At the gym, I am the middle-aged woman wearing the frumpy maternity clothes that (thank goodness) don't fit me anymore.
I have some real workout clothes, but those don't fit me anymore, either. (Different reason.)
But I do stay within my own space.
I will never put my foot up practically on your machine in order to stretch, or show you my gym shoes, or whatever it is that those people who do that are doing.
I will never snort out into the air every 26 seconds whatever bits of moisture have accumulated in my left nostril. (I was impressed with her--she was running 8 miles per hour. But I was glad I was on the machine to her right.)
I do not unpack a suitcase and two carry-ons onto one of the too-few treadmills at peak time and then go off to do who knows what for a half hour. By the way, I am glad we are finally done with the first couple of weeks in January when the parking lot and machines are filled by 5:00 a.m. with pretenders.
I will not assault your eyes by wearing a muscle shirt that would only fit me if I were eight feet tall. And I will not wear the same green muscle shirt that there can only be one of in the whole world every day in a row.
I will not lift weights too heavy for me, causing me to grunt, scream, or yelp, then throw the weights onto the ground. I do not want attention this much. In fact, at the gym, I don't want any attention at all. I cannot tell you how tempted I am to give the guys who do this some of the attention they crave. Only, my version would be to say, "You know, they make those weights adjustable so that you can lift only what you can handle."
I will not wear so little that I reveal ugly tattoos. Mostly because I don't have any. My flesh is failing to be beautiful fast enough on its own, thank you.
And I will not talk your ear off, whether or not you have an iPod.
I will not sing.
I am far too busy doing fractions in my head, figuring percentages, calculating how many calories I will be burning that day, and/or noticing each one of my children's birthdates and birth times go by on the clock. I may be weird in my own special way, but I will not bother you.
I will also not throw open the shower curtain on you when it is already closed. Somebody actually did that to me one time, and then I had to spend ten minutes apologizing to her, because, while asking her what she was doing, I said a bad word. Not a really bad word, just a mildly bad word, but still one I never say. Outside my head. Unless I'm discussing the afterlife.
The worst moment I had at the gym, though, I brought on myself.
At my gym, the showers are in the innermost recesses of a labyrinth, about a mile from the front (and only) door. One day, I must have been feeling pretty invincible after completing my 900 calories in record time or something, because after peeling off my sopping wet shirt, sports bra, socks, and pants, I grabbed my razor by the blades.
Far from invincible, I was spurting blood from the twin blade cuts on my fingers.
The bleeding was bad. Really bad. I held my fingers tightly with my other hand, hoping and praying that the bleeding would slow down and stop so I could shower and dress. There was to be no solution ahead of that, because I was a) completely naked and b) stinking like an aviary, and I could not just walk back out to the front desk to ask for a Band-Aid.
No, I had not brought my own Band-Aids. Good idea, though.
Which brings me to my list of the worst things to be without at the gym, assuming you came dressed for the gym and have to be dressed for work when leaving, like me. Just over a year ago, the gym around the corner from my house closed down. This was the first direct effect of the faltering economy on my life. My husband and I had had our own private economic crisis a couple of years before. We're such trend-setters.
So, I started going to a gym halfway between home and work, requiring me to pack up enough to get ready for work afterward. From personal experience, these are the fourteen worst things to forget to take to the gym:
14. Scrubbie. Not really a problem--just use your hands.
13. Razor. Just skip a day.
12. Band-Aid. See above.
11. Soap or shampoo. You can use the soap at the gym. When they have it. If you want to smell like a man, that is. If they don't supply any soap and you didn't bring any either, this moves to, oh, I'd say, number one.
10. Socks. No problem. Stop at Smith's on the way to work and buy some more. I bought a three-pack and stashed two of the pairs at work, so I'm all set now for the next two times.
9. Makeup. This would depend on how addicted you are to wearing it and how bad your complexion is that day. It might be a go-home-and-get-it thing.
8. Mousse and/or gel. I have never forgotten mousse or gel. Interesting, that.
7. Comb or brush. Not having a comb makes for a creative hairstyle, or part, at least. I can use my round brush for combing, but not for parting. If I forget my round brush, I can sort of use my comb to style my hair while drying it. Actually, not so much.
6. Blow dryer. My daughter and I used to share a blow dryer during the week, and there were times when she forgot to put it back in my gym bag after using it on a week night. When it broke down (probably from the stress), my husband and I both accidentally bought a new one, so now I have my own, and it stays in my gym bag. But when I did find myself without one, I turned up the nozzle on the hand dryer and dried my hair that way. It gave it kind of a funny Pippy Longstocking type of curl, but it got my hair dry.
5. Bra. No problem--except that you have to go home and get it and be late. No question there. Except for the day that, with the outfit I had on, I honestly couldn't tell as I scrutinized myself in the mirror while drying my hair. And I knew no client would see me that day. I would be holed up in my office by myself, anyway. Don't think too much about what I just said.
4. Shoes. You have to go back home for these. Unless you brought boots or some other substitute. Which I never have.
3. Shirt. I used my jacket to get out of the gym with. Then I wore my work sweater, zipped up, during the day. Fortunately, it looked okay with the skirt I had on. How did I forget my shirt? I had grabbed the shorts that go with that shirt instead of the shirt itself. So, I had shorts and a skirt, but no shirt. I considered wearing the shorts on my top part, but that consideration was short-lived.
2. Underwear is a go-home-and-get-it-and-be-late thing. Although someone at the gym told me she made her husband bring it to her at the gym. My husband and I don't have that kind of time.
1. Based on my experience, the number one worst thing to not have at the gym is: a towel. At my gym, there are no paper towels, so you can't even improvise. There's only one of those hand blower things, and it's down the hall and around the corner--approximately a block--from the showers. So there's no way I'm going to run down there and try to dry off in front of that. Maybe if I didn't have a seven-baby belly, I wouldn't be so modest, but, nah. Standing in the shower dripping wet, you have to do some really creative thinking when you find you have no towel if you ever want to get from there to dressed and walking past the dozens of people between you and the door. Twice, I used my coat because my workout clothes were soaked with sweat. Last time, I had only walked, so my pants were not soaked. I used them. But, believe me, toweling off with workout clothing is far from satisfactory, and I don't recommend it.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
I Hear a Song Coming On. . .
