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Playing Nice

As you methodically tied the bunny ears of your shoe laces, you heard your kindergarten teacher say, “Play nice, children.”  You raced out to the playground to grab a ball,  getting there before everyone else, and heard the playground aid yell, “Play nice!”  You dropped the ball and backed away to let the others have the first crack at Four Square.  You stood by hoping they would play nice and invite you.  Sometimes they did.  Most times they “forgot” to play nice.

You’d been hearing the words, “Play nice!” since your sibling arrived.  You learned quickly about sharing and taking turns.  That’s also when you learned that everything wasn’t about you.

Those are hard lessons to learn, and when you’d complain that you hadn’t had your turn in awhile, you were reminded to play nice.

Daughters come with a handbook.  If you’re lucky, your folks pitched the book and gave it their best shot.   Sons come with handbooks, too, but the first page of their book does not start with, “Must always play nice.”

 

Throughout your schooling years, playing nice became a habit – your default setting.  When the teacher asked for someone to go up to the board to diagram a sentence, you played nice and stayed in your seat.   When the art instructor announced that 8 lucky students could have their work displayed at the public library, you didn’t submit yours, because you were playing nice.

Somewhere toward the end of high school, playing nice turned into not standing up for yourself.  The habit of playing nice became more and more self-defeating.

You took the shittier shifts at work, including the extra shifts made available by co-workers’ hangovers or missed alarm clocks.  You finished the group project in the marketing class, to save your grade.  They were out chugging beers while you were saving their grades, too.

Never mind all the crap you put up with from guys, because you were busy playing nice.

 

Years later, you have made playing nice your super power.

You are the first one called when they need a warm body for the PTA’s Circus Night, down at the school.  You always host the annual neighborhood yard sale.  You never fail to bring two dishes to the holiday pot luck, and you always stay late to clean up.  You shuttle all the other kids to soccer, but wouldn’t dare ask someone to give your kid a ride.  You just hope they’ll remember to play nice and offer.

You handle rude comments as if Miss Manners had tattooed the inside of your arm with the code for “How to Respond When Others Forget to Play Nice.”

You put up with more than your fair share in your marriage because playing nice has become your second skin.

 

Now where are you?

 

You have casserole dishes for pot lucks, enough for all the churches in the Midwest.  You have memories of the customers’ faces who picked up sandwiches on their way to the football game you skipped so you could work an extra shift.  You have too many miles on your old beater from shuttling other people’s kids.

You wonder if anyone would like you if you stopped playing nice.

You don’t know how to NOT play nice.

 

Your spirit has been snuffed.

You are bone-deep tired.

You are sick of the comments, the excuses, the fakes and the users.

You couldn’t play nice if it meant saving your soul.

You couldn’t play nice if they paid you.

Where has playing nice ever gotten you?

 

 

Don’t you dare tell your daughter to play nice.

 

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The Prom

She was staring at the camera, lips pouting, hand on her hip, showing enough cleavage to make me certain that her dad did not approve of her dress.

Her lipstick was darker in the next photo.  She had to have wrenched her neck when throwing her head back the way she did.  Her hair was so lacquered, it couldn’t have moved if it wanted to.

She’s not engaged with her date in any of the pics.  He looks like a prop for her display.  Does he want to be there?  Does he know he’s a tool?  Will they even text each other after tonight?

One comment said the dress was $500.  Another comment talked about where to get the best spray-on tan in town.  Others talked about where to find the time to do eyebrows, nails, hair and tanning, all in time for the big night.

 

It’s prom night on Facebook.

 

As I scroll through the photos, I can feel my blood beginning to boil.  I sense a serious case of judging coming on.

Under her breath, Jen says, “Who wants to spend that kind of money to awkwardly dance for 45 minutes in a gym that smells like feet?”

Of course, that’s coming from an introverted homeschool kid.  Prom isn’t even on her radar.

Hasn’t prom outlived it’s usefulness by now?  Was prom ever useful?

 

(My feminist side types faster and gets snarkier.)

