Aging Gracefully

When I told my husband I was going to write a piece about aging gracefully, he laughed in my face and said, "Yeah! Good luck with that!" To which I replied, “Thanks. You just gave me my first sentence." Jerk (I said that in my head.). Obviously we are all aging, and apparently the man who got down on one knee and gave me a diamond does not think I am doing it gracefully. When I think of grace, I think of poise and gentleness. A butterfly on a lilac bush, the Moscow Ballet. Good old Webster (who I love so much) defines grace as": a controlled, polite, and pleasant way of behaving," which I'm not sure that many people have in the first place, at least not all the time. So I think the gracefulness with which you age is subjectiv to the gracefulness that you had in the first place, unless you make some drastic personality change in which case you should definitely write a book about it. We can always use more grace in the world.

Aging of course in inevitable. My dad used to say, "Well, it is better than the alternative." The way you age depends largely on your culture, and your biggest role models who aged before your very eyes, your parents, and for women that person is commonly your mom. You saw her at 35, now you are 35. How did she change? Or did she? I think aging, especially for women, breaks down into three main categories: attitude, behavior, and physical appearance. 

People's attitudes on aging vary quite a bit. Personally, the older I get, the more callous my attitude has become. It's not that I don't care about people, it's more that I don't care what they think about me. Especially being married with kids, I have more important things to worry about than what most people think of me, and who am I trying to impress? Basically me, and occasionally that guy who dragged me to the alter after I told him I wasn't sure I was the marrying type. I know there are different attitudes towards aging because several of my friends have accused me of having a bad one and insisted that theirs was better. That's fine with me. I have no problem telling them that their shoes look like they were made for an 80 year old woman, and i don't care how comfortable they are, I am pretty sure my grandmother wore the same kind to her exercise class in the nursing home where they spent 30 minutes a week trying to get up from a chair. But that's what some people do. They resign themselves to their perceptions of their age, and just like that, they start shopping at Chicos. 

Behavior is definitely a big part of aging, and generally your behavior springs from your attitude. I think that's where my husband has a hard time seeing how and if aging has changed me. It has been suggested by people ( like my therapist) that I can change my behavior slightly as I get older and still enjoy the things I always have. "For example," she offered, "You can still have fun at a concert without going into the mosh pit." What?? She is 10 vears vounger than I am and has no doubt never been in a mosh pit since they don't have them at Bruno Mars. I tried to take her advice, but somehow the mosh pit pulled me in, and maybe some people think a 55 year old mother of two looks stupid in the mosh pit, but that also goes back to attitude, mine of course being, I don't care. Not to mention the fact that a twenty something guy complimented my moshing technique just recently. I mean I do have more experience, and I like it, so why give it up because of my age? I know that some people start hanging in the back of a concert when they reach a certain age. Again, it's their preconceived notion of what is appropriate. THIERS, not MINE.

Some behaviors usually do change. Like you go to sleep earlier, you stop doing shots of tequila on week nights, and you will no longer let someone you don't know put a dropper full of clear liquid on your tongue at a party. A lot of changes are because you are not as carefree and stupid as you were. With age comes not only responsibility and physical limitations in some cases, but you become more aware of your own mortality. Your invincibility generally folds to the reality that every day you are closer to death than you were the day before. And then there are the people in the Chico's clothes. Again, relying on their perceived notion of their age. It's like, "I am 50, I am now styled in a certain way, and I can't go into the mosh pit anymore." That is their reality, handed down to them from parents or culture, and despite the fact that they want to jump off the stage at a Trivium concert, they won't because in the eyes of their influences which have become their own eyes, they would look stupid. Once again, an attitude fueled by perception. One that I reject, not just to be rebellious, but because I refuse to deny myself a behavior that makes me happy. Especially when you have kids. You find yourself engaging in many things that make you unhappy, like going to 3 birthday parties in a month at Chuck E. Cheese. If there is a hell, and if I end up there, I guarantee there will be a fake bear playing the banjo, and a giant mouse scaring the crap out of most kids, and hugging others in its musty furry suit that hasn't been washed in at least two years. Guess what, the next good concert, I am moshing like a 15 year old boy.  Like it or not.