At my suggestion, my son gave us a set of new cordless phones for Christmas. Half of the number segments on our old phone's LCD screen had burned out, so you couldn't tell who was calling on the caller ID, and you certainly couldn't get people's numbers and call them back. Our area code looked like 571, which would be Virginia, where we know no one, so we couldn't even tell if it was a local number. There were a lot of static and interference on the old phone, too. I could somehow hear my toddler in his high chair echoing through the phone better than I could hear the caller.
I like the new phones. Really. Even though the sexy disembodied voice that came with the phone set to announce who is calling doesn't know how to pronounce anyone's name, and her guesses are not even close. The replacement was very much needed.
The thing i didn't know at first is that the new phones don't ring. They play a song. It's not a tune I recognize, so I can't sing along.
This seems to be the new way of the world. No longer do we have buzzers, bells, and beeps, we hear songs. My cell phone plays a song when it rings. My new home phone plays a song when it rings. Even my new dryer plays a song.
The problem is keeping all these songs straight. I don't know words to any of the tunes, or that might help.
The beeps, rings, and buzzes of yesteryear, I would recognize immediately. When you're simply minding your own business and a song starts playing in your vicinity, it can be slightly disorienting.
Imagine. Last night while I was in bed, my dryer was running and I was expecting a call on my home phone, when my cell phone started ringing.
I sat up, stupidly thinking, "I hear music." I jumped out of bed, trying through my sleepiness to analyze the tune I was hearing. It didn't sound like my dryer. It was a minute before I a) realized through the process of elimination that it must be my cell phone, and b) found my cell phone.
I suppose I should try to get used to the idea that inanimate objects all around me will randomly start singing at me. And pray that there's never a time in my future life when every gadget I own is programmed to play the same tune.
I like the new phones. Really. Even though the sexy disembodied voice that came with the phone set to announce who is calling doesn't know how to pronounce anyone's name, and her guesses are not even close. The replacement was very much needed.
The thing i didn't know at first is that the new phones don't ring. They play a song. It's not a tune I recognize, so I can't sing along.
This seems to be the new way of the world. No longer do we have buzzers, bells, and beeps, we hear songs. My cell phone plays a song when it rings. My new home phone plays a song when it rings. Even my new dryer plays a song.
The problem is keeping all these songs straight. I don't know words to any of the tunes, or that might help.
The beeps, rings, and buzzes of yesteryear, I would recognize immediately. When you're simply minding your own business and a song starts playing in your vicinity, it can be slightly disorienting.
Imagine. Last night while I was in bed, my dryer was running and I was expecting a call on my home phone, when my cell phone started ringing.
I sat up, stupidly thinking, "I hear music." I jumped out of bed, trying through my sleepiness to analyze the tune I was hearing. It didn't sound like my dryer. It was a minute before I a) realized through the process of elimination that it must be my cell phone, and b) found my cell phone.
I suppose I should try to get used to the idea that inanimate objects all around me will randomly start singing at me. And pray that there's never a time in my future life when every gadget I own is programmed to play the same tune.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Notes from the Worthless, Wide-Necked Naming Novice Drama Queen
"She has a wide neck." This statement was inserted in the middle of the write-up I got in the mail from my neurologist. I was reading along, with vague amusement, his version of the things I'd told him about my symptoms and family history and his assessment of my condition, when I came across that statement, which seemed to come out of nowhere.
Really? I wondered. I walked into the bathroom to check out my wide neck in the mirror. My neck didn't look wide. It looked the same as it always does. It's there to hold up my head, and, thankfully, I don't have to think about it much beyond that. I turned a little bit this way, then that way. I wouldn't call it a skinny neck, but I wouldn't call it a wide neck, either. When I was in really good shape from weight lifting, my neck might have been slightly wide, as it was as muscular as everything else. But, alas, that was years ago.
I checked the write-up for context. Maybe having a wide neck meant I did or didn't have some kind of syndrome, or was medically significant in some other way. If there was context, I missed it. The statement was just simply stuck between a discussion of how many of my relatives had similar medical issues and that I appeared to be my stated age (now that hurt).
For the most part, I forgot about it.
Then, I found a cool website that shows you how popular different given names have been over the past century. I amused myself with putting in names like Stephen and Douglas, then watching them get dwarfed on the graph by the mega-popular name David. This site was so much fun for me that I found myself exploring its other information and taking a quiz.
I've been interested in and studied names since I was a little girl. I'm pretty familiar with the history and popularity of various names. I kept a list of names I liked to which I added and subtracted as I grew up. I had my own children named long before they were born.
But, at the end of taking this 10-question quiz, I was informed that I was a "naming novice." Okay, there were a couple of things that I had not been sure about and had guessed on--and they had nothing to do with the history of given names in America, by the way, but naming novice? There could hardly be a more insulting allegation about me! After all, there are seven people walking around on this planet whom I named.
So, I did some research on the things I didn't know and took the quiz again. I may have gotten carried away and taken the quiz ten or twelve times. No matter what I changed the answers to, the result was the same. "You are a naming novice." I finally concluded that, not only had the person who created the quiz probably not named seven people, he also didn't know what the word "novice" means.
That experience also failed to affect my opinion of myself.
Then I found out someone's been waiting twenty-one years to call me a drama queen, based on a necessary flight I made from an ex that long ago. Because this person has been loved by me since I've known her, I gave more thought to this characterization. There's no question that things were dramatic back then, although that was not my idea, and I was so reluctant to tell anyone anything that no one knew of my plight until a sister gently dragged it out of me. Nevertheless, this person is entitled to her opinion.
We all have blind spots, and I could be missing things about myself, just like everyone sometimes does, but I do self-examine. Probably too much. I hardly ever have an interaction with anyone after which, unless I'm sure my behavior was Miss Manners perfect, I don't review it and wonder what I could have done better.
I harass my best friends and husband all the time with questions about my role in interactions. Ask them.