 

My mind races with a million objections.  What about the kids who can’t afford the prom?  What about the kids who can afford it and never get asked?  What about this whole #metoo thing and not wanting to be treated like objects?  Isn’t this just the kind of thing that puts a bigger divide between the haves and the have nots?

I feel the need to yell.

 

Then …

I scroll further and see a set of photos that make me grin.

The gal and the guy are hamming it up for the camera – together.  They take turns being the center.  They engage with each other.  They are laughing and teasing and comfortable with each other.  They both want to be there.  I know that they will text each other long after this silly night – a night that was a tradition for their folks, and will be a tradition for their kids, too.

 

The dust I kicked up about the prom (really, Jesse?) begins to settle.

 

I start to see that my issues with the prom have less to do with young women dressing inappropriately, and more to do with distraction and forgetting which battles need picking.

 

The prom is a metaphor for life, with much nicer clothes.

There are the ones who make it all about them.  There will always be the excesses.  There will be the ones who are happy not participating, and thriving in the shadows.  There will be the ones who have fun, enjoy each other, and don’t take it too seriously.  And there will always be those who try to make a mountain out of a molehill.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Sultans of Swing

We were driving up the mountain road, heading to the ski hill.  The mounds of snow on either side were as tall as I’d seen them in awhile.  I reached over to turn on the radio and heard Stealers Wheel singing, “Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right …”  How can anyone hear that song and not immediately picture the clowns and jokers that populate their own life?

I’m grateful my kids will listen to the Oldies station with me, and even more grateful that they’ll still ski with me.

As we climbed the mountain, the snow got deeper and the temp got colder.  Dire Straits came on next.  The “Sultans of Swing” brought me back to binge-watching MTV in the early 80s.  (Let it be known that some of us binge-watched long before Netflix.)  In between classes, or during skipped classes, I’d be “studying” and watching and listening.

In this flashback, I was going through some Psych notes, still in my pajamas, sipping from a huge mug of strong coffee.  In those days I wore men’s boxers and baggy t-shirts.  That was long before this phase of always being cold.  I remember her long hair, long arms and legs, and that endless cup of coffee.  Some things never change – the coffee is a constant.

 

A friend believes that our lives are concurrent – no past or future.  All we experience happens in the same time continuum.  If that reality exists, then my 20-year old self and my 55-year old self are journeying at the same time.

 

If she was along for the ride today, skiing with Will and Jen and 55-me, what would we talk about?

 

20-me is surprised I’m still listening to the music from the 80s, and she’s slightly disgusted that it gets the “Oldies” label.   55-me tells her it’s hard to give up on the really good stuff from that time.  She reminds me to keep my mind open to the new good stuff, too.

I acknowledge her trepidation about the future – finishing school, the what-ifs of relationships, the decisions about career and work.  I remind her that the apprehension and nervousness is all part of the process.  “I don’t have it so bad.  Re-invention is possible, all along the way.  Don’t be afraid to try something.  Don’t be afraid to change your mind.”  I down-shift as we approach a small town of snow-covered cabins, some decorated with old wooden skis.  “The same advice applies to relationships.  Don’t be afraid to change your mind.  There will be clowns and jokers.  Be mindful of who you get stuck in the middle with.”

20-me laughs and says, “It’s good you are skiing today.  I’m glad you still see the value in having fun.”  I turn down the music so I can hear her better.  55-me laughs and says, “My hearing isn’t what it used to be.  Too often I forget to include fun in the mix.  About the time I can’t stand to be in the same room with myself, I realize I’ve let fun go by the wayside.”

20-me reminds me to turn on some music when I get to that point.  “That’s a quick way to shift the mood.  Your Pandora is awesome for that!”  55 says, “I know!  Right?”

20 points at Jen and Will, “They have our long legs, should you be thinking about getting a bigger car?”  55-me says, “I thought about it, but Will has his truck now, and I like not having a car payment.  Besides, this car will be great for Jen when she wants to start driving.  Maybe I’ll get something then.”  20 nods her head, “So, we pretty much live on this college budget forever, then, right?”  55 says, “It could be worse.  This way we can afford to ski.”

