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...

Frailty, Thy Name is Human...

I've always thought of myself as a kind person - compassionate, empathetic, and understanding. As I have been recovering from my injury these last few months, I realize I may have been giving myself too much credit.

Don't get me wrong, I think I am indeed a kind person, maybe even compassionate, but empathetic and understanding, yeah, now I'm not so sure.

You see, I've always been the kind of person who, much like the Weebles of my childhood, doesn't stay down for too long. Weebles wobble but they don't fall down. But even if I do get knocked down, I get up again pretty quickly, because, let's face it, there really isn't much other choice. Keep on truckin', as they say.

I'd listen to friends/colleagues/employees talk about problems, sometimes even really awful, life-altering ones that were physically or mentally debilitating, and although I felt for them, and felt genuine concern, my reaction inside was always, "Enough already. Time to get back on the horse."

Until recently.

Recently I've learned the lesson that sometimes even the simplest things we take for granted in daily life can become huge challenges.

I've always been an anxious person, worrying and obsessing over the smallest details. Reliving mistakes over and over. But recently, as I'm learning is common for some patients recovering from head injuries, especially women, the anxiety is stronger than ever. Every minute of every day, I'm mindful of how I feel -- Am I better? Worse? The same? And I'm just as mindful about what I'm doing -- Am I doing too much? Not doing enough? Is it too noisy in here? Are the lights too bright? Am I going to be feeling this later?

I can almost hear my grandmother's voice in my head: You need a hobby. A hobby that isn't worrying.

I wouldn't mind all of this so much if it served a purpose, and it stopped there. I don't think it's unhealthy to ask myself those questions -- what's unhealthy is to be thinking those things ALL the time, to the point where it interferes with daily life.

Acupuncture has been helping my anxiety a lot. I also have a prescription for Zoloft, the presence of which makes me feel reassured, although I have yet to take it. I'm not against taking it - it's just one more thing to obsess about.

Although anxiety is no stranger, I've never been someone to be slowed down by it. I travel all the time, frequently by myself, and it doesn't bother me a single bit. Post-injury, I find myself scared of even the smallest, most random activities, like waiting in line. Ever present in my head is the fear that I will pass out, despite the fact that I haven't passed out one time this whole journey. What I really fear is a loss of control and being vulnerable. Friends and family try to convince me that New Yorkers are essentially good and that, if I did pass out, someone would help me. And if the worst happens, if I fall over and die on 9th Avenue, I'll be dead and won't care.

Intellectually I believe them, but emotionally, not so much.

Taking the subway is a challenge, being underground at the mercy of the train really revs my anxiety, my heart feels like it's going to explode and I'm sure the person next to me hates me because I fidget constantly, but I force myself to do it at least once a day. Mainly because I know that I can't afford to never ride the subway again. If I stray too far from my neighborhood, I tell myself that escape is at hand if I just put my hand up and hail a cab.

Sometimes I'm more successful than others.

Just today, I was walking around my neighborhood, running some errands and trying to burn off some energy, trying to push the anxious thoughts from my head, knowing that exercise would help. Then I went into Starbucks, a Starbucks where I had been dozens of times before (although not Len's daily haunt). The line wasn't long, surprising for a Sunday at noon. I ordered, and then it hit me, a full fledged panic attack. I felt like the whole place was spinning, I was nauseous, my legs were trembling, my hands were shaking and all I wanted to do was run. I thought I'd die. Somehow I managed to talk myself down, tell myself it was all in my head, quickly paid and then fled.

And as soon as I was on the other side of the door, outside in the cool spring air, I felt two immediate thoughts wash over me -- One said, "You need to get home right now." And the other, "This is what it felt like for J." "J.", as I'll call her, was an employee of mine who only worked for me a short time - a time plagued by frequent absences, and ultimately, a medical leave. J. suffered from mental and physical illness, which as a human, I thought I understood and felt compassion for, but as a manager, I candidly didn't have much patience for. She rarely showed up for work and, more often than not, when she did, she was distracted. I just couldn't wrap my head around some of her actions -- how she would call and say that she had gotten halfway to work and then had to turn around, she just couldn't make it all the way in. "How hard is it," I would ask myself, "For her to just stay on the bus and come to work?"