I do know a person or two who never self-evaluate. They are always the hero or victim in every story they tell, and even something like picking out the napkins for a party can be a huge, interesting (so they assume) ordeal. (Now, there's a drama queen.) People like this can never see their role in conflicts. Their polarization of their own roles leaves little room for them to be just humans, humbly doing their best and learning as they go.
So, I guess when I'm through sorting through the question of how much our self-image comes from within and how much it comes from other people's opinions of and behavior toward us, I'll slough this one off, also. If I can gather truth from it, maybe it will change me for the better.
If there is no truth in someone's evaluation of you and you spend too much time on it, though, it could do harm. There has to be a balance.
Someone anonymously texted me a while ago the words, "You know you're worthless. Why don't you just kill yourself?" No, that's not the kind of friend I cultivate. In fact, no one texts me. It was possibly something that got lost on its way through cyberspace. And it was definitely something that I didn't feel described me at all. After much thought and a little good advice, I responded, "It's sure good to know that you're alive." I mean, that sort of statement has to be about the sender's struggles. It sure wasn't reflective of anything in me.
And so, many of the messages we receive from others are about them, not us. We need to strengthen our inner judgment to where we can tell what to incorporate from feedback and what to ignore.
As we sift past and move around each other, we inescapably affect each other. I think this is the way it's supposed to be. We constantly have the opportunity to supply truth. Sometimes it's needed, and hard to do. Just as important, I think, is the opportunity to bring the grace and mercy of a needed kindness to a person. Which can be even harder to do. But it can make sensitive people reflect just as much, and less defensively, than a harsh truth can.
Really? I wondered. I walked into the bathroom to check out my wide neck in the mirror. My neck didn't look wide. It looked the same as it always does. It's there to hold up my head, and, thankfully, I don't have to think about it much beyond that. I turned a little bit this way, then that way. I wouldn't call it a skinny neck, but I wouldn't call it a wide neck, either. When I was in really good shape from weight lifting, my neck might have been slightly wide, as it was as muscular as everything else. But, alas, that was years ago.
I checked the write-up for context. Maybe having a wide neck meant I did or didn't have some kind of syndrome, or was medically significant in some other way. If there was context, I missed it. The statement was just simply stuck between a discussion of how many of my relatives had similar medical issues and that I appeared to be my stated age (now that hurt).
For the most part, I forgot about it.
Then, I found a cool website that shows you how popular different given names have been over the past century. I amused myself with putting in names like Stephen and Douglas, then watching them get dwarfed on the graph by the mega-popular name David. This site was so much fun for me that I found myself exploring its other information and taking a quiz.
I've been interested in and studied names since I was a little girl. I'm pretty familiar with the history and popularity of various names. I kept a list of names I liked to which I added and subtracted as I grew up. I had my own children named long before they were born.
But, at the end of taking this 10-question quiz, I was informed that I was a "naming novice." Okay, there were a couple of things that I had not been sure about and had guessed on--and they had nothing to do with the history of given names in America, by the way, but naming novice? There could hardly be a more insulting allegation about me! After all, there are seven people walking around on this planet whom I named.
So, I did some research on the things I didn't know and took the quiz again. I may have gotten carried away and taken the quiz ten or twelve times. No matter what I changed the answers to, the result was the same. "You are a naming novice." I finally concluded that, not only had the person who created the quiz probably not named seven people, he also didn't know what the word "novice" means.
That experience also failed to affect my opinion of myself.
Then I found out someone's been waiting twenty-one years to call me a drama queen, based on a necessary flight I made from an ex that long ago. Because this person has been loved by me since I've known her, I gave more thought to this characterization. There's no question that things were dramatic back then, although that was not my idea, and I was so reluctant to tell anyone anything that no one knew of my plight until a sister gently dragged it out of me. Nevertheless, this person is entitled to her opinion.
We all have blind spots, and I could be missing things about myself, just like everyone sometimes does, but I do self-examine. Probably too much. I hardly ever have an interaction with anyone after which, unless I'm sure my behavior was Miss Manners perfect, I don't review it and wonder what I could have done better.
I harass my best friends and husband all the time with questions about my role in interactions. Ask them.
I do know a person or two who never self-evaluate. They are always the hero or victim in every story they tell, and even something like picking out the napkins for a party can be a huge, interesting (so they assume) ordeal. (Now, there's a drama queen.) People like this can never see their role in conflicts. Their polarization of their own roles leaves little room for them to be just humans, humbly doing their best and learning as they go.
So, I guess when I'm through sorting through the question of how much our self-image comes from within and how much it comes from other people's opinions of and behavior toward us, I'll slough this one off, also. If I can gather truth from it, maybe it will change me for the better.
If there is no truth in someone's evaluation of you and you spend too much time on it, though, it could do harm. There has to be a balance.
Someone anonymously texted me a while ago the words, "You know you're worthless. Why don't you just kill yourself?" No, that's not the kind of friend I cultivate. In fact, no one texts me. It was possibly something that got lost on its way through cyberspace. And it was definitely something that I didn't feel described me at all. After much thought and a little good advice, I responded, "It's sure good to know that you're alive." I mean, that sort of statement has to be about the sender's struggles. It sure wasn't reflective of anything in me.
And so, many of the messages we receive from others are about them, not us. We need to strengthen our inner judgment to where we can tell what to incorporate from feedback and what to ignore.
As we sift past and move around each other, we inescapably affect each other. I think this is the way it's supposed to be. We constantly have the opportunity to supply truth. Sometimes it's needed, and hard to do. Just as important, I think, is the opportunity to bring the grace and mercy of a needed kindness to a person. Which can be even harder to do. But it can make sensitive people reflect just as much, and less defensively, than a harsh truth can.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Dragon Slayers
The last thing a damsel in distress needs is to be misunderstood by those she needs most.
The closest modern-day version of a woman locked in a tower and guarded by a dragon is a captive of domestic violence.
I never heard in any fairy tale that the prince or anyone else ever asked the poor girl how she got herself locked up in a tower or told her that she had made her bed and should therefore lie in it. No, in fairy tales, everyone seems to clearly understand that someone forced her into the tower against her will and that she is precious enough to balance the risk and peril required to save her.