Physical appearance is a tricky one. Girls are pretty much spoon fed from the time they come out of the womb that they should look pretty, wear trendy clothes, and the latest hairstyle. Chico's clothes or not, there are weekly appointments at the nail salon, a hairstylist who is practically part of the family, and a stockpile of vitamins containing collagen, biotin, and whatever the latest researched pill is that has allegedly been proven to make you look younger. A lot of times there is also a gym membership, because whether you go once a month or twice a day, you feel like you are doing everything you can to keep your body in shape. Personally, I started going to the gym to build the endurance to keep up with my kids, who I didn't have until I was 36 and 40. I was defined as having a "geriatric pregnancy" both times. Well excuse me for waiting until I was emotionally ready to change my life forever! But I can't deny that the physical effects of toning my body are satisfying, and I now have a trainer at least twice a week to keep me going.

The truth is, people today have way more options than their parents did to lookyounger, and the advertising campaigns for these strategies are everywhere. Gone are the days when everyone gossiped about Joan Rivers' facelift (rest her soul. What a pioreer she was in addressing the truth.). Now, half the groupons you get are for Botox, or Restylane, or some kind of facial treatment that will shed your old skin so a bright new tight and glowing skin will emerge. I know some people who have just let their gray hair come in and totally accept that it is now who they are, but I know way more people who have a standing appointment with "their stylist," or are just standing in the hair dye isle for half an hour deciding on which hue to take home. Personally, I was against fighting my escalating age by injecting myself with a bacterial illness, but what can I say? There was a groupon for half off, I should at least try it, right? And the effects are pretty staggering. Forehead creases, gone!

Crows feet, fly away, for a few months anyway. And you look in the mirror and you do feel pretty great. Ten years has instantly slipped away, and you look younger/prettier, just like you are supposed to. And just like the crack that my better half compares to Botox, you never want to see those face lines again, so it's back to the dermatologist in three months, groupon or not.

So when all is said and done, despite the fact that there is a dictionary definition for “grace," I think the concept is totally subjective. No matter what your age, it is your self acceptance that determines your grace. Change the things you want to change, keep the things you want to keep. As long as you are happy with your attitude, your behavior, and your personal appearance, you are aging gracefully.

Birthday Eve

 So I am sitting here the night before my birthday thinking, “Seriously, how the fuck did I live this long?”  Mexico in ‘89 should have been it, not to mention the completely stupid irresponsible events that occurred before and after.

One of the multitude of things I hate about getting older is that birthdays suck.  I know it’s my bad attitude. I remember when I turned 10 and wept into my fathers arms, “I don’t want to be double digits!  I like single digits!  And double digits is usually as far as you go!”  He hugged me and told me about how exciting life gets and how many really great people and experiences happen.  I didn’t buy it for a moment.  I was a happy kid.  I was loved, I knew my boundaries (and generally accepted them) and I did not want Father Time messing with my world. It’s funny, but I never got over it.  As many cool people and exciting adventures I had, I would still trade it all for a candy hunt in the backyard and a homemade box cake with jelly between the layers.

Yes, I do understand that my attitude is everything, and it can change.  And don’t get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoyed skydiving and backpacking through Europe and being on the radio for a decade, but it is never the same as single digits, and I guess I always felt like that’s where I belonged.

So, here I am about to be older than I have ever been, trying to have a better attitude about the whole thing.  I know there are more spectacular occasions ahead (at least I hope so!) And there are landmark events to anticipate.  I love learning new things and they are everywhere.  I can discover a new passion and follow that road into all kinds of new adventures and challenges.  I am still ticking.   The earth is still rotating.  Who knows how many years or days I even have left.  I should definitely make every effort to really live them in ways that put a smile on my face.

But the truth is, that April 20 a million years ago when I turned 10, I didn’t like it.  I didn’t want it. And there is a big part of me that still doesn’t, no matter how hard I try.

But thank you for the birthday wishes.  I am truly enamored and proud of my friends and family. You have made me laugh til I couldn’t breathe, held me when I couldn’t stop crying, nurtured me when I couldn’t take it anymore, and been there for me with a kind word or funny anecdote to make my days bright and happy.

I’ll keep working on my attitude.  I’m getting a new therapist so that should be fun.  I really didn’t think I would ever have this birthday and feel this way about it.  Thank you for being on my journey. It helps more than you will ever know.

