Last Christmas, I came to the realization that I can be married now. I've spent the majority of my life thinking, "I can't get married now! I've got things to do!" And I've tried a good amount of those things, but now I'd like a companion to get through the rest of my life. A good guy who wouldn't mind giving me a baby while he was at it. In the past, I've been told that I've been "closed" to the idea of a husband so I would have to "open" up and let the Universe know that I'm ready. Well, I have opened myself up, and have all but said, "I am now OPEN. Any time you'd like." Which I've done by going out in skirts and make-up and have made eye contact with the male of my species. (This is huge for me.) Unfortunately, the only thing I've heard in response to my Grand Opening is the equivalent of crickets chirping. I wasn't too worried about this until this past Monday when one of our writers - a single 40-something with a marriage wish of her own - came into the office. We were chatting about our dating lives when out of the blue she asked. "Well, what do you want? Do you want to be married?" Then paused. Reader, in that pause, my heart seized in fear. And there was the answer. Deep down in my bruised psyche, I still don't want to be married. In that pause, I was completely repelled.
OK, sure. Maybe it was the confrontational way she posed the question. Maybe it was the fact that I was not on the same mental track as she was when the question was posed, and I froze under pressure. But, I don't think so. I know panic and that was panic. Even though I've opened up my mind to the idea of marriage, I still haven't clasped to my bosom with feverish need. I'm still pretty ambivalent about it. I mean, if someone I love, adore, and admire comes along and asks me to marry him, I'm going to say yes. But, here's a pretty big but - and a small, sad confession - I don't know if that's ever going to really happen. I'm chubby, and I'm now getting old and on the wrong side of 35. I've been single for a very long time and even though I was "closed" there should have been some hint that some guy out there found me attractive enough to at least ask when the hours of operation were. But there hasn't, and so... well. The likelihood seems minimum, if you know what I mean. Which means, it's up to me to go out there and knock on some guy's door to ask if I can buy what he's selling. Except, I'm still not at the point where I want to get married more than anything else on God's green earth, so ...eh.
The writer went on to say, "if you're wishy-washy about [getting married] then you're going to draw guys to you who are wishy-washy about it, and you'll never get married. You have to be serious about it, and then you'll find a guy who wants it, too." To which I say, I'm so wishy-washy about it, Kenmore could brand me.
I don't know what this means. I don't not want to get married. I'm not one of those militant, anti-marriage girls. "It's female imprisonment!" Um, no. I guess, its just that I want to be married to the right person. And I'm pretty sure that's what everyone wants. And maybe that's what being open is really about. Open to going out and meeting people. Open to taking risks. Open to looking and feeling silly knocking on some guy's door. And even open to the idea that maybe I won't have to knock on that door now that mine own is ajar.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Dream Job
Recently, it was pointed out to me that Oprah's OWN network was offering Average Americans the chance to have their own show. The premise seemed easy enough: Pitch your show idea and yourself, and you could be the next Oprah! This appealed to me, of course, because my ego is the size of Montana. So I looked into a bit further. Upon closer inspection, I realized that what they were really looking for were reality show contestants. You pitch your idea and yourself, and you could be picked as a candidate for the reality show to compete for your own show on the network. This works out nicely for Oprah because not only does it give her content for her new network, but the person who is chosen already an audience who feels invested in his or -- let's face it, more than likely -- her success. Smart, O. Really, really smart.
Let me confess, dear reader. I believe in the one in a million shot. I do. Why? Because if it's a possibility, there's a probability. And if there's a probability, there is a shot that one day my number will come up. Is it a gamble? Yeah, but in this case, it's a silly risk that I'm willing to take. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And if a little time spent opens up an incredible new opportunity, why not? So, I looked a little closer at the application. The questions ranged from "what college did you attend and what was your major? Why did you choose this school?" to "what's your favorite TV show, celeb, magazine, athlete, movie, and book?" But the question that I really stumbled over, the one that made me go all existential was, "What is your dream job? Why aren't you doing it?" To which I thought, hmmm...