But nowadays, in our enlightened times, it seems more common to blame the victim. Why doesn't she just leave? Why did she get involved in that situation?
I doubt very much that anyone would accept a proposal of, "Will you give me legal right and physical power over you so that I can play power trips, demean or even enslave you, isolate you from your friends and family, and threaten your very survival?" I think in these situations the words said are somewhat different from the scenes that play out afterward.
Getting into an abusive relationship is more like walking along, minding your own business when wham! You're hanging upside-down by your foot from a tree, Gilligan's Island style. Or going to the Fun House because all your friends are going and you think it will be fun. But, once you are inside, everything becomes confusing, you can't see where your friends are, none of the doors works, the mirrors distort everything, scary things jump out at you, and you become gradually and correctly alarmed that you may not make it out of there alive.
An abuser turns up the heat gradually, like the story of the frogs in the pot who don't know they're getting cooked until it's too late.
Abusers start out seeming nice. Maybe they are even charming, or hurt, or helpless, or needy. No one shows their monster face right off the bat. One small thing that's somewhat disturbing happens. It often gets explained away, maybe in a manner that makes the partner doubt herself. Soon, the abuser's partner is following a trail of bread crumbs that leads him or her farther into the woods, away from what's normal. The ensuing isolation increases the abuser's control and leaves the victim with fewer resources for help. She may not be able to see that she is being slowly moved from the palace into the tower.
A clever abuser uses what is important to the partner against him or her. The stakes are high. The costs are even higher.
No one wants to believe they have married a monster. No one wants to believe the one they love and trust would hurt them, and mean it. If the victim, who has the most evidence of what's going on, can hardly believe what's happening, it's no wonder that it's hard for others outside of the situation to believe it.
Almost every domestic violence story reported includes reactions of loved ones caught in the headlights as well. "They were a nice couple." "I never would have guessed something like this could happen." "The guy I know isn't capable of this." "They had ups and downs just like everyone else."
But it happens all the time. Every week, there is some kind of domestic violence story in the local newspaper.
These days, there aren't a lot of heroes on white horses going around slaying the dragons.
Many brave victims have escaped and metamorphosed into survivors. Many victims have tried to "work it out" until the horrifying moment when they realize they ran out of time to solve the problem. Many have come to the realization they needed to escape but have not had a way to. Or started but did not get to finish. Some have turned to friends or family members with their desperate pieces of information. Some have written clues in notebooks, or on their own flesh.
These chinks in the storybook facade of their lives can sound strange, even unbelievable. So unlike what we want to believe is happening. Some damsels in distress have been scoffed at, turned away, called drama queens. The trick is remembering that these true stories are very unlike what the victim wants to be reality, too.
The epidemic is rampant. In some way, it will touch us all--through a sister, a neighbor, a granddaughter, a friend. So the question to ask ourselves is, are we going to be dragon slayers and help rid our society of this evil? Or will we be among those who miss the signs, and accidentally feed the dragons? There is not much middle ground.
The closest modern-day version of a woman locked in a tower and guarded by a dragon is a captive of domestic violence.
I never heard in any fairy tale that the prince or anyone else ever asked the poor girl how she got herself locked up in a tower or told her that she had made her bed and should therefore lie in it. No, in fairy tales, everyone seems to clearly understand that someone forced her into the tower against her will and that she is precious enough to balance the risk and peril required to save her.
But nowadays, in our enlightened times, it seems more common to blame the victim. Why doesn't she just leave? Why did she get involved in that situation?
I doubt very much that anyone would accept a proposal of, "Will you give me legal right and physical power over you so that I can play power trips, demean or even enslave you, isolate you from your friends and family, and threaten your very survival?" I think in these situations the words said are somewhat different from the scenes that play out afterward.
Getting into an abusive relationship is more like walking along, minding your own business when wham! You're hanging upside-down by your foot from a tree, Gilligan's Island style. Or going to the Fun House because all your friends are going and you think it will be fun. But, once you are inside, everything becomes confusing, you can't see where your friends are, none of the doors works, the mirrors distort everything, scary things jump out at you, and you become gradually and correctly alarmed that you may not make it out of there alive.
An abuser turns up the heat gradually, like the story of the frogs in the pot who don't know they're getting cooked until it's too late.
Abusers start out seeming nice. Maybe they are even charming, or hurt, or helpless, or needy. No one shows their monster face right off the bat. One small thing that's somewhat disturbing happens. It often gets explained away, maybe in a manner that makes the partner doubt herself. Soon, the abuser's partner is following a trail of bread crumbs that leads him or her farther into the woods, away from what's normal. The ensuing isolation increases the abuser's control and leaves the victim with fewer resources for help. She may not be able to see that she is being slowly moved from the palace into the tower.
A clever abuser uses what is important to the partner against him or her. The stakes are high. The costs are even higher.
No one wants to believe they have married a monster. No one wants to believe the one they love and trust would hurt them, and mean it. If the victim, who has the most evidence of what's going on, can hardly believe what's happening, it's no wonder that it's hard for others outside of the situation to believe it.
Almost every domestic violence story reported includes reactions of loved ones caught in the headlights as well. "They were a nice couple." "I never would have guessed something like this could happen." "The guy I know isn't capable of this." "They had ups and downs just like everyone else."
But it happens all the time. Every week, there is some kind of domestic violence story in the local newspaper.
These days, there aren't a lot of heroes on white horses going around slaying the dragons.
Many brave victims have escaped and metamorphosed into survivors. Many victims have tried to "work it out" until the horrifying moment when they realize they ran out of time to solve the problem. Many have come to the realization they needed to escape but have not had a way to. Or started but did not get to finish. Some have turned to friends or family members with their desperate pieces of information. Some have written clues in notebooks, or on their own flesh.
These chinks in the storybook facade of their lives can sound strange, even unbelievable. So unlike what we want to believe is happening. Some damsels in distress have been scoffed at, turned away, called drama queens. The trick is remembering that these true stories are very unlike what the victim wants to be reality, too.