Now What? The Ridiculous Stress of Entering Adulthood

 Omg.   In the last few months there have been so many things I wanted to write about.  When you are a curious and observant person like I am, there always seems to be another question…another flaunting hypocrisy that is accepted into the mainstream despite its complete illegality.  And there is so much of the odd and absurd just parading in front of me.  After my work blog I was told I am not allowed to write about my job.  It isn’t funny.  It isn’t a joke.  I compare it to Ozzy Osbourne’s impression of the movie Spinal Tap.  He just didn’t get it AT ALL. He could not for the life of him figure out what could possibly be funny about that genius rock band parody movie because it was just like his actual life. Another day, another 3 foot Stonehenge stage prop with managers negotiating about whether the marquee is “Ozzy and Puppet Show”. Or “Puppet Show and Ozzy.”  Personally I don’t need an audience to validate my humor, or censor my writing.  To me, going through life without a sense of humor is like missing one of your most vital senses.  Like not being able to taste chocolate.   And that would suck.

In any case there is something that has been bothering me for a while.  Probably most of my life but it resurfaces anxiously sometimes, and this is one of those times.

Basically from the time you are a toddler shuffling your tiny feet in Daddy’s shoes, people start saying things to you like,”Oh!  So you want to be like Daddy when you grow up!  You can work in an office designing bridges/making presentations/developing software/selling timeshares/answering questions about taxes/ blah blah blah blah blah…”. And when people find out you are in a dance class it’s always like, “You can be a ballerina when you grow up!” Or this or that or whatever.  It’s always there from the time you can talk.  People asking you what you plan to do with a life of which you can’t possibly conceive, having very little life experiences, zero clue what the future actually is, and still wondering why you have to drink out of a cup and pee in a receptacle.

And the pressure only increases.  The older you get, the more you are asked about your future plans in a world you have barely experienced with a brain that is not even close to being fully matured.  There is only one person I know who knew how he was going to spend his life from as long as I can remember: my cousin David.  You know Schroeder from the Peanuts?  That’s him. In fact I suspect he may be twins, with a small piano birthing just 15 seconds before my cousin.   I’m sure there are some people who just are who they will always be from the beginning of their lives, but I don’t believe for a second it is a significant percentage.

My doctor recently told me he had no choice. He had to follow in the footsteps of his dad. In fact it used to be much more common for generations to work for the family business.  Lots of people still do, but my Greek friend’s dad is going to sell his diner when he retires. None of his kids want that career.  They all spent after school and summers working there and just decided it doesn’t fulfill them in the long run. 

And the older you get, the more the question persists, “What are you going to study?  What do you want to do? What is your career path?”   Who the fuck knows at 3, at 17, at 25…ever!  First of all, there are so many thousands of jobs you don’t even know about.  Some haven’t even been created yet.  One of my friends works for a company that designs colors for other companies to use on plastic products.   Like who even knew that is a job?  She flies around the world making upwards of six figures working with clients like patio chair manufacturers deciding which shade of red to paint their new line of outdoor furniture.  Then she has the exact color made and sold in humongous quantities.   She’s great at it and doing amazing, but I can assure you at 3, 13, and 30 she has no diary entries written about her present career.  “Dear diary, I saw a plastic fence today and just couldn’t stop thinking that if only there was a little gray added to the base color the fence would just be perfect.  It’s 3am and I can’t sleep just thinking about it.  There has to be some way I could get involved in creating colors for plastic.  Then I know my life would be complete.”  Not a chance.  

Not only that, but at an amazing neurology  seminar I took when my child was diagnosed with ADHD, I learned some mind blowing stuff. The seminar was a big deal in Manhattan with cutting edge researchers and neurologists specializing in different parts of brain science taking turns giving lectures and power points.  It was fantastic and attending that seminar will always be one of the best decisions I have ever made.  I learned so much, but the info that stuck with me the most is synaptic pruning.  I’m no scientist, but the pop up book version goes something like this: babies are born with a shit ton of brain cells, most of which won’t stick around too long on the timeline of life.  So then, something like a survival of the fittest Squid Game situation occurs.  See, electrical and chemical activity between brain cells is called synapses.  Babies have a lot of synapses because they are figuring everything out and their cells are constantly interacting.  As time goes on, less particular synapses are needed until eventually only the useful ones survive making way for more timely necessary synapses. This process of ridding the brain of the obsolete is called synaptic pruning.  Like weeding a garden kind of except the garden is full of brain cells that have turned into weeds.  