First, let me say that I find it sad that the automatic assumption is that most people aren't doing their dream job. But I guess, if I look at the people around me, about half are not currently employed doing what they would really like to do. (One could suppose, too, that if one was applying to a reality show to host one's own show that one isn't doing their dream job as their dream job is to host one's own show and those kinds of opportunities don't come around all that often.) But it made me ask myself, "What is my dream job?" A long time ago, it used to be actress. But these days, I know that acting is less about inserting yourself into a movie production and more about surrendering yourself into a role that has nothing to do with you. (In fact, truly great actors give up themselves completely and craft a whole new personality. Witness Daniel Day-Lewis in just about anything. People think he's nuts, but that's because he's able to be schizophrenic without being crazy. There's a trick!) At one point, I wanted to be a director who directed her own material. But then I realized that I didn't want to be responsible for the crazies and the egoists on set or the studio budget. No thank you. So then I just wanted to be a screenwriter. That's when I realized that screenwriters are basically treated like crap. You see, most directors are not writers. But they want a writer to write their vision. But then the writer wants to insert their own ideas into the script because they have a different point of view, and usually the script was theirs to begin with so they feel they have a better handle on the material. Then the director treats the writer like the writer is a moron who doesn't understand visuals or even the English language because didn't the director tell the writer exactly what he/she wanted?! And the writer rants that the director doesn't understand story development. And then the actor thinks that the writer and the director don't understand the essence of his/her character and wants a re-write so that he/she can delve further into the emotional motivations of the character's actions. Basically, everyone on the set wants the writer to think for them, and make them sound/look good, but then the writer is not allowed to have any ideas of their own. You never see a writer get up at the Oscars and say, "despite the crappy acting and the non-existent direction, I won this Award anyway!" No. Usually, the very relieved writer is up there licking boots, "Thanks to the director who understood my vision and the actors who made my characters come alive." And that's only if -- a very big if -- someone decides to finance your script at all. Dream job? I would probably bit through my Night Guard.
I have to admit, I've been pretty lucky about trying a few different career paths before settling on the one I'm on now. Magazines felt redundant and simplistic. Cop was soul destroying. Book editor felt important, but mostly frustrating and overwhelming. And now? Well, now I get paid to read which is probably the closest thing I can get to a Dream Job. Does that mean that there isn't something out there right now that might be a better, dreamier, Dream Job in the future? No. In fact, I didn't even know what Development was until I was in it. But right now, I feel pretty lucky to be doing what I'm doing. And while it has it's ups and downs, for the most part, it's pretty dream to be having.
Let me confess, dear reader. I believe in the one in a million shot. I do. Why? Because if it's a possibility, there's a probability. And if there's a probability, there is a shot that one day my number will come up. Is it a gamble? Yeah, but in this case, it's a silly risk that I'm willing to take. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And if a little time spent opens up an incredible new opportunity, why not? So, I looked a little closer at the application. The questions ranged from "what college did you attend and what was your major? Why did you choose this school?" to "what's your favorite TV show, celeb, magazine, athlete, movie, and book?" But the question that I really stumbled over, the one that made me go all existential was, "What is your dream job? Why aren't you doing it?" To which I thought, hmmm...
First, let me say that I find it sad that the automatic assumption is that most people aren't doing their dream job. But I guess, if I look at the people around me, about half are not currently employed doing what they would really like to do. (One could suppose, too, that if one was applying to a reality show to host one's own show that one isn't doing their dream job as their dream job is to host one's own show and those kinds of opportunities don't come around all that often.) But it made me ask myself, "What is my dream job?" A long time ago, it used to be actress. But these days, I know that acting is less about inserting yourself into a movie production and more about surrendering yourself into a role that has nothing to do with you. (In fact, truly great actors give up themselves completely and craft a whole new personality. Witness Daniel Day-Lewis in just about anything. People think he's nuts, but that's because he's able to be schizophrenic without being crazy. There's a trick!) At one point, I wanted to be a director who directed her own material. But then I realized that I didn't want to be responsible for the crazies and the egoists on set or the studio budget. No thank you. So then I just wanted to be a screenwriter. That's when I realized that screenwriters are basically treated like crap. You see, most directors are not writers. But they want a writer to write their vision. But then the writer wants to insert their own ideas into the script because they have a different point of view, and usually the script was theirs to begin with so they feel they have a better handle on the material. Then the director treats the writer like the writer is a moron who doesn't understand visuals or even the English language because didn't the director tell the writer exactly what he/she wanted?! And the writer rants that the director doesn't understand story development. And then the actor thinks that the writer and the director don't understand the essence of his/her character and wants a re-write so that he/she can delve further into the emotional motivations of the character's actions. Basically, everyone on the set wants the writer to think for them, and make them sound/look good, but then the writer is not allowed to have any ideas of their own. You never see a writer get up at the Oscars and say, "despite the crappy acting and the non-existent direction, I won this Award anyway!" No. Usually, the very relieved writer is up there licking boots, "Thanks to the director who understood my vision and the actors who made my characters come alive." And that's only if -- a very big if -- someone decides to finance your script at all. Dream job? I would probably bit through my Night Guard.