The epidemic is rampant. In some way, it will touch us all--through a sister, a neighbor, a granddaughter, a friend. So the question to ask ourselves is, are we going to be dragon slayers and help rid our society of this evil? Or will we be among those who miss the signs, and accidentally feed the dragons? There is not much middle ground.
Monday, December 21, 2009
A Great Christmas Story
I do not have a great Christmas story to tell. Every year when the newspaper asks for stories, I want to write one, but I'd have to make a tear-jerker up. I didn't grow up in the Depression, just hoping to get one orange. My mother never spent weeks knitting me an ugly sweater that taught me the true meaning of Christmas.
There was the year I decided there really must be a Santa Claus because I got a talking doll, and I knew things were tough that year because my youngest sister had just been born and my oldest sister was about to get married.
But that's the whole story.
There was also a time when I had a dream on Christmas Eve that my present came out of the fireplace rather than down the chimney--and it was just a woman's high-heeled shoe.
But the next morning, everything was as magically sparkly as always, and a new doll in a buggy awaited me in the living room as usual.
The only true Christmas story I could really tell would be one of consistency. Despite my parents' various economic struggles, every Christmas was pretty much the same. There was always a new doll and a game--or something equivalent. The stockings were always filled with candy and nuts, with an orange in the toe.
Maybe the fact that one Christmas was pretty much like the others IS the great story. In my childhood, Christmas magic could be counted on, year after year.
It is easy for me to see springtime as symbolic of the Resurrection as the flowers grow, the earth thaws, and trees come back to life. I appreciate the natural reminder that there's always another chance for a new start.
But, until I heard the great talk given at church yesterday by one of my neighbors, I didn't realize as well as I do now how snow on a green tree points directly to Jesus and his mission. The whiteness of snow--quite possibly the whitest thing I have ever seen, mercifully covering the leaves we missed raking, the weeds we never got around to pulling. Under snow, our yard looks as good as everyone else's. It's the great winter equalizer.
Snow covers everything indiscriminately, making everything look pure and beautiful. Snow and rain wash the earth, shape and form it--just like the atonement and repentance purify and shape lives. Trees especially look beautiful under snow--both evergreen trees and others. Looking at trees, I think about eternal life, wood, the cross. Snow and trees. If anything around here speaks of sameness in winter, it's snow.
I joke that I'll give each winter 100 days, and then it had better be gone. This is how I cope. That midwinter can be a reminder of the Savior too has somehow escaped me before. But in the bleak moments of life, Christ is what is solid. Christ is what purifies. Christ's sacrifice makes waiting out trials worth it. All can seem dead, but there is beauty even in the stillness. In the seemingly empty winter world, there is still the stuff of purification, of life.
Christina Rossetti's poem, "In the Bleak Midwinter," which is actually a Christmas carol, says, ". . .water like a stone; snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, in the bleak midwinter long ago."
Sameness. Christmas. Life, death. Over and over. New chances to do it again, to do it better. Christmas miracles. No story here, just reflection.
There is something about sameness, even the sameness of winter days, that you can trust. Being able to trust in Christmas and all it means--what greater story can there be?
There was the year I decided there really must be a Santa Claus because I got a talking doll, and I knew things were tough that year because my youngest sister had just been born and my oldest sister was about to get married.
But that's the whole story.
There was also a time when I had a dream on Christmas Eve that my present came out of the fireplace rather than down the chimney--and it was just a woman's high-heeled shoe.
But the next morning, everything was as magically sparkly as always, and a new doll in a buggy awaited me in the living room as usual.
The only true Christmas story I could really tell would be one of consistency. Despite my parents' various economic struggles, every Christmas was pretty much the same. There was always a new doll and a game--or something equivalent. The stockings were always filled with candy and nuts, with an orange in the toe.
Maybe the fact that one Christmas was pretty much like the others IS the great story. In my childhood, Christmas magic could be counted on, year after year.
It is easy for me to see springtime as symbolic of the Resurrection as the flowers grow, the earth thaws, and trees come back to life. I appreciate the natural reminder that there's always another chance for a new start.
But, until I heard the great talk given at church yesterday by one of my neighbors, I didn't realize as well as I do now how snow on a green tree points directly to Jesus and his mission. The whiteness of snow--quite possibly the whitest thing I have ever seen, mercifully covering the leaves we missed raking, the weeds we never got around to pulling. Under snow, our yard looks as good as everyone else's. It's the great winter equalizer.
Snow covers everything indiscriminately, making everything look pure and beautiful. Snow and rain wash the earth, shape and form it--just like the atonement and repentance purify and shape lives. Trees especially look beautiful under snow--both evergreen trees and others. Looking at trees, I think about eternal life, wood, the cross. Snow and trees. If anything around here speaks of sameness in winter, it's snow.
I joke that I'll give each winter 100 days, and then it had better be gone. This is how I cope. That midwinter can be a reminder of the Savior too has somehow escaped me before. But in the bleak moments of life, Christ is what is solid. Christ is what purifies. Christ's sacrifice makes waiting out trials worth it. All can seem dead, but there is beauty even in the stillness. In the seemingly empty winter world, there is still the stuff of purification, of life.
Christina Rossetti's poem, "In the Bleak Midwinter," which is actually a Christmas carol, says, ". . .water like a stone; snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, in the bleak midwinter long ago."
Sameness. Christmas. Life, death. Over and over. New chances to do it again, to do it better. Christmas miracles. No story here, just reflection.
There is something about sameness, even the sameness of winter days, that you can trust. Being able to trust in Christmas and all it means--what greater story can there be?
Friday, December 4, 2009
Be Sure to Lock Up, Princess
I remember having homework in seventh grade. Maybe occasionally in fifth--when we were making maps. But certainly not before that. Yet, my oldest child had so much homework in kindergarten that I could hardly get it done.
I was a single parent then, and, by the time we got home from the day care center after work, we had exactly one hour until the younger child's bedtime. One hour in which to fix dinner, eat, bathe two kids, and put one of them to bed (with lullabies). The older child--not much older, needed to go to bed a half hour later, so the constant flow of homework--the kind he couldn't do by himself--was a problem. Finally, in frustration, I wrote a note to his teacher, explaining that I had already done seventeen years of schoolwork by then and really didn't need any more.