55 says, “Quit worrying so much about your choices.”  20 says, “I could say the same to you.”  55 says, “Damn, I was hoping to make more progress on that front.”  20 says, “I guess that’s why we still like the skiing so much.  It clears the mind and helps us recalibrate.”  55 laughs, “Which gets us back to the value in fun.”

55 says, “And the taking things so seriously.  That’s a waste of time, too.”  20 says, “So then it’s okay to while away the hours watching MTV and pretending to study?”  55 says, “You’ll miss those days.”

20 says, “Yeah, but look who we get to journey with,” and she looks at Jen and Will.  “At least we get to be stuck in the middle with these two.”

 

I’ve been mulling over this post for a week, waiting to have the time to sit down and write.  I made a coffee, set up the laptop, sat down to write and checked my phone.  I’d received two messages that included song references.  One was a text with “Here Comes the Sun” by *duh* The Beatles.  The other was an email introducing me to “Third Day In A Row” by The Stray Birds. 

I’m not making this up.

Serendipity.

 

 

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Where is Your Focus?

“How are you, Hank?”

“I’m doing well.”  He closed his notebook.  “Getting caught up on paperwork.  This weather is crazy, right?  Either we’re blasted because everyone has cabin fever, or we’re dead because no one wants to get out in the cold.”  He patted the stool next to his, “What’s new with you?”

“Don’t let me interrupt your bookkeeping.”  Jesse draped her jacket over a stool.  “I’m just getting out of the house to get a break from climbing the walls.  Kids are good.  Things have been a bit bumpy lately, but after a minor course correction,  I think we are headed in the right direction, again… for now.”  She shook her head.  “Parenting isn’t for sissies, Hank.”

He smiled and said, “Not even for the parents who have awesome kids like yours.”

“I’ll take that.  Thanks.”

 

Hank pointed to a 20-something sitting alone in the far corner.  His pint was half empty, and had long since gone flat.  His focus was on his phone.  “He’s an up and coming App Designer.  That kid is making a name for himself.  He sleeps and eats the stuff.  I wish I had that kind of focus.”

He looked up at the TV screen mounted in the corner above the bar to see an update on the most recent school shooting.

Hank nodded in the direction of two women sitting at a nearby table.  They were going over paint chips, fabric swatches and catalogs.  “Those two recently joined forces to open up a staging/interior design firm.  There aren’t enough hours in the day to meet the needs of their clients but, somehow, they’re getting it done.”

Jesse took a drink of her beer, and glanced at the TV in time to see the local news channel announce a new Amber Alert.

She looked at Hank and said, “I admire folks who know what it is that they love to do, and then apply all their energy to that thing.  It’s inspiring!”  She pointed to the opposite corner.  “What can you tell me about that fellow?”

“I don’t know much about him.  Keeps to himself.  He usually brings in some kind of geology books to study while he’s having a beer or two.  Mining engineer, maybe?  I don’t know, but he studies that stuff all the time.”

The newscaster casually mentioned opioid epidemic, sexual harassment, and AR-15, with less emphasis than he used when discussing the current weather forecast.

 

Hank shook his head and got up to walk around to the business side of the bar.  “You know, Jesse, working here gives me an opportunity to observe people.  I see where they apply their time, energy and focus.  The damn TV is always on, too, for those that like to keep up on what’s going on in the rest of the world.”

He grabbed a bar rag and started polishing the bar.  Jesse had long ago* noticed that he usually polished the bar when he was about to start explaining some insight about the human condition.  He said, “A few years back I had what you might call an epiphany.  I noticed that the more folks focused on outside stuff, the more the news got worse.  We love our distractions.  We are distracted by our phones, our jobs, our cars, our hair and nail color, our relationship status, our bank accounts, and the lack of or spectacular existence of our abs.”

He folded the rag, placed it on the bar and forcefully flattened the rag with his palm.  “Where do you think this world would be if folks applied the same kind of focus to parenting and family?”

 

*Hank, the bartender, makes several appearances on my other blog.

 

 

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When 2018 Looks Like 1953

There’s a guy I work with who asks a lot of questions – some are work related, some are of a personal nature.  He has told me that he feels comfortable around me so he asks for parenting and relationship advice, as well as suggestions on how to properly fill out documents.  He also shares too much about his wife and kids

It can get exhausting.

