In the Spirit of Being

“Should we keep our high expectations of life, or lower them to get along a bit easier?” (with Nicole G)

Our lives would be SO much easier if we could let go of any and all preconceived notions around how they were supposed to turn out. Doing this to ourselves is irresistible, however, no matter how ancient and/or unrealistic our desires (been there, done that, bought the t-shirt, and am heading back for more). It is not impossible to find mature women in their 60s and 70s struggling with almost ridiculous “pretty, pretty princess” dreams – born of a trillion romance novels and a handful of trashy thrillers. It’s sad and a little frightening to meet someone whose inner Cinderella was never allowed to become the CEO of her own law firm … she’s still out in the forest in her pink dress and tiara talking to mice and bunnies, waiting for Prince Charming to make a castle happen. Radically, what I am going to advocate here is stepping out of the expectations misery loop as soon as you discover you’re in it. Instead of heading up the first steep hill of the “If I had known it was going to be like this …” rollercoaster, get off of the tracks and focus on what you’re doing to run your personal human race with integrity.  Let’s face it:  when we talk about our expectations in life not being met, we’re typically complaining that the gods are spitting on us from above or that other people are consistently failing us and our scheme for bliss here on Earth.  Rarely, if ever, do we confess that we’ve lacked the courage and creativity to reinvent ourselves in the face of challenges we have or missteps we’ve taken.  Now, we may be 100% justified in feeling we’ve been let down (people can be schmucks and some situations you find yourself in may be horrific) but, again, the responsibility for managing these slings and arrows belongs to us.  In the end, I think we must resist the temptation to judge our lives in broad, sweeping gestures; life comes at us in 40 billion pieces and each has the potential to move our dial from delight to despair.  We need to cultivate the ability to salvage the joys and repair the damages under an umbrella of growing more fully into who we really are. 

At my bridal shower, I asked the women gathered there to give me their very best advice about marriage. One of my mother’s friends said that the art of negotiation is the most important skill to cultivate in a relationship – for the simple fact that one of you is always in the process of releasing a new version of yourselves and not all of those versions will be fantastic. To illustrate her point, she went on to say that she has been married to the same man seven times … and only five of those renditions were a pleasure; the other two had to be very carefully negotiated around – with new boundaries and expectations. No better advice has ever been given to me on this earth, and I think of it whenever I unleash a new me on an unsuspecting world. I do not need to apologize for changes I am making, but I may need to explain them and help my friends and family better understand and come to terms with them.

George Carlin passed away yesterday (Sunday, 6/22) of heart failure. He takes a whole lot of funny with him and I hope The Other Side appreciates their gain as much as we acutely feel our loss.

It was Carlin who taught me that the proper application of the word “fuck” can win friends and influence people - that a shared vulgarity can be as powerful as any other kind of solidarity; that, while you might want to think twice about dropping the F-bomb at mass, you don’t have to live your life brimming with buzzwords, poised to “dumb everything up” for that senior board meeting.

There was something real and really entertaining about him. He made crappy choices and then used his life as material for comedy sketches. You gotta love the guy that gets in his own face. And I did.

Kathy Griffin has the same notorious edge and that’s comforting. I’ll have someone to shock me out of myself from time to time, now that George has moved on. Although I’ll never hear the “Seven Dirty Words” monologue live again, at least Kathy will flip people off at the Emmys and tell the occasional role model to suck it.

Yeah. I’ll be all right. But we’ll miss you, Mr. Carlin. God speed. And don’t fuck up.

Chances are, you don’t love yourself exactly how you are. You join the ranks of millions upon millions of brilliant, funny, adorable people who are in the same boat; you’re in terrific company. While you’re trying to lose that weight, build that muscle, get those implants – whatever you think might fix the issue, not every second between now and perfection has to be filled with despair and self-loathing. Here’s a total no-brainer: wear clothes that fit. It doesn’t matter what size they are (cut the tags out if the numbers bother you), simply make sure they’re not too big or too small. Learn to properly hem cuffs and pants/skirts or find someone (perhaps even a shop) who can. Whether the majority of your closet is storing designer originals or thrift shop finds, clothes that fit look better than clothes that don’t – plain and simple. All kinds of charities are desperate for what you’re not wearing; be generous and give what you can’t use (the more bags, the better).