Much of synaptic pruning takes place in young children, and it used to be the acceptable hypothesis that your brain’s garden was weeded by about age 12.  Well, much much much more research brings scientists to the current understanding of synaptic pruning which it turns out goes on until the brain matures around the age of 23, give or take.  Not 11… 23.   One of the neurologists at the seminar actually said the worst time to make decisions is during high levels of synaptic pruning which often occurs roughly between 17-23.  SEVENTEEN TO TWENTY THREE!!!!!  When you pick a college and a major and are finally forced to confront your lifelong interrogations (about which you still have scarce to no actual experience) WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE?  Are you kidding me?  Unless you are my cousin David, or someone who is pretty clear they want to go down a certain path, there is a better than average chance that you still don’t have enough information to decide where your life is going, AND this is not the best time to decide.  I'm sure all you science geniuses are going to take umbrage to my synaptic pruning explaination, but the top neurologists at the seminar really dumbed it down for those of us not in the know, and I think I got the gist of it. 

I bring this up now because 1. It’s always bothered me that I felt forced into mapping my life goals while I only had one job so far selling greasy chicken and mixing cole slaw in 10 gallon drums, and 2.. My daughter is graduating high school this year and the pressure she is feeling about making decisions regarding a life she has just begun to live is frustrating and heartbreaking for me to watch.  

Personally, I graduated high school a year early basically because my mother couldn’t deal with me at that point, and well, A few corespondents classes and a weekly cabinet making class got me out with honors.  I was young and clueless and my moms friend had heard of a good university a few weeks before the semester began so I applied and just went.  By the time I realized what floated my boat I was faced with the harsh reality that  my prestigious school didn’t offer that major so I picked the next closest appealing subject and left university life 4 years later with a Bachelor of Arts and no clue what to do next. 

So what do I tell my daughter?  Well, the truth.  Go to a college that offers a lot of different genres.  Take some classes that you never considered, and don’t be afraid to drop classes and change majors if you have to.  Now is your chance to poke around the different facets of knowledge and industry.  There is absolutely no shame in exploring.   And if you get a professor that you really like, take every class he or she teaches.  Some people suit your learning style better than others.  College is a time to find your footing not only in the workforce, but in life.  Take your time.  Pay attention.  Take a good assessment of your strengths and see which industries value the strengths you already have.  You will become even more adept and you will enjoy getting better at what you like to do anyway.   And remember, there are specialties in every subject so explore them.  And I can’t stress it enough:  you are not a failure if you walk away. Taking chances can lead to your ideal path, or it could be a complete disappointment.  Part of growing up is to learn how to react and grow from your bad experiences.  It’s learning.  And it’s all good. Sylvia Plath saved all her rejection letters because they reminded her that she tried.  Try.  And try again.  And try something different. It will make you a more self assured person when you learn how to navigate your failures and handle rejection.  You are not a job.  You are a person.  Never forget that. Any worker can be replaced including you, but no one else can bring your skills and unique personality to the table. 

So what did I do with my not-first-choice bachelor degree?  A little bit of this, a little bit of that, eventually enrolling in a masters program, and then one day I had a heart to heart with myself.  I asked myself, “What do you really love?”   What am I so afraid of failing that I am too scared to even try because I know the disappointment will be heartbreakingly unbearable?  I came up with the answer, paused my masters degree and gave it a go.  I figured at least I wouldn’t regret not trying for my inner secret dream.  And guess what?  I got 10 good years out of it, amazing experiences, and met people who literally changed my life.  And at the end, the industry I so desperately wanted had changed so much that I was ok walking away.  I could even get back to that masters degree, but I have changed, too.

I read an article that says students today should prepare themselves for at least 2 careers in their lifetime.  I think as long as you keep trying and learning and being your honest self, you will encounter the people and the jobs who value you.  It will most likely take a lot of effort, but that’s yet another way we learn.  Keep checking in with yourself to understand if your values and interests are still the same.  It’s ok if they are not.  Your past endeavors don’t decide who you are.  And neither does anyone else.  And always know that you have people who have your back.  If you need help, ask for it.  If you need to sort things out, you never have to do it alone.  It is your journey and use your strengths and your resources.  And call your mom.  She worries.  There is not a soul in this world who will love you like your bonded family.  So get out there and learn!  Learn who you are and go with it. Make choices, take chances, come home and regenerate.  Don’t be scared of trying, you are already amazing. 