Things have only gotten worse. Not only does my current kindergartener have homework, I had to join a website so I can download it!
My second-grader's teacher explained it to me at parent-teacher conference. It's not her fault: the parents demand it. This is amazing to me. According to this, parents in my neighborhood do not want to spend any time with their children. Their focus is on Ivy League colleges or something. By puberty.
This teacher actually sent home a letter to parents before Thanksgiving break stating that there would be no "extra" homework for the three days off and suggesting politely that a nice family activity could be found.
I look at it this way. An elementary-school-aged child already spends 6.5 hours a day in school. That's almost as long as a full-time job. And they're children!
I have fond memories of how I spent my time after school: playing dolls with Kathryn in her spacious, only-girl-in-the-family bedroom. Bonding with my siblings over Gilligan's Island and The Brady Bunch amidst chair-saving and other power plays. Playing jacks on the cement front porch until the edge of my right hand was black.
All four of my elementary-school-aged children have homework, but my fifth-grader's load is ridiculous. Frequently, I have to stop myself from asking her to set the table, because she is slaving feverishly over homework and is miles from done. If I ask her to practice piano, she gives me a pained look. Reflected in her eyes is her teacher, a woman who gives assignments requiring public library books the night before they are due, requires AP format, and deflects any discussion by blaming the child.
We walk around avoiding this family member, not daring to include her in our conversations. There is no such thing as play for her. Not on a school night. Meals and baths are rushed to the point they are almost unrecognizable.
Increasingly, I find my life revolving around her homework load. Some nights, I cannot even get my own things done.
Recently, although she was crazy-busy from the time she got home and barely ate dinner, my fifth-grader had to stay up an hour-and-a-half past her bedtime in order to get her homework done. One hour-and-a-half past her bedtime is one hour-and-a-quarter past my bedtime. I'm a state employee in Utah.
A fifth-grader is too young to be the last one in the family to go to bed.
I put in twenty-one years of school myself. By the time my baby graduates, I guess I'll have completed, let's see, 112th grade.
My daughter doesn't complain about her homework load. She likes her teacher. I asked her why she had so much to do--maybe she hadn't done much at school? She showed me a list a page long of her assignments for that day. She had done a third of them at school. When had they been assigned? Half of them were daily assignments, she said. Several had been assigned that day.
So this was the point at which I sat down to type my second can-we-get-the-homework-under-control letter to a teacher. I flattered her at first--what an excellent teacher she must be with so much to share, how highly she must value a good education. But can we wait past fifth grade for the college-level stress?
A healthy life requires balance. For children, an all-schoolwork week is not balanced. I say thirty hours a week of school is enough. I trustingly send my children off to their teachers for more than half of their waking hours, and I hardly ever interfere with the teachers' time. Selfishly, I would like some of my children's time at home to be my time.
And some of the time should be their time.
I was a single parent then, and, by the time we got home from the day care center after work, we had exactly one hour until the younger child's bedtime. One hour in which to fix dinner, eat, bathe two kids, and put one of them to bed (with lullabies). The older child--not much older, needed to go to bed a half hour later, so the constant flow of homework--the kind he couldn't do by himself--was a problem. Finally, in frustration, I wrote a note to his teacher, explaining that I had already done seventeen years of schoolwork by then and really didn't need any more.
Things have only gotten worse. Not only does my current kindergartener have homework, I had to join a website so I can download it!
My second-grader's teacher explained it to me at parent-teacher conference. It's not her fault: the parents demand it. This is amazing to me. According to this, parents in my neighborhood do not want to spend any time with their children. Their focus is on Ivy League colleges or something. By puberty.
This teacher actually sent home a letter to parents before Thanksgiving break stating that there would be no "extra" homework for the three days off and suggesting politely that a nice family activity could be found.
I look at it this way. An elementary-school-aged child already spends 6.5 hours a day in school. That's almost as long as a full-time job. And they're children!
I have fond memories of how I spent my time after school: playing dolls with Kathryn in her spacious, only-girl-in-the-family bedroom. Bonding with my siblings over Gilligan's Island and The Brady Bunch amidst chair-saving and other power plays. Playing jacks on the cement front porch until the edge of my right hand was black.
All four of my elementary-school-aged children have homework, but my fifth-grader's load is ridiculous. Frequently, I have to stop myself from asking her to set the table, because she is slaving feverishly over homework and is miles from done. If I ask her to practice piano, she gives me a pained look. Reflected in her eyes is her teacher, a woman who gives assignments requiring public library books the night before they are due, requires AP format, and deflects any discussion by blaming the child.
We walk around avoiding this family member, not daring to include her in our conversations. There is no such thing as play for her. Not on a school night. Meals and baths are rushed to the point they are almost unrecognizable.
Increasingly, I find my life revolving around her homework load. Some nights, I cannot even get my own things done.
Recently, although she was crazy-busy from the time she got home and barely ate dinner, my fifth-grader had to stay up an hour-and-a-half past her bedtime in order to get her homework done. One hour-and-a-half past her bedtime is one hour-and-a-quarter past my bedtime. I'm a state employee in Utah.
A fifth-grader is too young to be the last one in the family to go to bed.
I put in twenty-one years of school myself. By the time my baby graduates, I guess I'll have completed, let's see, 112th grade.
My daughter doesn't complain about her homework load. She likes her teacher. I asked her why she had so much to do--maybe she hadn't done much at school? She showed me a list a page long of her assignments for that day. She had done a third of them at school. When had they been assigned? Half of them were daily assignments, she said. Several had been assigned that day.
So this was the point at which I sat down to type my second can-we-get-the-homework-under-control letter to a teacher. I flattered her at first--what an excellent teacher she must be with so much to share, how highly she must value a good education. But can we wait past fifth grade for the college-level stress?
A healthy life requires balance. For children, an all-schoolwork week is not balanced. I say thirty hours a week of school is enough. I trustingly send my children off to their teachers for more than half of their waking hours, and I hardly ever interfere with the teachers' time. Selfishly, I would like some of my children's time at home to be my time.