Now I know the answer: Pretty damn hard.

In the midst of my heart-pounding, gut-wrenching panic, I felt compassion for her, and for anyone else suffering from things they can't understand or control. I thought of all of the times I had judged others for what I perceived as weakness -- but the truth is I've never judged anyone more critically than I judge myself. Safely on the other side of my apartment door, I cried tears of fear, sadness, empathy, and relief.

I know that I will keep marching myself defiantly back into that Starbucks and onto the subway until I can do so without fear, even if it takes 1,000 more panic attacks to get there.

Because I know that feeling this way won't last forever. This too shall pass.

The perspective and compassion I've gained I hope stick around a little longer. If everything happens for a reason, and I do believe that's true, they have been worth the price of admission.

Defying Gravity

Tomorrow brings the biggest day of my professional career each year -- our annual signature fundraising event for Girls Inc.

It's an intimate gathering of about 800 people, raising nearly 1M, so it's a simple affair. Ahem.

All I can say if, should I ever get married, I won't be stressed at all about planning a wedding. Having worked on this event seven years running (with plenty of help and, in the past several years, in the capable hands of others on my team), plus hundreds of other events, I'm sure my little chapel wedding at the Shady Pines Nursing Home in 50 years should be a snap.

As much work and pressure as it is, I love this event. And the main reason is it reminds me how much we can make a difference in the lives of others.

The girls served by Girls Inc. are by and large "at-risk." 70% come from households earning less than 30K a year. Most are girls of color. Nearly half live with only one parent, most often their mother.

Most Girls Inc. programming takes place after school, so for many, it's their safe space to go after the school day ends. Girls Inc. offers research-based programs delivered by trained professionals -- programs designed to meet the unique needs of girls.

But beyond that, it's the people at Girls Inc. that really make a difference. At Girls Inc., girls find caring adults they can trust. Adults who believe that they can do anything. Because they can.

Our event is so special because Girls Inc. National Scholars, winners of our annual scholarships, stand in front of this room of nearly 800 people and aren't afraid to share their stories.

And their stories aren't easy ones. Gangs, physical and mental abuse, parental substance abuse, illness, extreme poverty and homelessness.

But the one thing they all have in common is that, at Girls Inc. they found a home away from home, and within those walls, they found people who encouraged and believed in them. And that made all the difference.

So they stand in front of this room now on the way to college and careers that they never dreamed possible.

I love this event because it reminds me that the possibilities in life are infinite -- and perhaps more importantly, it makes me think of how fortunate I was to have people in my life who believed in me and my abilities, who encouraged me, and who saw possibilities where I saw obstacles.

We all have people like that in our lives. For some, it's our parents, but more often, it goes beyond that, to grandparents, aunts, uncles, teachers, friends, neighbors, coaches.

In a world where the most negative news stories get top billing, where we build up public figures to tear them down again, to stop and think about how we can be forces for good in the lives of others is a powerful thing.

So tomorrow when we celebrate these girls and our event honorees, women who have achieved great success in their respective fields and now serve as role models for girls forging their own paths, I'll be thinking of those people who supported me along the way and sending them a silent thank you. As the song goes, "Because I knew you, I've been changed for good."

And I'll be reminding myself to repay what has been given to me by encouraging others to reach beyond what they think is possible, and by doing so, I'll be reminding myself too.

So even if the lights go off, the sound system fails, or our slideshow presentation gets Rickrolled (please God no), I'll try to remember what's really important and be thankful.

And then I'll be ready for a really long nap.

Butter & Oil

I don't know how many of you caught this week's SNL with the spoof of Paula Deen.

If not, catch it here: http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/weekend-update-paula-deen/1389907

I thought it was hilarious, even though I do love me some Paula Deen. I want to go to her house and eat ham biscuits and red velvet cake. I confess that, as a diehard NYer, I picture all middle-aged white women from the South looking just like Paula Deen. If you're from the South, and I haven't met your mom, whenever you talk about her, I picture Paula Deen. This is terrible, I know, but I can't help myself.