I have to admit, I've been pretty lucky about trying a few different career paths before settling on the one I'm on now. Magazines felt redundant and simplistic. Cop was soul destroying. Book editor felt important, but mostly frustrating and overwhelming. And now? Well, now I get paid to read which is probably the closest thing I can get to a Dream Job. Does that mean that there isn't something out there right now that might be a better, dreamier, Dream Job in the future? No. In fact, I didn't even know what Development was until I was in it. But right now, I feel pretty lucky to be doing what I'm doing. And while it has it's ups and downs, for the most part, it's pretty dream to be having.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
It's a Noun
I'm getting a little worried. Since the beginning of the year, I've been feeling a little, oh gosh, whatsit again, umm, DIM. Yes, that's it. This thing keeps occurring where I can't find the right... um, the right... uh, it's a, you know, it's a noun? Gosh, it's on the tip of my tongue. Forget it. Whatever. It'll come. Anyway, I'll be talking, right? And I'll try to make a joke. Or a valid point. Or even just get out a coherent thought, and, just, *POOF*, it's, like, gone! Its distressing! I can't seem to talk any more. My vocabulary used to be, like, HUGE, and now it consists of, like, sixty words...or LESS! This is very upsetting. I mean, I used to be smart. People thought I was smart because I sounded so smart. It was so nice! And now? Now, I'm an idiot!
I first started to notice the, um, slips, I guess? Around the middle of last year. Right before I turned 36. And I started to make all sorts of jokes about being the litmus test for all those moms out there who thought their kid was the reason they lost their mind. You know, haha? But this isn't funny. I'm freaking out here, people! The other day, I was trying to make a joke with two teenage boys about telling time with a protractor, but I couldn't remember "protractor." And I kept fumbling for it. They tried helping. "Hourglass?" "No. It's a thing you use to measure the stars." "Sextant?" "No. Not the stars. I meant, um, you know, angles? You use it in, like, fourth grade. It's, like, plastic? You know, 90-degrees and stuff." And, by the way, when did I become a ninth grade girl who puts a question mark at the end of sentence?! WHEN!
For a little while there, I was using my hands a lot. They were little bridges. If I just, you know, MIMED it? It would come. I'd snip my two fingers together, and *click* "scissors" would come out. I would finger wave over my hair, and *bam* "highlights." Now? No, now, I can't even mime because the memory path is, just, like, GONE. All of this was brought into full relief just last week when I was in New York. All my smart publishing friends were talking, saying things like, "solipsistic," and "banal," and "anodyne," and I thought, "I used to talk like that, too. What happened?" Seriously, did L.A. suck my brain out? Did age catch up to me? Am I Charlie?
Some days are better than others. I believe last Monday --the infamous protractor joke day -- was one of the worst on the books. Nothing was coming. I'd start to say something, and, just, you know, GONE. Every little, oh good god, it's a noun, every little one wouldn't come. I was at a complete loss of...loss of... *sigh* What is that stupid word.
...
WORD. (christ.)
I first started to notice the, um, slips, I guess? Around the middle of last year. Right before I turned 36. And I started to make all sorts of jokes about being the litmus test for all those moms out there who thought their kid was the reason they lost their mind. You know, haha? But this isn't funny. I'm freaking out here, people! The other day, I was trying to make a joke with two teenage boys about telling time with a protractor, but I couldn't remember "protractor." And I kept fumbling for it. They tried helping. "Hourglass?" "No. It's a thing you use to measure the stars." "Sextant?" "No. Not the stars. I meant, um, you know, angles? You use it in, like, fourth grade. It's, like, plastic? You know, 90-degrees and stuff." And, by the way, when did I become a ninth grade girl who puts a question mark at the end of sentence?! WHEN!
For a little while there, I was using my hands a lot. They were little bridges. If I just, you know, MIMED it? It would come. I'd snip my two fingers together, and *click* "scissors" would come out. I would finger wave over my hair, and *bam* "highlights." Now? No, now, I can't even mime because the memory path is, just, like, GONE. All of this was brought into full relief just last week when I was in New York. All my smart publishing friends were talking, saying things like, "solipsistic," and "banal," and "anodyne," and I thought, "I used to talk like that, too. What happened?" Seriously, did L.A. suck my brain out? Did age catch up to me? Am I Charlie?
Some days are better than others. I believe last Monday --the infamous protractor joke day -- was one of the worst on the books. Nothing was coming. I'd start to say something, and, just, you know, GONE. Every little, oh good god, it's a noun, every little one wouldn't come. I was at a complete loss of...loss of... *sigh* What is that stupid word.