A Lesson in Character

 It’s always a good day when my 13 year old son runs down from his room to see me after work. These days are kinda like spotting a blessing of unicorns (yep… a group is a blessing) eating four leaf clovers, so I drop everything and listen intently to all that he wants to share.

Like today.  He said, “I actually had a really cool social studies class.”  

“Oh yeah,” I responded, “Tell me.”

He proceeded to tell me about some guy (back in the 1800s I think) who was a full on abolitionist. Apparently this guy was a total radical and incited riots and engaged in all kinds of aggressive, illegal behavior to make his point that slavery was wrong.  I’m not sure what he did (I will google it later because I love learning new things and I’ll have to get the actual name of this guy since that wasn’t a memorable part of the story for my son.). In any case, this guy was eventually jailed and executed by the government for his illegal behaviors, and the question posed to the class was:  Is this man a criminal or a hero?  Let’s discuss.   

Personally I think that’s a very good lesson. It makes you think about a lot of different interpretations of justice, and how people with such strong feelings about injustice should handle them.  I told my son that most passionate people who are willing to defy the law generally don’t live to see any changes they have helped make.  The acceptable way to change laws is through the proper legal channels, and that could take longer than waiting on hold with Verizon (before you get disconnected three times in three different countries,) and some people just can’t wait that long living in a world that is so wrong to them.  In his letter from Birmingham jail, Martin Luther King wrote “One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws." And way before that, Thomas Jefferson penned, “If a law is unjust, a man is not only right to disobey it, he is obligated to do so.”  Honestly, there is only so much you can do and years will pass before any changes are even considered, and some people just can’t live with that.  Are they heroes or criminals?   Great social studies topic.  How many people died opposing slavery while slaves labored, were tortured, and murdered? How many animals were killed for body parts before species became endangered and poaching was prohibited?  How long do you wait to act?

Personally, I think it’s imperative to address very incendiary topics. They are subjective, so people tend to either stay away from them, follow the masses, or flip flop their responses based on how they personally view the issue at hand.  Of course the slave owner wants to go the long legal route, and the abolitionists want a revolution.  I told my son that these decisions to act actually happen all the time, although mostly on a much smaller scale, and generally I think it’s a person's education and character that dictate the response.  And wouldn’t you know it, I had an example from that day in the dental office where I work.  

Months earlier, an elderly woman came into the office looking to get dental work done on her fixed budget insurance that had to be finished by the end of the year.  It was November, so time was an issue, and the woman had a bad attitude (for whatever reason) so that was another issue. In fact, this woman’s children had taken her to so many dentists with bad results due to her nastiness that they just stopped taking her.  This woman (we’ll just call her “Ruth” for the sake of the story) was currently on her Z list of people willing to take her to appointments:  Like people who lived in her apt building, and people in therapy programs trying to redeem themselves by performing random acts of kindness, and homeless people looking for a warm waiting room…

In any case, Ruth ended up in our waiting room with her bad attitude trying to negotiate her dental work.  I know that everyone has a story, and I am a curious person, and I like to solve problems.  I was on it.  It took 3 hours (and my boss threatening to fire me if I didn’t seal the deal or get her out) but an exam happened, a treatment plan was made, and impressions were taken.  Ruth was getting dentures.  And the third cousin of the husband of one of Ruth’s kids who had been roped into taking her to this appointment was crying as she thanked us a billion times.

So here’s the thing about dentures, it’s not a 1,2,3 process.  There are 5 steps and the dentures have to go to a lab several times and we have limited control on when each step comes back from the lab.  Sometimes it’s a week, sometimes it’s a two or three, but if you want something done properly, you do it right, and that’s just the way it goes. Of course we explained this to Ruth in the beginning, and at every subsequent appointment, but people can’t remember everything, especially when they are 90.  So just like everyone else, Ruth would finish a step, and we would tell her we would call her when her case came back from the lab to schedule the next step.  And just like all the outraged people in history who had to act immediately for their cause, Ruth proceeded to call the office several times a day demanding to know where her dentures were.  The conversations would usually start out vehemently, and digress into personal details and nostalgia from many years ago.  Ruth was obviously lonely and her nastiness kept everyone at bay.  Sometimes we would explain about the lab a few times, assure her we would get back to her and hang up.  Sometimes we would just put her on mute until she petered out.  I don’t even know all the tactics my coworkers used, but she called sometimes five times a day, every day, so I know everyone spoke to her.  And when her case came back, we called her immediately and she came in for the next step, and the phone calls would continue, until one day they didn’t.