He’s a nice enough fellow.  You know the type – earnest, polite, inquisitive, lacking in self-confidence and completely unaware of personal space, but basically harmless.

We share a large, open office area.  I know when he’s about to ask me something personal because I’ll hear him wheeling his chair across the expanse of industrial grey carpet between us, and park at the side of my desk.   This particular day I heard the squeaking wheels and turned around in time to see him plant his can of Mountain Dew on my desk, next to the forms I was attempting to complete.  He was rubbing some sort of ointment on his shoulder as he told me of his injury.  He then placed the tube of smelly, greasy ointment on my stack of forms.

Some people are tragically unaware.

He says, “Jesse, I’ve a question for you.”  I extracted my forms from under his shoulder potion and said, “What’s up?”

He took a loud swig from his can of pop and said, “You know how you mentioned that you are a single mom and that’s why you’re only in the office in the mornings?”

“Mm hm,” as I tried to keep working.

“Well, it’s like this,” he stammered and continued.  “I notice that you wear rings on that finger,” he said while pointing to the ring finger on my left hand.  “So, are you single or what?”

 

At first, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.  I glanced at the motivational calendar showing a picture of a hot air balloon, and checked the date.

Yep, 2018.

Then I looked up at him to see if his expression would tell me that he was kidding.  I stifled a laugh when I saw the serious look on his face.

I composed myself, smiled and talked to him like a third grade teacher might address the boy in class, who can’t get his point across without hitting.  That teacher is frustrated and has to keep from yelling.  She looks the kid straight in the eye and calmly explains why he needs to keep his hands to himself.

Like that teacher, I wanted to yell.  “Are you kidding me!?  This is 2018!  Get your ointment and your sticky pop out of my space!  Wake up and look around you!”

Instead I took a breath and said, “Dan, I have some rings I like to wear, and they fit this finger.  I think of these rings as a promise I made to myself to stay single.”

He looked from my finger to my face and said, “Oh …”  He picked up his can of Dew and started to wheel back to his desk.

“Hey, Dan,” I tossed his tube of ointment to him, “you forgot something.”

 

 

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The Yam Incident or Inside an INFJ Brain

Sometime during the holidays I’d returned from my eighth trip to the grocery store.  I put water on to boil, and unpacked the groceries.

I needed coffee.

As I put away the pasta, bottled marinara (don’t judge) and the sugary cereal, I discovered a bag of …

I wasn’t sure, but I thought they were yams or sweet potatoes or something in that category.

My initial reaction – based on years of tightly pinching** pennies – was, “Gasp, I hope I didn’t get charged for those root vegies!”  I grabbed the receipt and verified that there wasn’t a charge, which was a bit unfortunate because, had there been a charge, I’d have been able to more accurately identify the tubers.

Next thought was, “How did those get in my cart?  What kind of sicko wanders the produce section looking for unsuspecting victims and then launches a tuber attack?”

I made sure the kids knew I was incensed.  I wondered aloud.  A lot.  “What am I supposed to do with these?  Do I take them back?  Like I don’t have enough to do?!  I still have to finish the baking!  This isn’t fair!”

I looked over at the kids to see if they were as worked up as I was.  They’d moved to the other room by then.

 

I sat down with coffee and iPad to search – “yam vs sweet potato.”  What do I even do with these things?  I’m not gonna go to a whole lot of fuss if my kids aren’t gonna eat them.

The voice in my head said, “Throw them away!  You don’t have time for this.”  But that prompted the other voice to say, “You can’t waste perfectly good root vegies.  They might be chock-full of vitamins and minerals!”

I got lost down the rabbit hole of tubers; recipes; holiday prep; best holiday cocktail and How to Simplify Christmas.

 

Undecided, I put the three in a bowl.  It occurred to me that perhaps they belonged to the folks that had been ahead of me in the check out line.

The voices in my head had a hay day with this new line of thinking.  “Oh no!  They got home without their tubers!  Now they can’t make grandma’s favorite recipe.  Christmas will be ruined!”

I even considered how I might track them down and get their vegies back to them, you know, in the spirit of Christmas.