(Letting go of the life you’re not living)

When I was 6 years old, I would’ve given all of the teeth in my head to be Catwoman. To tell you the truth, I could still go for it and I’m almost 45 now. 45 and, let me tell you, my catsuit days are OVER. Regrettably, some of our dreams fail; they fade or die. Looking back at how your life has changed from what you thought it would be is usually no picnic. Ask yourself two things as you feel yourself slipping into mourning over a life you never lived: 1) Were you perfect in that life?, and 2) Are you absolutely sure that everything is lost? So many of our dreams cannot survive who we really are – our foibles, moods, and short attention spans. We were after a different version of ourselves the whole time. Catwoman could never function as an analyst, because she needs an attitude problem and latex pants. Nothing would get the Real Me fired faster. But am I completely sure that nothing of my dream remains? What about her free-spiritedness? What about her flirtatiousness and her dangerous feminine wiles? There’s a lesson in there about being Catwoman inside – about not letting my Clark Kent day job define the whole of me … about keeping some details about my life private and building a little mystique. Despair robs us of the energy we need to salvage usable pieces of our hopes and dreams and tuck them back into our lives. Don’t give in to it.

When you realize you’ve been addicted to drama (creating it, fixing it, or both), it can be embarrassing. Adding up the years you’ve spent putting energy into dead ends can be an eye-opener. Still, we’re never too old or too stuck or too beyond hope to wrench ourselves out of the drama rut and go on to more positive things. If you have unfinished business, finish it. If you need a good cry, let your guard down in a safe place and have one. Make a list of your earthly regrets and burn it; keeping the past current is like refusing dinner because breakfast was lousy. Stay away from situations, people, and topics that tempt you to lose yourself in gossip or whining. It may be tough letting go of your personal Theater of Chaos, but keep trying; it’s worth it. This bad habit has hid your potential far too long.

I haven’t written in ages and, when I started to feel a little guilty about not writing, there were weeks of thinking that I should stop.  That I was done.  And I probably could be done easily enough if it were not for the thought that, somewhere out in the aether, someone might need to read my words as much as I need to say them.  As preposterous as this sounds, weirder things have happened; I’m a web junkie and I’m constantly amazed at where I end up finding help and comfort … a good laugh, inspiration, or a much-needed kick in the ass.

But I do need to change direction here.

I have written “No Such Thing As An Ugly Dancer” for three years.  In the blogosphere, this is the equivalent of 17 bazillion centuries.   It’s been quite a journey and I’m not sorry I undertook the project.  I just need to let it go - and so, in the summer of 2008, that road comes to an end.  I’ll keep it in the archives for reflection and nostalgia; thanks to everyone who read and commented.

I will keep writing “Letters to Hannah”, even though I am certain she’s already smarter than I am and more emotionally savvy.  Still, if talking about my epic life blunders helps her (or anyone else) avoid making them, I’m good.  I’m almost always willing to look completely ridiculous for a good cause.

I’m currently involved in a writing project with a friend of mine - a type of reflections book where we examine life as we rediscover it and redefine it in our middle age.  Our goal is to keep it real and keep it positive at the same time - to tell it like it is, but leave a little room for hope.  Hope seems to be at a premium these days.  So, I’m thinking we’ll use this space to publish some of these snippets - things like “Am I tired of them or me?  (when you don’t fit your friends anymore)” or “I’m never going to be the right size” or “When I go home, I’m 10 again! (family shit never ends)” or even “Not as happy as I thought I’d be” - and get some feedback.

As well as feedback, I’d like to gather some topics relevant to other people.  If you’d like to see something written on a certain subject, let me know; it might be fun to tackle that together.

I’m going back to posting something every Friday, so that I write with some regularity.  Really, as with so many things in my life right now, I need to commit or quit - and this is easy to commit to.

As always, thanks for reading.  See you soon.

In the photos, we are gorgeous - absolutely, beyond a doubt freaking gorgeous … even me, the photog underdog.

In the mix of being sultry and silly, demure and dangerous, the proofs come back and there are two pictures that rip me to shreds … two of my heart, taken when I did not know I was exposing it.