Part of me wants to be Paula Deen when I grow up, without the diabetes and without the actual cooking part, since I don't want to turn on the stove. I have lived in my apartment for four years without turning it on once and I have a record to maintain.

I hope the allegations of racism and sexual harassment against Ms. Paula aren't true. They sound pretty awful and I would find it very upsetting if proven true. Her food looks mighty good (butter and oil) and I find her personal story to be inspiring. She's flawed and I like that. I also like that Paula has two sons that have followed her into the family business. I don't have children (yet) but I always thought I'd be a good mother to sons, and Paula's wiseacre sons make me laugh. It's rare that men follow their mother's lead into business, but I like how they built the business together and how Paula admits that she couldn't have done it, become Paula Deen, without all of their efforts. I'm not sure what family business my sons would follow me into, since watching television is not a family business that I know of, but give me time and I'm sure I'll think of something.

I recently watched Paula on Oprah's Next Chapter and was riveted by the agoraphobia she suffered from for two decades. Essentially both of her parents died within a short period of time and Paula somehow got it into her head that if she just stayed inside, she could protect herself and her family from additional heartache and loss. So that's what she did. For twenty years. Twenty years people. Somehow hearing that makes me feel reassured and a little less crazy. I could see my controlling self thinking exactly what Paula did, but thankfully I haven't gotten there yet.

Above all, I admire Paula because she's not afraid to pee her pants on national television, which I'm pretty sure she did on this episode of Oprah's Next Chapter. (I can't find a good clip but Google if you're curious.) Getting on the trampoline that she had built for her grandkids, she warned us that she might, her whole staff said she might, and I'm pretty sure she did.

I don't know about you, but from where I sit, getting from being afraid to leave your house for twenty years to not being afraid to pee your pants in front of millions of people while wearing your nightgown is a pretty big leap to me. Now, I'm not endorsing peeing your pants in public, but I found it refreshing, and yes, a little inspiring to see that she was able to face her fears in life and not let them control her. She moved forward and built a life ... a life that includes peeing your pants on Oprah. I'd pee my pants for Oprah. That's good tv.

So whenever I'm feeling like things seem a little daunting and overwhelming, I'll think of Paula and remember that if I just move forward one step at a time, day by day, and keep a sense of humor about yourself, you never know what can lie ahead.

Like an endorsement deal with Depends.

Law & Order

I read an article this week where it was reported that 85% of Americans report they have been treated "rudely" by another person. Ever. This was quoted as a staggeringly high statistic.

And I thought, "That's it?" Who are the other 15%? Babies? Animals? Deaf or blind maybe? France? Betty White perhaps?

I feel like all I have to do is leave my apartment in the morning to be set-up to be treated rudely. And sometimes even that's not necessary because I can be pretty awful to my own self.

Now granted, I do live in New York City, but I don't buy into the stereotype that New Yorkers are ruder than any other group. I personally think it's a numbers game -- with so many people here, you're bound to run into someone rude or be a party to rude behavior; it's inevitable. I've actually been treated far worse in allegedly more civilized places, like the suburbs.

And that's not to say that I'm a saint either. I've been known to eye roll with the best of them when waiting my definition of too long for someone or something, and I am the person you hear behind you muttering, "We're walking, we're walking ... oh, are we walking backwards now?" when you're meandering down the street and I'm in a hurry (which is always). And yes, on the subway platform, impatiently waiting for a train and frustrated that I couldn't see around the head of the person next to me, I did say, "Oh my God! Move your freaking head..." only to have the person turn around and force me to finish the sentence with "Steve Buscemi..."

Maybe I'm a cynic (maybe) but this leaves me thinking that maybe the other 15% just aren't recognizing the rudeness or, unbelievably to me, maybe they're just not taking it personally. Maybe they're just letting it roll off their backs. What's that quote about how you can't control things but you can control your reaction to them? Sounds like I'm lacking in the wisdom to know the difference department. Maybe I could learn something from them.