 

The tubers sat in the bowl, untouched, until after the holiday, all the way into the New Year.  I’d occasionally glance at them and consider Googling more recipes, but walk away in disgust.  Incidentally, yams have an exceedingly long shelf life, making it virtually impossible for them to grow moldy so that I could throw them away without guilt.

One day, I found myself without kids.

I was alone.

In the kitchen.

With the yams.

Inspiration struck in the form of Sweet Potato Soup.  Even if I was the only one who liked it, I deserved it, dammit.  Besides, the pictures on the internet made it look so tasty.  Thanks to the multiple trips to the store, driven by the mania of the holidays, all the ingredients were found in the pantry.

This would be fun!

As I gathered the ingredients and found the seldom-used potato peeler, I thought back on the couple from the grocery store.  I wondered how they were doing.  How was their holiday?  Did they ever end up making grandma’s recipe?

With sweet potato in hand, I dragged the peeler across the rough skin to discover that this vegie – one of three that had been waiting in a bowl in my kitchen for going on four weeks – was not the kind needed to make Sweet Potato Soup.

I gathered up the other two roots, ceremoniously walked them out to the dumpster, and came in to put some water on to boil.

 

* I’d considered buying three more so that I might include a photo with this post, but I’m not going there.

**You may be thinking that I don’t really pinch pennies if I buy bottled sauce and sugared cereal.  The fact that I thought about what you might be thinking, about my lack of pinching pennies, is another example of the varied thoughts running through my over-active INFJ brain.   

 

*sigh*

 

 

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Out With the Old on the New Moon

This morning I wrote “Cleanse – ask me” on Jen’s list for today.

(Public school would do well to teach kids how to cleanse.  I feel a rant coming on.)

I’m not talking about pore strips or burning sage, although I do like both.  I’m talking about cleansing or purging stuff to clear up energy.

I read just enough in astrology to be both intrigued and confused about what happens when planets are retrograding or going direct or lining up or whatever it is that they do that explains the weird energies flowing through our little house.  It turns out that tonight is a dark (new) moon and the perfect time to purge/cleanse/get rid of whatever needs to be gone.

The gurus say we can purge in whatever fashion we choose – bedrooms, kitchen drawers, garage shelves, digital media, books, photos, letters and *gasp* relationships.

If you know us, you also know we tend to move a lot.  With each move I purge.  It’s a great way to leave behind any energy that we don’t want to take with us.  (I do not recommend moving as a way to get rid of bad energy, but sometimes it is necessary.)  We purged a lot in the last move, but there’s still a lingering trace of something that does not feel right.  I can’t define it.  It isn’t a note with a certain handwriting, or a gift that should have gone to Goodwill.

At this point in the day, it isn’t practical to start a full-scale purge.  For the record, I’m not ready to give up my cookbooks even though I rarely open them and tend to grab the iPad to find a favorite recipe.

For tonight’s new moon, my purge will look like this:

pitch the yogurt with the October 2017 date;

clean the cat box – thanks, Jen;

sweep the floors and spritz some cypress oil throughout;

put the donation stuff in the back of the car;

clean out my work inbox;

purge my default setting of focusing on what could/might go wrong;

and put some of the thoughts swirling in my brain into this post.

If you’re wondering, Jen doesn’t need to purge anything.  She is my inspiration for cleaning and purging.  Her bedroom looks like a minimalist board from Pinterest.  It’s serene, inviting, cozy and hip – all the things I aspire to be, but won’t be, because apparently I need to have my kids’ artwork and mementos covering every square inch of this house.  I put it on her school list because she’s fun to do things with.

I know what they say about clutter and feng shui and energy, but for me, the bigger issue has to do with my default setting – my inner curmudgeon.  For all the times I shout about our charmed lives, my inner cranky girl needs to remind me that things could still get messed up or go wrong.

Tonight I’m purging her voice, and I’m keeping the cookbooks, and the drawings from when my kids were three.

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Letting Go and Hanging On

Did I tell you my back quit hurting?  (Not to make it all about me.  ; )

I talked about chronic back pain on the other blog, where I also wrote about listening to the body when it screams at us (pain!) in an effort to get our attention.