Honestly, at first I don’t think anyone noticed she wasn’t harassing us.  Maybe we all figured we individually got lucky and missed the call.  But then her case came back, and we called her.  No answer.  We left messages every day.  No response.   Maybe she was out of town visiting her kids?  It was the holidays.  The deadline for her insurance was looming.  We started calling several times a day.  We asked another patient who is her neighbor if he had seen her.  He said no.  Week two started with no response to our numerous phone calls.  We were worried. What should we do?  Well, as Thomas Jefferson once said, “Don't ask. Act! Action will delineate and define you.”  It’s all about character.

It was Gabby, my coworker of immense character, who called 311 and 911 and the police ended up doing a wellness check on Ruth.  Apparently they had been called to her apartment on more than one occasion due to various complaints, but they were able to ascertain that Ruth had gotten sick and was convalescing in another facility.  Omg!  We were all so relieved. The visions we all had of Ruth laying helplessly on her kitchen floor instantly vanished!  And pain in the ass as she is, Ruth is on the mend and will be gracing our presence with her impatient nastiness once again.

You may be wondering what annoying Ruth has to do with fighting for injustice, but to me, it isn’t about Ruth.  It’s about Gabby.  No, she didn’t break any laws to protest something, but she acted.  She did something she believed was the right thing to do, regardless of there being any benefit to her. We were all worried at the office, but only one person picked up the phone and made the call. It’s character.  Something that should be easier to come by. Thank you Gabby.

I told my son, its important to really think about the “hot button” issues in society.  Weigh out your responses. Educate yourself.   Do what’s right in the best way possible.  Be the change you want to see in the world.  You don’t have to start a revolution, but you have every right to support your feelings.  I asked him, “How many kids in the class raised their hand when the teacher asked if the abolitionist was a hero?”   He said, “Just me.” 

Real Friendship. Pass It On.

 First of all, this blog Is dedicated to a really cool kid named Mike.  It’s weird because he just turned 18 so is he really a kid?  Yeah. 

I've been friends with his mother Theresa/Terry/Terri/Teri/Tess since fourth grade, and that is how many times she’s modified her name since then.  We were really good friends as kids.  We were part of a group who stayed together in a special ed program.  It was the first years of the gifted program in our school district so it was kind of like an experiment.  They combined grades and added special programs and tried a bunch of different teaching techniques which were progressive and groovy back in the late 70s.  Then after diagramming sentences (which I totally love to this day and am way bummed it’s out of fashion), adding scraps to our compost heap in back of the school, and meditating for 15-20 minutes, we would go to each other’s houses and watch ELO concerts on PBS eating fluffernutter and banana sandwiches.  And it turned out, most of us stayed friends (with the occasional teenage fall outs and losing touch while navigating the whole adulthood process) and share a very special bond to this day.  In fact, we actually had a sleepover at one of our houses to celebrate our 50th birthdays, but I digress.

So recently, Theresa/Terry/Terri/Teri/Tess (I guess I will call her Tess now since everyone has for the past 25 years, but you know how old habits are) came to visit me from Sweet Home Chicago to my relocated residence in Brooklyn with her two kids, Mike and Blake, who are almost exactly the same ages as my two.  She wanted the kids to meet and do some fun NYC stuff, and of course my door is always open to her as is my guest room, couch, air mattress, fridge, and anything else she can find.  In typical Tess fashion, she made an itinerary filled with museums and parks, and places I’d never even heard of, covering just about every second of every day, and kudos to her kids for getting up early and following the plans.  Unfortunately, my kids were still in school (different winter break weeks) and I had to work a lot, but we made it work.  They did stuff without us, or just without me, and we got to hang out when I got home from work.  Of course the first night we found out on the subway into the city that our broadway show (which everyone had miraculously agreed on) was cancelled due to Covid, but we rolled with it… or at least 2/3rds of us did, and bravely  veered from the itinerary to see something cool that didn’t make the cut, and we had a good time.  And we always had a lot of fun talking and snacking at home before exhaustively calling it a night.