...
WORD. (christ.)
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Third Option
I have recently returned back to L.A. from the east coast where I spent quality time -- definitely not quantity time -- with family and friends and business associates from my publishing days. All in all, it was a productive and lovely time. So productive and lovely that it made me debate, once again, a move back "home."
These days, I'm kinda done with the career goal. Time and time again, I've set my sites on some glamour job with the hopes that it will give me money, prestige, and validation. That through hard work, I would feel valuable. Unfortunately, the only thing I've ever gotten from work are these bunched muscle knots in my back, usually directly below my right shoulder blade. (They hurt like the Dickens. Seriously.) And because I'm done with My All Encompassing Drive Towards the Ultimate Career, I've been looking at something I've often overlooked before, mostly because I was given it in spades, my relationships.
I don't want to sound like I just realized that my relationships are important. That's incorrect. I have journals filled -- and I mean that -- with platitudes like, "I'm so lucky to have been blessed with a large loving family, and I love them back!" usually followed by something like, "But I really wish they didn't smother me to death!" And a Sex and the City worthy, "I think my best friends are my soul mates. Who says your soul mate has to be a man?!" On the heels of which I would write, "but I still want to get married. So, if I could just find a guy that I love and who loves me back, that would be the ultimate." However, I think the waning need to become CEO of NBC/Paramount intersecting with the birth of gorgeous little nieces is making me reassess the the primacy of my intimate relationships over my over-driven ego to Make Something of Myself. As with everything, too much of one thing is not good. And I have never been good at moderation (hence my weight. Heh).
I talked about this push-pull desire to go back to the east coast with Edie and my sister. Both, of course, are advocates for the migration back. However, both understand the subtle reasons to just stay put, too. (Honestly, one knows when one is loved when one has such supportive and empathetic people in one's life. I really am blessed. One tick in the Go Back column? Be closer to Edie and my sister again.) Even though, occasionally, I'll try to imagine a different reality -- as in "what if I had just stayed in New York?" -- I've only done it as an alternate universe scenario. I don't wish that I never left New York. In fact, right before I left New York, I was beginning to become anxious that the window to make the Big Move to Los Angeles and Start All Over Again was closing. Because, let's face it, there comes a point in one's life when money and position start to make an impact. In one's 30s and 40s, it's about staying put and trying to grow something. Whether that's getting married and having babies or a career trajectory or buying a fixer-upper house (or all the above), its the time in one's life that one pours the foundation of their golden years. And that's exactly what I feel like I'm missing right now: A foundation.
My newest anxiety? I'm sliding toward 40, and I don't know what I want that foundation to be. Once again, I feel like the window of opportunity is closing and I better make up my mind. I hate this feeling. I feel like it comes over me a lot. But it's probably only every five years. You know, right around the time I pull up stakes and start over again somewhere else. But because I'm in my 30s and my biological clock has started its countdown, I feel like I have to be very careful where I place the next foot. I'm starting to ask myself a very important question: What do I want my life to be about? To be a an utter cliche, what is the meaning of my life? Fortunately, I believe we get to make that decision. Unfortunately, I don't want it just one way. I want it all ways. And I want enough time in which to put it all in so that I don't have to do it all at once. (Hm, I really do have to get a handle on that moderation thing.)
Interestingly, on the ride from JFK into Connecticut, my brother-in-law joked that my sister couldn't seem to stay put for more than a few years. Every couple of years, my sister wants to move. Whether it's to a new town for a new job, or a new apartment because it's bigger, better, closer to something Kate needs to be closer to, they pack and move. My BIL does not understand this. He had one house as a kid then his parents divorced and he had another house. Then he met my sister. He's been on the move ever since. Kate laughed that she couldn't help it. Every few years, she feels stagnate and an overwhelming urge to pull up stakes and move-on overcomes her. So, this roving gypsy lifestyle seems to be in our DNA. For Kate every two years, for me, every five. (I think I got the better end of that deal.) Kate admitted that it wasn't always cheaper or better, but there was always some reason that she could come up with that required the move. Much like how I can always come up with a reason to go out and start a new career.