Maybe.

For those of you who know me, it likely comes as no surprise that righteous indignation is the fuel that I run on, it's the air that I breathe. I am pretty much always worked up about something not being "fair" or "right," with most cases not involving me at all (read: none of my business), so it's not that easy for me to walk away from the rude. It's likely not an accident that my career involves helping to right the wrongs of social injustice and helping to level the playing field.

I'm not sure where this comes from, but coming from a family with a lot of cops and firemen doesn't help any. Add in the thick layer of Irish Catholic guilt and there's a recipe for disaster right there. Right and wrong is in my bloodline.

In one of my earliest childhood memories, my dad decided to unload a fish tank and a trunk and some other treasures (aka junk) by selling them at a yard sale. He put me in charge and sat me down in the yard to keep an eye on them. He then went inside the house and about his business. Well, clearly I wasn't doing a great job being the keeper of the crap because next thing I knew the stuff was being loaded into the back of a van by a couple of guys. I nonchalantly told my dad, who quickly sprang into action to catch these "thieves." He ran back into the house, grabbed something (which my memory tells me was his gun from his police days but that may be a figment of my previously established overactive imagination) and sped off in the car to chase them down, leaving me alone in the now crap-free yard.

When he returned a bit later, albeit empty handed (I guess he didn't catch up to them), he was ranting and raving about how these guys had taken advantage of a child (me) by stealing right out from under my nose. These punks were pretty much taking candy from an actual baby.

Yeah, that's right, that junk was mine and they stole it! How dare they?

That fish tank with a hole in it and that broken down trunk were my precious treasures! My inheritance! I tell you, my life would be complete if I had that trunk.

Now, part of me thinks that even my four year old self knew that stuff was crap, which is why I let them take it without even an eyebrow raise, and 35 years later I'm even more sure that those guys thought that stuff was garbage and that it was being given away. Or maybe I was thinking, "If you put a four year old in charge of a yard sale, this is what you get." And I won't even start in on how you shouldn't leave a four year old completely alone even in the name of justice.

But nevertheless, my lifelong overdeveloped sense of justice was born, fed by both my parents, and especially me.

And even though I consider myself to be a compassionate person, when right or wrong is concerned, I show no mercy. I mounted a campaign at one of my jobs against a corporate wide e-mail screener they had installed -- designed to scan all of our incoming and outgoing messages for "profanity." Unfortunately, the scanner was as zealous as Kenneth on 30 Rock working in standards and practices, stopping emails being sent to people legitimately named "Dick" and designating the word "gay" as profane. I called our Human Resources department and let them know that "gay" certainly isn't profane and it sure would be a shame if, I don't know, GLAAD, found out that our company now felt this way. The screener disappeared but I enjoyed calling myself Norma Gay for awhile after.

And witness my nemesis - a woman I run into daily at Starbucks. She's nasty, pushy, and rude. When I see her, my blood pressure rockets and I immediately tense up.

She's also a quadriplegic in a wheelchair, which, for most people with a human heart, might make a difference -- they might show a little empathy, understand that her road is not an easy one. Not me. Rude is rude.

Just yesterday I was walking through midtown, and there was a couple trying to take a picture of their kids (actually there were millions of people taking pictures, this just happened to be the scene I came across). I said, "I'm so sorry," and smiled as the mother was waving me through the frame, then I realized that what I thought she said, "No worries, come on," was actually "Hurry up, come on," and my pace slowed to that of a snail's. I think we sprang forward and fell back in the time that it took me to walk through that shot. I may not have a lot of patience, but to make a point, I can pace this three foot patch of land all day, destroying the potential for countless family memories if I have to.

I'm not proud I feel that way, but I do. Wrong is wrong. And that's just not right.

But what is right?

Damned if I know.

Having spent most of my life focusing on the wrong, I'm not sure I could identify right in a lineup. To me doing right is not doing what I perceive as wrong.