As I mentioned, I had to work a lot during the visit. I know many people leave the headspace of their jobs when they walk out the office door , but when I get home from the dental office where I work, I am usually pretty ramped up and want to talk about my day.  The office is in the heart of south Brooklyn, with a nice mix of real Brooklynites, from the generations of old timers to immigrants of several generations, from all around the world.  All ages, basically salt of the earth city workers, teachers, college students, musicians, etc, with a plethora of experiences and personalities and at least one thing in common: no one wants to be at the dentist, and some days are just insanely crazy.  And I do like to tell stories.

 

Unfortunately for me, no one in my family really wants to deal with me when I get home from work.  Often it’s late, my family is winding down, and my energy level is way too high and way too annoying for them, so my crazy day stories go untold until I’m ready to burst.  But when Tess and her kids were here, Mike was a ready and willing audience, excited to hear about nutty Brooklyn, and I was ecstatic to oblige.

It really is something new and amazing almost every day at the office, so I happily regaled Mike with tales of patients physically fighting in the waiting room, dentures getting lost, altercations with insurance companies, power outages, patients losing touch with reality, staff being threatened, rudeness, and of course lots of cursing because after all, it is fucking New York City.  Honestly, these kinds of things happen every day, but most people don’t even notice.  It’s like when you live near the airport you just stop hearing the planes after a while, but even though I’ve lived in NYC for 22 years, I still see the crazy.  The absurd situations 

that couldn’t even be imagined as fiction.  Like the guy who came in with no appointment, sat in the waiting room menacing the receptionist and refused to leave unless we gave him $35, and after his negotiations turned futile, he peed himself and tried to bash in all the windows with a metal bar (two days ago). Seriously I had never called 911 until I moved to NYC. That day was my fifth phone call, my previous one reporting a van full of Rastafarians that flipped over right next to me on the Belt Parkway.

OMG, I had so much to tell, and Mike hung onto  every word.  He fell off his chair hysterically laughing several times, asked for details, and at one point declared he had to move here and work in the dental office to experience the spectacular insanity for himself.  He totally got it the way I do.   It was perfect symbiosis:  I had someone who wanted to hear my stories, and he got tales of unbelievable lunacy that knocked him to the floor.  And making one of my best friend’s kids laugh just filled my heart.

I didn’t get to see enough of my amazing forever friend Tess, and her kids Mike and Blake,  but I completely enjoyed really getting to know them.  They are both exceptional people, and I am so proud of my friend who used to come to my house and eat onion bagels with jelly and knock the same chrome lamp onto our green shag carpeting every time.

One thing I notice in the dental office is that money trumps people these days.  NYC is expensive, and people are piled on top of people so you end up constantly competing for everything, including  space.  It’s brutal and exhausting, but this visit reminded me that real friendships and laughter, and sharing your families is what makes life worth living.  Everyone has his own story and survival tactics in this world and who knows how off the charts their experiences have been, so I personally do my best to be kind whenever possible, and as my tattoo quotes the Dalai Lama, “It is always possible”, or at least most of the time in NYC.

So thank you Theresa/Terry/Terri/Teri/Tess for giving me you, Mike and Blake.  I know we didn’t see each other enough, but the love will always be there, for you and your amazing people that make my world better, and lots of other people’s now and later.  I wish we would have spent more time together, but truthfully I’m not getting up at 9am to ride the Staten Island Ferry… ever.

Now or Never

 So, I know it’s been awhile.  Sorry. I’ve been working 2 jobs and trying to watch every freaky documentary on Netflix and trying to hold informational seminars on cleaning the bathroom.  Plus there’s this whole power steering fluid situation with my car.  Like seriously?  WTF?  I didn’t know people actually purchased power steering fluid unless they were like racing down one of those empty canals with some chick in booty shorts standing in the middle of two cars waving a checkered flag.  And p.s.   I need an irrational amount of power steering fluid.  And p.p.s.  The guy at Auto Zone has zero sense of humor.  Like I go in there and ask him if I can just get any power steering fluid and he says it goes by the type of car you have.  He points to where it is and I jokingly say, “Well I guess I need a case if I’m going to keep this car.”  To which he replies, “We don’t sell by the case.”   So I say, “Well, I guess I’ll start with this gallon jug and see if I can make it out of the parking lot.”  Then he slays me by saying “$25”.  And that was that.  