While I was in New York, partying with my old friends, slipping into old routines, popping up to Connecticut for the weekend to celebrate some family milestone, I saw exactly what my life would be if I did move back. Exactly what it was before I left, and -- to be frank -- that depressed me a little. Because if I did move back, I would want it to be different somehow. I wouldn't want to be back in publishing necessarily. I wouldn't want to have to muscle my way through the City and put back on my armor. I wouldn't want to feel obligated to go into Connecticut whenever a family function necessitated it. These were all reasons to move out west the first time. I felt I needed to get away from my smothering family love, and my soul mate girlfriends to actually go out, be myself and maybe find a guy to create something new with. And while some of that happened -- I definitely feel like I've found my center -- and some hasn't -- seriously, where is that man?! -- I know the move was the right move. But now it's five years later, and my roving gypsy heart is calling for a new adventure while my soul is tired now and just wants to be loved and thinks maybe it's time to cash in my chips and go home. While I long for the Known, I know I will want it only for so long before I loathe again. So I wait with the hope that a third option will come along and break this awful cycle of mine and give me exactly what I need. Something that appeals both to my gypsy heart and tired soul.
These days, I'm kinda done with the career goal. Time and time again, I've set my sites on some glamour job with the hopes that it will give me money, prestige, and validation. That through hard work, I would feel valuable. Unfortunately, the only thing I've ever gotten from work are these bunched muscle knots in my back, usually directly below my right shoulder blade. (They hurt like the Dickens. Seriously.) And because I'm done with My All Encompassing Drive Towards the Ultimate Career, I've been looking at something I've often overlooked before, mostly because I was given it in spades, my relationships.
I don't want to sound like I just realized that my relationships are important. That's incorrect. I have journals filled -- and I mean that -- with platitudes like, "I'm so lucky to have been blessed with a large loving family, and I love them back!" usually followed by something like, "But I really wish they didn't smother me to death!" And a Sex and the City worthy, "I think my best friends are my soul mates. Who says your soul mate has to be a man?!" On the heels of which I would write, "but I still want to get married. So, if I could just find a guy that I love and who loves me back, that would be the ultimate." However, I think the waning need to become CEO of NBC/Paramount intersecting with the birth of gorgeous little nieces is making me reassess the the primacy of my intimate relationships over my over-driven ego to Make Something of Myself. As with everything, too much of one thing is not good. And I have never been good at moderation (hence my weight. Heh).
I talked about this push-pull desire to go back to the east coast with Edie and my sister. Both, of course, are advocates for the migration back. However, both understand the subtle reasons to just stay put, too. (Honestly, one knows when one is loved when one has such supportive and empathetic people in one's life. I really am blessed. One tick in the Go Back column? Be closer to Edie and my sister again.) Even though, occasionally, I'll try to imagine a different reality -- as in "what if I had just stayed in New York?" -- I've only done it as an alternate universe scenario. I don't wish that I never left New York. In fact, right before I left New York, I was beginning to become anxious that the window to make the Big Move to Los Angeles and Start All Over Again was closing. Because, let's face it, there comes a point in one's life when money and position start to make an impact. In one's 30s and 40s, it's about staying put and trying to grow something. Whether that's getting married and having babies or a career trajectory or buying a fixer-upper house (or all the above), its the time in one's life that one pours the foundation of their golden years. And that's exactly what I feel like I'm missing right now: A foundation.
My newest anxiety? I'm sliding toward 40, and I don't know what I want that foundation to be. Once again, I feel like the window of opportunity is closing and I better make up my mind. I hate this feeling. I feel like it comes over me a lot. But it's probably only every five years. You know, right around the time I pull up stakes and start over again somewhere else. But because I'm in my 30s and my biological clock has started its countdown, I feel like I have to be very careful where I place the next foot. I'm starting to ask myself a very important question: What do I want my life to be about? To be a an utter cliche, what is the meaning of my life? Fortunately, I believe we get to make that decision. Unfortunately, I don't want it just one way. I want it all ways. And I want enough time in which to put it all in so that I don't have to do it all at once. (Hm, I really do have to get a handle on that moderation thing.)
Interestingly, on the ride from JFK into Connecticut, my brother-in-law joked that my sister couldn't seem to stay put for more than a few years. Every couple of years, my sister wants to move. Whether it's to a new town for a new job, or a new apartment because it's bigger, better, closer to something Kate needs to be closer to, they pack and move. My BIL does not understand this. He had one house as a kid then his parents divorced and he had another house. Then he met my sister. He's been on the move ever since. Kate laughed that she couldn't help it. Every few years, she feels stagnate and an overwhelming urge to pull up stakes and move-on overcomes her. So, this roving gypsy lifestyle seems to be in our DNA. For Kate every two years, for me, every five. (I think I got the better end of that deal.) Kate admitted that it wasn't always cheaper or better, but there was always some reason that she could come up with that required the move. Much like how I can always come up with a reason to go out and start a new career.