There is so much love in my face, so much tenderness for them and their lives, so much hope for mine.  There is longing … and peace.  I am in front of the bloody camera and I am supposed to be saying “Isn’t this totally FUN?”, and it IS fun but, in two frames - two effing nanoseconds - I am saying “See how much I love you?  See what kind of a friend I could be?  I would lift you up; I would sing your praises; you could call me at 2am with a hangnail emergency; I could be that person.”

… if our lives weren’t so different … if we weren’t full up dealing with what we have … if …

It is not a desperate moment; it is simply a naked one.  It is like seeing a picture of yourself at a summer picnic or party and you are caught staring at your best friend’s spouse.  Everyone laughs at your stupid expression and you think “How has no one guessed I love them?  How can they miss it; it’s all over my damn face!”

There is friendship  - true friendship for which I’m grateful, but of a more casual, less weighty kind.  It is a fine thing, but not a deep thing - possibly not a lifelong thing.  It’s okay.

And it has to be because, brother, it’s on film.

An assassination; a phone call.  Blood and pain - the fragility of the body.  It is hard to know which way the world is going.

I cannot say that Benazir Bhutto was beyond vanity or cold ambition or even corruption, but I can say that she was very brave … committed to her country, its people, and enlightenment.

Those among us who are “bright lights” keep coming into the world, but can we be sure that they are arriving at the same rate as before - in other ages of mankind?  Are they being destroyed before they can deliver their messages?  Is the darkness taking over?

Peace in death; passionate living.  May we move from this place to a better place - quickly, safely, and together.

About a week ago, I had a dream. In this dream, I was talking to a woman whom I would be (in terms of education and direction) had I remained on a particular path I was walking a while back. Oddly and sadly, it is the path I think I was designed for on this planet - one built around a key reason I am here (in as much as I can punt at knowing my purpose on Earth). I stepped off of that road for perfectly understandable and necessary reasons at the time … but now I am not at that journey’s end … and I am dreaming about it.

I woke up doing math. Gods, I hate dreams where I wake up doing math; the news is never good. This time, I was adding up the years it would take to get back on the wagon and get to the place the woman currently resides (I didn’t make her up, btw; I work with her). When I was done, I came to the horrible and startling realization that I am too old for this dream. If I did all that I needed to do to see it through and my motivation never lagged and I never fell off-course again, I would be 60 years of age at a minimum … and I would be unemployable with zero experience against a horde of individuals with decades ahead of them to invest. One of my dreams has died. It expired some time ago and I never even noticed, so busy was I with the rigors of survival. At the very least, it deserved some flowers and a few kind words. I told you: the math news is never good.

I am not the first person this has happened to, nor will I be the last. But the pain was ghastly … debilitating … brutal.

Now, if this ever happens to you, I want you to promise me that you will not get on the scale and weigh yourself for a year. Thinking “Just snap out of it; you’re doing well”, I stepped up on that platform and saw that my plateau was holding like a fortress … my healthy eating and walking and trying really hard for weeks to make an impact had resulted in exactly bupkiss. I’m standing on that scale with tears streaming down my face thinking “I haven’t liked myself a single minute of my whole life”. I am savvy enough to nip that in the bud, though, because I know it’s not true. I loved my hair and body and the promise of my life when I was 22-24, so I amend the statement to “I haven’t liked myself a single minute in twenty years” which doesn’t have the desired effect of making anything better. I just cry and don’t bother to edit further.

Today, growing older sucks. And making ends meet sucks. And not seeing the end in sight sucks. And being brave sucks. And not knowing what to do sucks. And suspecting you were supposed to have a different kind of life sucks. And saying goodbye to hopes and dreams and even delusions of grandeur sucks. And not losing weight sucks. And menopause sucks, because I want to blame everything entirely on that, but I’m too young.

Over the upcoming holidays, I hope to sleep a lot and eat well and recapture some of my natural optimism. I feel like I need to move to a simpler place in my mind and my surroundings - not getting organized, exactly … more like getting real.

The larger drama may have passed already. Now I am dreaming about old boyfriends who want to meet me for lunch, but can’t successfully navigate streets, buses, trains, etc., so I eat and take their calls on my cell and laugh and laugh.

I’m okay as long as there’s no math.