And some of the time should be their time.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Deadly Chess Game
One stupid move can kill you.
We don't like to believe that, but it's true.
I've known since I turned up as a little kid in a large family that I don't think like everyone else. Shy and observant by nature, I spent a lot of time, even then, watching people and drawing conclusions. Even the Myers-Briggs personality testing says I'm an INFJ, which is rare.
The I and the J are the most significant. What they mean, in an nutshell, is that I am introverted rather than extroverted and that I form judgments easily--that is, I tend to think everyone should play by the rules. (I'm really working on making the judging a positive rather than a negative thing.) As far as being introverted, I am no longer so shy that I cannot function in society, so, well, I like it. I don't need as much external stimulation. I make my own amusement. Heck, if I had twelve months of solitude, I could finally get the six books in my head out.
I rarely turn on a TV or a radio. I just don't think about it. I do read newspapers and whatever else amuses me, and I spend a lot of time with the information in my head. I love people and have a long list of those I love to spend time with, but I am also content with my own company.
I realize many people need more stuff going on to keep them from being bored, and I'm cool with that. But, in defense of introverts, I am glad that I don't need the Jazz to win in order to be happy. I am less likely to become depressed over an outside event over which I have no control. A nice way to put this that my extroverted husband came up with is to think of myself as an emotional mammal, as opposed to an emotional lizard: I create my own warmth and don't need to be out sunning myself on the rock.
So, while I'm thinking my thoughts that not everyone else thinks, I find myself wondering about thrill-seeking people who end up dead. Perfectly nice, promising, talented people making stupid moves that cost them--and others--dearly. Not that I don't make stupid moves, too. I do on a daily basis, but they are usually closer to home and less likely to be lethal.
It seems like there are constant news stories of people going out to Mount Hood and getting stuck in the snow, for example. It's great that there are rescue teams, but I always think about the misery of the rescuers, too, as they go out to the same dangerous or cold location and risk their own lives. Rescue missions are expensive. Some involve over 100 rescuers and thousands of man hours. At an estimate of $20 an hour, that would cost more than I paid for my first house. But thrill-seeking humans don't seem to think about that. They hike or crawl or drive or ski out to a place of no return, and it takes a lot of others to follow them and bring them back.
There are news stories about these individuals at least once a week, yet I've never heard anyone speak up and say, "Hey! What are we doing?" So I'm sticking my neck out and saying it. Am I the only one who thinks doing dangerous things or getting stuck out in the wilderness is nuts?
By kindergarten, we're told not to go farther than we can find their way back, not to accept rides or candy from strangers, to stay put when lost, to wear a helmet, to stuck to our buddy and not wander off alone. By the time we're adults, we have heard all the rules like not swimming during a lightening storm, not hiking alone, not using electricity in the water, not driving drunk, being prepared before we set out. We've all heard of people who have died in accidents.
Yet, something in us seems to resist these warnings. We don't think they apply to us, in this situation. Or something. But why wouldn't they? When they said, "Never do. . ." they meant, well, never. Maybe as we grow up, we gain too much confidence in our abilities, or in our good luck. I think it's great to stretch ourselves to find our limits, but then we need to accept our limits when we find them. I had a yes-you-are-too-mortal wake-up call this fall, so I know.
Maybe some high schools didn't require enough reading of Jack London stories in high school. There's a reason humans went from living in caves to building houses. There's a reason we learned to grow and store food rather than chancing it all winter, that we have constantly improved our technology to make things easier for us. The civilizations we have created protect us from the elements and other dangers. Houses are safer than cliffs.
I am always sad to read these stories. I think not only of the person who suffered the tragedy, but the people he or she left behind to suffer in their absence. Except for people who were minding their own business in their homes when a tornado, flood, or out-of-control vehicle came and crashed into their world, the tragedies usually seem to have been preventable. If people would follow the rules.
A decision to ignore a rule usually turns out to be one insignificant moment in time, but should we count on that? It can also leave a young woman a widow on Thanksgiving Day, a toddler with no father for the rest of her life. Is a thrill worth that risk? What am I missing?
The use of the word "tragedy" in these situations reminds me of my college days when I studied classical literature. A tragedy, as opposed to a comedy, was a story in which the hero had a "tragic flaw." Something--pride, greed, ambition--in the personality or mind of the person led him to his inevitable, horrible end. The plays and stories were intended to show that following a tragic flaw, instead of the rules of society that keep people safe and in line, would destroy you.
Going out to challenge the wilderness just doesn't appeal to me. I have no doubt it would win. But what I really don't like is when people ignore obvious rules and then blame God for the outcome. I do believe that sometimes He will step in to help us. But not every time. He gave us our free agency, but He also gave us our brains. I believe, in my humble opinion as a nobody, that if we create a huge problem while making bad decisions, the consequences of that are on our own heads. I cannot imagine a world where God would step in every single time we are about to be foolish and stop us. How would we ever mature past the age of fourteen months?
Some people are fatalists. They believe that, no matter what they do, they won't die if it isn't their "time to die." And that when it is their time, they could be sitting in the chair with a safety belt and a helmet on watching TV and it would still happen. I would love to find out--so if you're walking in old tennis shoes along the edge of a really narrow, high cliff, and you decide to close your eyes as you walk, it's God's fault when you slip? What if you somehow did survive a stupid decision? Would God have to come up with something else in order to kill you at that time?
So He allows us to be stupid if we want to. But I think if I showed up on His doorstep after riding a motorcycle without a helmet, for example, He would ask me what I'm doing there. I think He would show me the tears of my grieving children and I would have to weigh that burden against the reason I chose to be stupid. I don't think Death by Stupid Decision equals one's "time to go." I think it is more accurately describes an untimely death, a waste, a tragedy, even, perhaps, a sin.
I think God would ask me why I exchanged my life for a thrill, why I didn't play it safe enough to stick around so He could use me to do some good in the world. That puts a whole new meaning into hiding one's talent in the earth.