While I was in New York, partying with my old friends, slipping into old routines, popping up to Connecticut for the weekend to celebrate some family milestone, I saw exactly what my life would be if I did move back. Exactly what it was before I left, and -- to be frank -- that depressed me a little. Because if I did move back, I would want it to be different somehow. I wouldn't want to be back in publishing necessarily. I wouldn't want to have to muscle my way through the City and put back on my armor. I wouldn't want to feel obligated to go into Connecticut whenever a family function necessitated it. These were all reasons to move out west the first time. I felt I needed to get away from my smothering family love, and my soul mate girlfriends to actually go out, be myself and maybe find a guy to create something new with. And while some of that happened -- I definitely feel like I've found my center -- and some hasn't -- seriously, where is that man?! -- I know the move was the right move. But now it's five years later, and my roving gypsy heart is calling for a new adventure while my soul is tired now and just wants to be loved and thinks maybe it's time to cash in my chips and go home. While I long for the Known, I know I will want it only for so long before I loathe again. So I wait with the hope that a third option will come along and break this awful cycle of mine and give me exactly what I need. Something that appeals both to my gypsy heart and tired soul.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Pearls of Wisdom
I'm going to admit to something that is going to sound bizarre, and I know it's bizarre, and I fully embrace my hypocrisy when I saw that I don't believe in the supernatural and I don't believe in anyone who says they have interactions with ghosts even though I fully believe that my dead relatives visit me in my dreams. There, I've said it. Dead grandparents and uncles visit me in my dreams. I don't expect you to believe me. My therapist certainly doesn't. He thinks that whatever message the dead bring to me in my dreams is a way for my Unconscious to inform my Conscious that it has something important to say. Which might explain some of the messages, but not the messages that I've gotten for other people and that later come true. But let's not dwell on the Twilight Zone experiences, let's, instead, talk about a message that my dead Uncle Larry gave me in a weird dream that included a horse stable and a chimp.
In the dream, my cousin Lauren and I were walking through a modern'ish looking horse stable, which isn't strange since Laur and I took riding lessons as a child. The stable was pristine white and glowing in light. As we reached the end of one hallway, a chimpanzee/human hybrid that was dressed as a stable boy showed up and took me around the bed to a particular horse that I was supposed to see. Lauren in the meantime, was left behind. Around the corner, stood her father (also deceased). He said nothing to me as I pet the horse. But when I turned around, Uncle Larry was there. My uncle -- by the time of this dream -- had been dead only a few months. But he, unlike any of my dead relatives before him, was anxious and had lots he wanted to tell me. Which was interesting because alive, he was kind of a know-it-all and you couldn't tell him anything, so it's not surprising that he had lots to say now that he kinda did know it all, if you know what I mean. What surprised me about this dream, is how sick I felt through the whole thing. How vivid and fully realized. How desperate he was to tell me things. After I awoke from the dream, I felt dizzy and disorientated. I sat up, walked over to the dry-erase board and started to write stuff down. All the key elements. Only then was I able to lie back down and go to sleep. The next morning, disturbed by the Uncle Larry dream, I went back to the dry erase board and found these:
Trust yourself and your decisions.
and
Time is an illusion - there are only pockets of now
There were a few other things, but they were more messages for other people than they were for me, but these were definitely for me. While the first message: Trust yourself and your decisions applied directly to something that was happening a year ago and gave me a sense of calm, it's the second message that I have to be mindful of almost every day of my life. You see, I've always lived in the future. "When I'm forty..." I would say. Or, "when I get married..." But these things were always very far away and not important. In fact, I often felt like I've just gotta get through Now, in order to get to the good stuff Later. As my mother used to say to me, "stop wishing your life away, kid."
The way my uncle explained time was like a pearl necklace. Each bead is a moment or experience of your life, and they're strung together on a line. But each pearl is in and of itself important and should be made the most of. Sooner or later, the string ends and you come back to the beginning. His point was, no moment of time was bad, only what you put into it. So, if you're not putting anything into it except for impatience to get onto the next pearl, because, you know, the next pearl is somehow better, you're wasting it. You're just wasting your life one pearl at a time. Which is really sad if you think of it, and if you knew my uncle at all, you would know why it was imperative that he give me this message, because he wasted his life.
I haven't told many people this story, mainly because it would include me confessing these dead people dreams and how imperative they feel to me. And secondly, whenever I have an epiphany, it feels like a firework in my head, but once I say it aloud to someone else it feels like a cliche. I know this, because when a friend asked us to write inspirational sayings on her FB wall in order to help her get motivated to change her life, I wrote, "Time is an illusion. There are only pockets of now. Make those pockets count" it felt cliche and flimsy. Like I had sold out something that meant something to me.