I distinctly remember when the pain started – three months into the last relationship.  (Hello, RED flag!)  The pain ebbed/flowed/annoyed me through that relationship, the breakup, living at mom’s (sorry, mom, but you know what I mean), and through starting a new job at an office that was not a good fit.

I knew the back pain was about stress.  I thought I could push through with yoga, valerian root, whiskey and walking.  Sometimes those things helped, but the pain was still there, waiting to get my attention when I refused to see the stress for what it was.

I started at a new office the beginning of December.  Two weeks ago, I noticed my back had quit hurting.  I didn’t say anything to the kids because I didn’t want to jinx it.  I kept doing the yoga.  The holidays gave me an excuse to drink whiskey.  (In case you’re wondering, I have never combined whiskey and valerian root, though I’ve been tempted.)

Recently, I lifted a heavy object, as a test.  I anticipated a stab.  I thought for sure my back would scream at me.  And, nothing.  No spasm.  No twinge.  Nothing.  I was able to put away the artificial tree without so much as a wince, except I did feel a little guilty about putting Christmas away so early.

I figured I was safe in telling the kids that my back pain was gone.  I did, and didn’t jinx anything.

 

All of this makes me think about resolutions and, conveniently, it’s the time of year when we might take stock in where we are and if we are happy – or at least not miserable – with where we are.

In 55 years, my success rate is abysmal when it comes to resolutions, partly because I rarely make any.

I’m not perfect.  I haven’t got it all figured out.  But I do a fine job of making myself feel bad without adding failed New Years’ resolutions to the mix.

I prefer to look back over the year and decide which things I will let go of and which things I will hang on to.

 

I will hang on to noticing when something does not feel right.  Whether it’s a conditioner or a brand of coffee, a book that seems too violent in the first 40 pages, an acquaintance that drains more than enriches, or a crappy pair of jeans that I never feel good wearing – I will let go of what isn’t good.

It’s in the noticing that something doesn’t feel right, that I learn to let go.

I will hang on to paying attention to my intuition, and let go of the stuff that does not feel good.

 

For Will:  I plan on letting go of worrying.  The worrying feels bad.  I’m tired of communicating those worries to the Universe, and to Will.  I know he is tired of hearing about it, too. (This one will be difficult, and all you seasoned parents are laughing at me because you’ve told me that, as parents, we are never done worrying.)  But, I will stop voicing my worries to him, and I will hang on to letting him know how much I care.

 

For Jen:  I will most definitely hang on to this connection we have, but I will let go when she strives for more independence.  Is that even possible?  I guess we’ll find out.

 

For me:  I will hang on to trusting myself.  I will trust myself to say, “No, thank you,” when something doesn’t feel right.  I will trust myself to let go of those things that do not make me wholeheartedly say, “YES!”

Oh, and I will let go of guilt (stop laughing!) and hang on to letting it be about me, once in awhile.

 

It’s going to be a good year!

 

Happy New Year!

 

 

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Commitment Issues

I’ve got a 25% More! bottle of conditioner in the shower.  I am tired of the smell of that conditioner.  I’m ready to move on.  I want a new scent.

That doesn’t mean I have commitment issues, does it?

I’m not being silly, here.  I mean it.

Can commitment issues be detected back in junior high when I couldn’t decide between Flex or Prell, or Levi 501s or flares?

Wouldn’t it make sense that if you hesitate to commit to a deodorant, then you probably won’t commit to a relationship, either?

 

(I’ll have you know that I am a frugal person.  I’ll continue to use up that annoying bottle of conditioner, even if I use too much each time, and it makes my bangs greasy.  Maybe I could bribe Jen to finish it, or use it for shaving my legs.)

 

I’ve noticed that usually men are said to have commitment issues.  Why do women want to commit more readily than men?  (When I first typed that sentence, I wrote, ‘Why do women want to be committed more …’  Freudian?)  After all, don’t we do most of the work of relating in a relationship?  It occurs to me that if I am commitment-phobic, it’s probably because I’m tired of doing all the relating.