So aside from frequenting Auto Zone and trying to parallel park with no power steering fluid, I made a decision to do something I haven’t done in a long time:  I quit.  Just one of my jobs.  Of course the easy one that gives great health insurance, paid holidays and vacations and never goes home with you.  Seems stupid, right?  Don’t be shy.  Countless people have told me how stupid that was, but I had to.  I just did. 

If you know me then you know.  If you don’t, I’ll tell you.  I’ve always been a 3D triangle trying to fit into a round hole. I get pigeonholed a lot for how I look, my quirkiness and my occasionally annoying exuberance. Very often people think they know what I believe, and think I make stupid decisions.  Yeah, I’ve had my share of fuck ups and I’m sure there are more to come, but I guarantee you that my intentions are deep and multi  dimensional and every so often actually planned out.  

So I quit this job.  I started this job because the hours fit around transportation for my children.  The benefits were good, there were nice perks, and it was in an elementary school and I get along pretty well with kids.  I’m one of those people who remembers not just school and childhood, but how I really REALLY felt at that time. I can put my 80s clogged shoes into these kids Yeezys, because it’s hard being a kid in ways grown ups tend to minimize because adulting is hard, and grown ups often tell children, “Enjoy your life   It gets so much harder and more complicated.”  And yeah, kids don't pay taxes and have to take shit from some assmunch at their job,  but there is so much pressure in school and all the social bullshit and expectations, that I bet you remember some stressed out incidents from fifth grade   At 17, people are literally trying to get you to commit to your future, more years than you’ve been alive, and aside from the limited life experience under your belt, your brain literally does not stop growing until you are like 23.

Anyway, the job was often fun, and then it wasn’t. Paperwork, stupid rules, rude people that mistake kindness for weakness and spoiled bratty kids who were allowed to be rude with no consequences.  I got to meet a lot of great kids   I taught manners at every opportunity, but I was essentially powerless to change anything, so I filed papers and did a lot of clerical stuff.   And even that was fun for a while, until it wasn’t   Until one day I figured out that if I stayed any longer I would be more motivated by money than anything else   This many more years to get some small pension and insurance… I would spend the majority of my 50s living my life for reasons that don’t motivate or excite me. I would be giving up me, and personally I want to live until I die   Not just get by.  I can still learn, I can still be fascinated, I can still laugh until I cry at something that hasn’t happened  yet   Not only that, I learned a few things on my journey thus far   And no, I’m not going to be that person who’s been there and done that and thinks they know the answer   But maybe I can ease some of the stress that in many cases can be toned down significantly. And I can keep learning, and feeling accomplished, and being proud of myself.

So I quit.  It was sad.  It was good.  It was time.  I’m onto my next chapter wherever that road may lead, and I’m proud of myself for not giving up and for taking the road less traveled.   

 

 

Now I Am 50

As I turn 50, it’s hard not to look back and reflect upon the life I have lived. As I try to wrap my head around how time seems to have travelled at warp speed, I wonder:  what have I done?  What have I learned that is worth knowing?  What do I have to pass on to my children?  As I journey through this milestone birthday, here are five things I have learned so far:

1.Take parent/child walks after dinner, one on one.  Be both. You get a renewed love and understanding of your parents when you become one. 

2.  Listen. You will be amazed at what you learn.  So will other people. 

3.  Expect everyone you meet to have something to offer, no matter age, race, gender, status.  Sometimes it’s bad. Sometimes it’s exceptional.  It’s worth the gamble. 

4.  Share your knowledge.  Empowering others is so much better than doing it for them. 

5.  Be kind.  Even when you are not feeling it. Even when other people are being jerks. It can be a challenge, but you never know when the simplest act of kindness can change everything. 

Of course I have gained many more insights.  Like,  it’s ok to fight for what you believe in, just understand there may be many battles and you won’t win them all.  Fortunately for me, my kids and I spend hours together in traffic every week, affording me ample time to espouse my knowledge between 80s tunes on the oldies station. 

I don’t know how many birthdays I will have, but hopefully I will be able to keep finding value in the life I live and pass it on.