Maybe that's the point of the dead people dreams. Maybe some of them aren't supposed to be shared. I guess if the message isn't supposed to be given to my mother, or my cousin, or a close friend, then the message really is just for me. Whether it's my Unconscious or my dead Uncle Larry, I should just keep them to myself. (And from now on, I will, too. Ahem...)
In the dream, my cousin Lauren and I were walking through a modern'ish looking horse stable, which isn't strange since Laur and I took riding lessons as a child. The stable was pristine white and glowing in light. As we reached the end of one hallway, a chimpanzee/human hybrid that was dressed as a stable boy showed up and took me around the bed to a particular horse that I was supposed to see. Lauren in the meantime, was left behind. Around the corner, stood her father (also deceased). He said nothing to me as I pet the horse. But when I turned around, Uncle Larry was there. My uncle -- by the time of this dream -- had been dead only a few months. But he, unlike any of my dead relatives before him, was anxious and had lots he wanted to tell me. Which was interesting because alive, he was kind of a know-it-all and you couldn't tell him anything, so it's not surprising that he had lots to say now that he kinda did know it all, if you know what I mean. What surprised me about this dream, is how sick I felt through the whole thing. How vivid and fully realized. How desperate he was to tell me things. After I awoke from the dream, I felt dizzy and disorientated. I sat up, walked over to the dry-erase board and started to write stuff down. All the key elements. Only then was I able to lie back down and go to sleep. The next morning, disturbed by the Uncle Larry dream, I went back to the dry erase board and found these:
Trust yourself and your decisions.
and
Time is an illusion - there are only pockets of now
There were a few other things, but they were more messages for other people than they were for me, but these were definitely for me. While the first message: Trust yourself and your decisions applied directly to something that was happening a year ago and gave me a sense of calm, it's the second message that I have to be mindful of almost every day of my life. You see, I've always lived in the future. "When I'm forty..." I would say. Or, "when I get married..." But these things were always very far away and not important. In fact, I often felt like I've just gotta get through Now, in order to get to the good stuff Later. As my mother used to say to me, "stop wishing your life away, kid."
The way my uncle explained time was like a pearl necklace. Each bead is a moment or experience of your life, and they're strung together on a line. But each pearl is in and of itself important and should be made the most of. Sooner or later, the string ends and you come back to the beginning. His point was, no moment of time was bad, only what you put into it. So, if you're not putting anything into it except for impatience to get onto the next pearl, because, you know, the next pearl is somehow better, you're wasting it. You're just wasting your life one pearl at a time. Which is really sad if you think of it, and if you knew my uncle at all, you would know why it was imperative that he give me this message, because he wasted his life.
I haven't told many people this story, mainly because it would include me confessing these dead people dreams and how imperative they feel to me. And secondly, whenever I have an epiphany, it feels like a firework in my head, but once I say it aloud to someone else it feels like a cliche. I know this, because when a friend asked us to write inspirational sayings on her FB wall in order to help her get motivated to change her life, I wrote, "Time is an illusion. There are only pockets of now. Make those pockets count" it felt cliche and flimsy. Like I had sold out something that meant something to me.
Maybe that's the point of the dead people dreams. Maybe some of them aren't supposed to be shared. I guess if the message isn't supposed to be given to my mother, or my cousin, or a close friend, then the message really is just for me. Whether it's my Unconscious or my dead Uncle Larry, I should just keep them to myself. (And from now on, I will, too. Ahem...)
Friday, May 14, 2010
Social Coordinator
Back when I was in high school, I became known as the "social coordinator." I'm not quite sure how it happened or even what I coordinated. All I know is that whenever someone came up with an idea to do something, they would float it by me, and I would go forward to tell everyone what a great idea it was and how to execute it. Back then, I thought I was ingratiating myself with my friends. I was making them happy. In hindsight, I realize that I was the Queen Bee of my clique and I totally didn't exploit that for my own purposes. I thought because I was fat and didn't have a boyfriend, I held no power. Except, you know, I was the captain of the cheerleaders and all my friends always wanted to sit next to me in assembly. My biggest problem: I wanted everyone to like me. Because I didn't find me very likable, I thought no one else did either. (*Sigh* How much time do we waste hating ourselves?)
