way, that's my family and friends' problem -- they'll be the ones who will have to retell the story. "It grieves me to talk about it, but yes, it did involve Barry Manilow, a slot machine, a little person, and the over-consumption of Diet Coke, and yes, it's true, she wasn't wearing clean underwear. But please no more questions."
(Now that's a lie. I'd never wear dirty underwear. Defend my good name.)
A few weeks ago I had a dream with ALL of the Kardashians -- even Rob, Bruce Jenner, Lamar Odom, and Scott Disick. When the boys show up, you know that it's serious. In said dream, the Kardashian ladies were trying to convince me that I need medication for my anxiety. Maybe they're right. I lost interest in what they were saying when Dionne Warwick appeared, reclining on a chaise lounge. You'd think that, given her psychic connections, I might have gone up to Dionne and asked her for some advice, you know, "Dionne, do you know the way to San Jose?" I mean, that's what friends are for, right? Wrong. Instead I asked her, "Hey, where did you get that pillow?" and proceeded to admire the pillow where she was laying her probably-not-even-psychic head.
Even in dreams I avoid -- transferring the seriousness of this Kardashian konversation over to my second favorite past-time: hoarding things. I could have even been a nice person and asked Dionne how she was grieving the loss of Whitney and at least given her a sympathetic look. But I really wanted that pillow. It was silver and glittery and would look really nice on my couch and if I didn't move fast Kim was going to get to it, and unlike me, she'd just get bored with it and discard it after 72 days, whereas I'd keep it forever, laying my still-dyed-red-head on it as I uttered my last words on my death bed in Shady Pines:
"The Kardashians were right."
Hopefully those words will come far, far from now, when maybe the 20 year old orderly at Shady Pines won't even know who the Kardashians are.
And in the meantime, I'll continue to find ways to not obsess, or at least find healthier, more productive things to obsess about. There are 72 days left of summer, and by the end, I either want to have managed my anxiety a bit better (however/whatever it takes) or used the anxiety as fuel to cure cancer (stretch goal) or clean out my closet (doable). If Kim and Kris kan kill a marriage in 72 days, I can make progress on my own personal goals.
Call me crazy but I think I can do it.
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