I like to think of myself as an optimistic person, and I think I am overall. I believe in the power of positive thinking, I believe that most people are good, and that you manifest what you put out there, which is why I'm becoming a little concerned with this wrong business. Apparently, what I'm putting out there is not what I want or what I think is right, but what's wrong. How is the universe, using me as an agent of change in my own life, supposed to bring me what's right with this kind of misinformation?

Somewhere Oprah cries for me. Maybe Gayle too. And probably Dr. Phil. Dr. Oz has already given up.

What do I want? For you/me/them/my Starbucks nemesis to NOT do that, that's what I want. But when you're always thinking in don't's and wrongs like I am, you lose sight of the do's and the rights.

It's like Kenny Rogers says, maybe the "best you can hope for is to die in your sleep." Maybe what I need to be grateful for are all of the bad things that AREN'T happening to me.

It's come to my mind a lot lately too as I recover from the concussion, and take steps forward and steps back. I know when I feel bad, but I'm not as good as recognizing that I feel better, and I worry that's slowing this whole situation down. I was telling this to a true optimist the other day and he actually couldn't understand me. He made me repeat it several times before he could actually somewhat understand. "But you ARE better, right? You are getting better." He's right. Overall I'm a lot better and that is very right indeed. The more I can focus on that the better but for me there's always a but -- "What am I doing wrong? How could I make this better?"

Right doesn't exist without wrong in my mind. Two wrongs certainly don't make a right, but can't we have some rights without a wrong? Can't I find a way to define the right without the wrong? Is it even possible?

It must be for that 15% percent of mystery people who have never experienced rudeness. All they know -- or claim to know, which I'd argue is the same thing -- is sunshine and happiness. Is that the best way to live? I don't know. Maybe, like everything, it's a balance, a middle ground, a place of grey.

But grey has never been my color (I'm a Spring after all). The middle ground is not a place I feel comfortable. I'm the kind who goes down swinging.

I'd rather be in the 85%. I guarantee that's where all of my friends and family are. It must be boring in the 15% -- they're probably not complaining or gossiping or feeling put upon. So let the 15% cure cancer or whatever important things they must be doing with their time. My people will be watching the Jersey Shore.

So maybe the trick for me is to learn what right is for me, and let it exist without wrong. Let myself be happy and revel in right when it happens, instead of waiting for wrong to arrive and let the other shoe drop.

And when wrong arrives, I can still give it a little hell. If I didn't, I wouldn't be me. Maybe it will arrive a little less often, since I won't be looking for it so much.

But I guarantee it still makes an appearance each weekday at 8:45 a.m. in Starbucks, in line squarely in front of Len.

Ask Again Later

I was in the back of a cab the other day running some errands, on the way to the brassiere store, as my grandmother might say, to buy some (can you guess?) new brassieres, when I saw a friend of mine crossing in front of my cab. As you do, I got all excited seeing her, and started to roll down my window to yell out hello across 5th Avenue when all of a sudden I remembered something pretty important:

We're not friends anymore.

Or at least I guess we're not. No one ever told me this. There was no big blowout, no declaration of non-friendship, but she stopped returning my calls and emails a couple of years ago, including a last ditch effort I made a few months ago essentially saying, "If I did something wrong, which is highly possible, let me know and whatever it is, I'm sorry for it."

She's a wonderful person and it's sad to not have her in my life anymore. But I was happy to see her looking well and happy. Smiling and laughing, she seemed to be the same kind, fun-loving person I always remembered -- and not the person I pictured in my mind deleting my texts, emails and voicemails automatically, and yes, a little devilishly.

So, instead of saying anything, my cabbie and I drove on to the land of overpriced brassieres (also known as the Upper East Side) and I pushed it out of my mind.

The next day, exchanging emails with a mutual friend on other topics, I admitted that I had seen her. She let me know she is having the same experience -- for reasons unbeknownst to her, just as they are unbeknownst to me, this friend isn't responding to her either and has seemingly dropped her as a friend too.

Now, I'll admit, this made me feel much, much better. I know that I make mistakes essentially every five minutes and I am sure that it's possible that I did something wrong in this situation, but I really couldn't think of what it could be, and sadly, she wasn't giving me the opportunity to find out and try to right this wrong. Which is wrong.