 

In my defense, I have a cutting board that I’ve owned since 1987.  I’ve lived with that cutting board longer than anyone I’ve had a relationship with, including my parents – even if I count the times I moved back in with my mom.

That makes me laugh.

Should that make me sad?

That cutting board has survived many moves.  It is the perfect kitchen tool – the right shape, reliable, dependable, and the right size.  If only I could find a ….

 

I once received a gift of a glass cutting board.  (Ironically, it may have been a wedding gift.)  I hated that thing.  No one can convince me that cutting boards should be made of glass.  I’d swear the chef’s knife would wince each time I’d attempt to slice an onion on it.  I’d rather drag my nails across a chalk board than cut on glass.

That “board” was a well-intentioned gift.  Should I have stayed committed to it?  I think, NOT!

 

For that matter, why must I defend myself for being hesitant to commit?  Why do we applaud the capacity to commit without evaluating what it is that one commits to? Whether it’s an office or a cutting board or conditioner or a relationship, if it isn’t a good fit, isn’t it best to forgo commitment and make a change?

Would a sense of frugality dictate that one ought to stay because of the investment already made?  That’s a sunk cost!  Move on, already.  (Except for conditioners which, one could argue, aren’t really necessary, anyway.  Besides, one is no better than another, but most of us seem to think we need conditioner.)

 

How about we commit to life?  I say we commit to experience.  Commit to change and process and the journey.  (Even if the word journey is used too often.)   So what!  I commit to getting as much out of this journey as possible.

I commit to me!

And apparently this annoying bottle of conditioner.  And flares and 501s, and my beautiful cutting board, but not deodorant.  You can’t make me.

 

 

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“I’ve Missed Talking to You”

Normally, she’d have gone through the self-check line, but they were busy.  Her four items made their way down the conveyor belt in time for the clerk to say, “That’s all for you?  Looks like Italian tonight?  I’ve the best recipe for lasagna, of course it calls for spinach and my family would shoot me if I dared put anything green in a meal.  Do you know what I mean?  Like they think I’m trying to kill ’em or something.  Little do they know, spinach is one of the best things for ’em.  Do you like spinach?”

She smiled as she inserted her credit card in the chip reader.  She started to give an answer about spinach, but the clerk went on.  Luckily the boy bagging her groceries had already finished.  She said thanks, without having to jump into the spinach-in-lasagna debate.

 

She had two more files to close and then she’d be done for the day.  She opened a file just as a co-worker approached.  She wondered about keeping her head down and not making eye contact so as to avoid conversation.  If she acknowledged her co-worker, she’d be enveloped in drama and details from the previous weekend that had nothing to do with her.  But even keeping her head down wouldn’t protect her.  “Wow.  You must have a lot going on.  What’s that file about?”  What could have taken 20 minutes turned into 40.

 

Between the teller at the bank and the clerk at the post office, she learned about the lives of people that she would never meet.

She knew secrets about people who didn’t know her name.

She knows things about folks that they only learn during the process of talking to her.  She’s heard people say, “I guess I needed to tell someone that.”  “It feels good to unload.”  “I haven’t thought of that in years, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

If she had a dollar for every time someone said, “I’ve never told anyone that before,” she could afford to move to a deserted island.

 

A long time ago she realized that she was some sort of conduit for processing other people’s stuff.   It was not her job to fix anything.

She just listened.  She listened and let it pass through her.

Sometimes they felt a little better having been heard.  Often times, they felt embarrassed for having divulged so much that ought to be personal.  They’d laugh at themselves and apologize, and do the same thing the next time she saw them.

It was as if they couldn’t help themselves.

 

One evening found her at a social engagement that she hadn’t wanted to attend.  She’d tried coming up with an excuse.  She wanted to stay home, but The Voice said, “Come on.  You never go out.  It’ll be good for you.”

She went.  He talked.  A lot.  At the end of the night he said, “I’ve missed talking to you.”

She smiled.

What could she say?  “Thank you?”  “I missed listening to you?”  “I’m glad you like to talk to me?”

He drove away as she turned the key in her door.

She put her purse on the table and saw the cat waiting for her in their favorite chair – the one where they sat together in silence.