We are involved in a real live chess game. Our choices do impact our fate. The dark queen almost certainly will take your queen if you put it in the wrong place at the wrong time.
We don't like to believe that, but it's true.
I've known since I turned up as a little kid in a large family that I don't think like everyone else. Shy and observant by nature, I spent a lot of time, even then, watching people and drawing conclusions. Even the Myers-Briggs personality testing says I'm an INFJ, which is rare.
The I and the J are the most significant. What they mean, in an nutshell, is that I am introverted rather than extroverted and that I form judgments easily--that is, I tend to think everyone should play by the rules. (I'm really working on making the judging a positive rather than a negative thing.) As far as being introverted, I am no longer so shy that I cannot function in society, so, well, I like it. I don't need as much external stimulation. I make my own amusement. Heck, if I had twelve months of solitude, I could finally get the six books in my head out.
I rarely turn on a TV or a radio. I just don't think about it. I do read newspapers and whatever else amuses me, and I spend a lot of time with the information in my head. I love people and have a long list of those I love to spend time with, but I am also content with my own company.
I realize many people need more stuff going on to keep them from being bored, and I'm cool with that. But, in defense of introverts, I am glad that I don't need the Jazz to win in order to be happy. I am less likely to become depressed over an outside event over which I have no control. A nice way to put this that my extroverted husband came up with is to think of myself as an emotional mammal, as opposed to an emotional lizard: I create my own warmth and don't need to be out sunning myself on the rock.
So, while I'm thinking my thoughts that not everyone else thinks, I find myself wondering about thrill-seeking people who end up dead. Perfectly nice, promising, talented people making stupid moves that cost them--and others--dearly. Not that I don't make stupid moves, too. I do on a daily basis, but they are usually closer to home and less likely to be lethal.
It seems like there are constant news stories of people going out to Mount Hood and getting stuck in the snow, for example. It's great that there are rescue teams, but I always think about the misery of the rescuers, too, as they go out to the same dangerous or cold location and risk their own lives. Rescue missions are expensive. Some involve over 100 rescuers and thousands of man hours. At an estimate of $20 an hour, that would cost more than I paid for my first house. But thrill-seeking humans don't seem to think about that. They hike or crawl or drive or ski out to a place of no return, and it takes a lot of others to follow them and bring them back.
There are news stories about these individuals at least once a week, yet I've never heard anyone speak up and say, "Hey! What are we doing?" So I'm sticking my neck out and saying it. Am I the only one who thinks doing dangerous things or getting stuck out in the wilderness is nuts?
By kindergarten, we're told not to go farther than we can find their way back, not to accept rides or candy from strangers, to stay put when lost, to wear a helmet, to stuck to our buddy and not wander off alone. By the time we're adults, we have heard all the rules like not swimming during a lightening storm, not hiking alone, not using electricity in the water, not driving drunk, being prepared before we set out. We've all heard of people who have died in accidents.
Yet, something in us seems to resist these warnings. We don't think they apply to us, in this situation. Or something. But why wouldn't they? When they said, "Never do. . ." they meant, well, never. Maybe as we grow up, we gain too much confidence in our abilities, or in our good luck. I think it's great to stretch ourselves to find our limits, but then we need to accept our limits when we find them. I had a yes-you-are-too-mortal wake-up call this fall, so I know.
Maybe some high schools didn't require enough reading of Jack London stories in high school. There's a reason humans went from living in caves to building houses. There's a reason we learned to grow and store food rather than chancing it all winter, that we have constantly improved our technology to make things easier for us. The civilizations we have created protect us from the elements and other dangers. Houses are safer than cliffs.
I am always sad to read these stories. I think not only of the person who suffered the tragedy, but the people he or she left behind to suffer in their absence. Except for people who were minding their own business in their homes when a tornado, flood, or out-of-control vehicle came and crashed into their world, the tragedies usually seem to have been preventable. If people would follow the rules.
A decision to ignore a rule usually turns out to be one insignificant moment in time, but should we count on that? It can also leave a young woman a widow on Thanksgiving Day, a toddler with no father for the rest of her life. Is a thrill worth that risk? What am I missing?
The use of the word "tragedy" in these situations reminds me of my college days when I studied classical literature. A tragedy, as opposed to a comedy, was a story in which the hero had a "tragic flaw." Something--pride, greed, ambition--in the personality or mind of the person led him to his inevitable, horrible end. The plays and stories were intended to show that following a tragic flaw, instead of the rules of society that keep people safe and in line, would destroy you.
Going out to challenge the wilderness just doesn't appeal to me. I have no doubt it would win. But what I really don't like is when people ignore obvious rules and then blame God for the outcome. I do believe that sometimes He will step in to help us. But not every time. He gave us our free agency, but He also gave us our brains. I believe, in my humble opinion as a nobody, that if we create a huge problem while making bad decisions, the consequences of that are on our own heads. I cannot imagine a world where God would step in every single time we are about to be foolish and stop us. How would we ever mature past the age of fourteen months?
Some people are fatalists. They believe that, no matter what they do, they won't die if it isn't their "time to die." And that when it is their time, they could be sitting in the chair with a safety belt and a helmet on watching TV and it would still happen. I would love to find out--so if you're walking in old tennis shoes along the edge of a really narrow, high cliff, and you decide to close your eyes as you walk, it's God's fault when you slip? What if you somehow did survive a stupid decision? Would God have to come up with something else in order to kill you at that time?
So He allows us to be stupid if we want to. But I think if I showed up on His doorstep after riding a motorcycle without a helmet, for example, He would ask me what I'm doing there. I think He would show me the tears of my grieving children and I would have to weigh that burden against the reason I chose to be stupid. I don't think Death by Stupid Decision equals one's "time to go." I think it is more accurately describes an untimely death, a waste, a tragedy, even, perhaps, a sin.
I think God would ask me why I exchanged my life for a thrill, why I didn't play it safe enough to stick around so He could use me to do some good in the world. That puts a whole new meaning into hiding one's talent in the earth.
We are involved in a real live chess game. Our choices do impact our fate. The dark queen almost certainly will take your queen if you put it in the wrong place at the wrong time.
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