All of a sudden, I wasn't sad anymore. I was worked up, not so much on my own behalf, but on behalf of my friend. How could she treat her like that? Unacceptable. And it got me thinking again about why things like this happen. What is happening in her life that she has decided to cut people out of it? What's going on in her head?

I know plenty of people who, in times of stress or upset, shut down and stop responding to emails, calls, and texts. On the other side of that it's hard to know what's up -- radio silence is telling but can be misinterpreted.

My, I guess, now "ex-friend" maybe really doesn't know why she cut at least a couple of us out of her life. Heck, if asked, she may not even think she's doing it. Or she may well know exactly what she's doing and have plenty of reasons. I might just never know.

So how do we bridge the gap? How do you know when it's really over? And if you care for someone, how do you know when to stop trying?

I sometimes think it would be very handy to have the ability to read people's minds. You'd know what everyone is thinking, and you wouldn't have to go through as much BS to get to the truth. It would be right there for everyone to see. Is this person happy/sad, etc.? Does that person hate me, or find me fascinating? Does my hair color really look natural? We'd all be each other's Magic 8-Balls, but the answers would be the truth instead of a generic response.

Then again, it could be like that episode of Gilligan's Island where Gilligan discovers those seeds that, if you eat them, you can know what the other person is thinking, and it turns into a big disaster with everyone mad at each other.

I'm not so sure I want to know what people are thinking about me all of the time. Would it be more or less depressing to realize that it's not always about me?

And I'm equally unsure that I want others to know what I'm thinking either. Maybe I'd be a nicer person thinking nicer thoughts if I knew people could read that I think they have no business wearing gold lame jeggings, but probably not. I just don't have that kind of self-control and as a general way of being, I am a control freak, so I don't need anyone all up in my business.

Now each week at acupuncture we sit and go through how I'm feeling -- a laundry list of ailments thankfully improving each time, and a discussion of how I'm sleeping and feeling emotionally.  I had been so focused on what I was trying to fix through our sessions -- i.e. my physical symptoms -- that I had blinders on as to how my emotional health could even come into play so I just gave the appropriate knee-jerk emotional responses -- I'm fine, doing great. When actually, I know intellectually that our mental state plays a huge part in how we deal with any positive or negative situation in life.

More often than not, I think it's just as much about what we're not admitting to ourselves as what we're not telling each other. How did I feel? Pretty good, I think.  Emotionally, great, well, except for the three times I burst into tears uncontrollably. Had I been sleeping well? Yes. Oh wait, you mean all the nights of the week, not just last night, and you mean, sleeping through the whole entire night, oh well, then, no, no, I haven't been sleeping well. At all.

Fortunately or unfortunately, in polite society, we don't often ask those kinds of point blank questions, of others -- or of ourselves. We keep our respectable distance. We wouldn't want to pry. I was talking to two friends this week who hadn't seen me since my concussion and they were both kinda stunned. They really had no idea what had been going on and asked me point blank why I hadn't told them, well, point blank about how I was feeling and what support I needed. I didn't really have a good answer and it made me kinda sad. Why would I create a situation for myself that didn't have to be that way?

Unfortunately, at least in my case, I often think that others have raided Gilligan's stash of mind reading seeds and know what I think and what I need, and not only is that unfair, but it's impossible, since half the time, I don't even know what I want or need nevermind expecting others to.

It's the gap between what we say and what we don't say. And when you add that up with the gap between what we say and what people actually hear, and the gap between what we think we know and what the truth is, it's a wonder that we can communicate at all.

So, what about the my relationship with my friend?

Outlook not so good.

But am I sorry that I've spent time reaching out and trying to make it work?

My reply is no.

I know we were friends for a reason - even if that reason is to teach me something as simple as the hard lesson that you can only know me to the extent that I allow you to know me, and vice versa.

It is decidedly so.

But we can help each other along by staying open and challenging each other.

So concentrate and ask again.

All signs point to yes.