Social coordinating did not end in high school. It extended past high school into my twenties. A friend of mine was dating a guy from another town, and she had girlfriends and he had boyfriends, so it only made sense to merge the two groups. Somehow, though, once again, the power shifted from the couple who had brought us together to me and -- we'll call him -- Karl. Karl and I never dated, but we became a platonic power couple of sorts. For years, I called him Senator (because he wanted a career in politics) and I was laughingly called the Senator's Wife. (And, quite frankly, I think we could have pulled it off in the way that political power couples do. Oh, DC, I never knew you....) This lasted for about five years until people started marrying and moving away. And then I got a job at the police department and that was the end of my social coordinating responsibilities. Sort of.
At the police department, I went from the girl who coordinated all the social interactions to the girl who was called every weekend to find out where I was going to be. Which party was I going to be at, which bar? At this point, I became a power couple with my co-worker, -- we'll call him -- George. George was a ton of fun, mostly because he had a drinking problem. And I was blonde and twenty-six and single so all the cops could flirt with me and I just thought it was funny because I was still fat and self hating so it wasn't like it was real flirting or anything, right? (*Sigh*) George and I became known as the Bobsey Twins because we were always together. But wherever we were was where the party seemed to be. This lasted for another five years until I moved to New York, at which point I completely rescinded my social status as It Girl. And, quite frankly, I did not miss it. In fact, I found the whole party thing exhausting and I was very happy to be home on a Friday night, and no longer labeled myself a "loser" because of it. I left the social coordinating up to others and showed up at the appointed time and place. Maybe it wasn't as frequent, but that as A-OK with me. And then I moved to L.A.
For the last four years, I have been going with the flow, very much like I did in New York. I met Andi who is a bit of a social coordinator, herself, and have just shown up where and when she tells me. But lately, I've decided I need to get married, and if I'm going to get married, I'm going to have to leave my apartment (Blergh!) And in order to leave my apartment, I must make plans. I mean, I can't just go outside and meet someone, can I? (Don't answer that.) No, no, no. So, I've dusted off my social coordinator role and put it back on. And quickly remembered something: I hate social coordinating! I mean, back in the day when I just hated myself, I would grin and bear through it. Now, though? Well, I kinda like myself better, and social coordinating feels a bit like self-punishing work! What I hate about it is the lack of responsibility on behalf of the other participants. "Do you want to go out to X on Friday or Saturday?" Yes, is the normal answer. "Does Saturday work for everyone? Should we meet at 7 or 8?" As for when and all that, no one cares and they leave it up to me. And while a control freak -- and, yes, I am one to a degree -- would appreciate this ultimate control over everyone else, I have also learned from experience that it allows other people to, well, flake out and blame you. "Oh, I'm sorry I didn't make it; I had something else to do before that and didn't realize that it might conflict. Seven was kinda early anyway." Yes, but you didn't tell me you had something before because if you did, I would have made it 8. Or, you could have said, "How about 8 since I have something to do before that and I might need a little time?" AGH!
The funny thing is I usually find one person who is as equally invested in the experience, whether it was Karl or George or now Andi. And there is a small consolation in that. As for the rest of the posse? I'll be at the Renaissance Faire on Sunday. Come if you like, but I'm not coordinating anything.
Social coordinating did not end in high school. It extended past high school into my twenties. A friend of mine was dating a guy from another town, and she had girlfriends and he had boyfriends, so it only made sense to merge the two groups. Somehow, though, once again, the power shifted from the couple who had brought us together to me and -- we'll call him -- Karl. Karl and I never dated, but we became a platonic power couple of sorts. For years, I called him Senator (because he wanted a career in politics) and I was laughingly called the Senator's Wife. (And, quite frankly, I think we could have pulled it off in the way that political power couples do. Oh, DC, I never knew you....) This lasted for about five years until people started marrying and moving away. And then I got a job at the police department and that was the end of my social coordinating responsibilities. Sort of.
At the police department, I went from the girl who coordinated all the social interactions to the girl who was called every weekend to find out where I was going to be. Which party was I going to be at, which bar? At this point, I became a power couple with my co-worker, -- we'll call him -- George. George was a ton of fun, mostly because he had a drinking problem. And I was blonde and twenty-six and single so all the cops could flirt with me and I just thought it was funny because I was still fat and self hating so it wasn't like it was real flirting or anything, right? (*Sigh*) George and I became known as the Bobsey Twins because we were always together. But wherever we were was where the party seemed to be. This lasted for another five years until I moved to New York, at which point I completely rescinded my social status as It Girl. And, quite frankly, I did not miss it. In fact, I found the whole party thing exhausting and I was very happy to be home on a Friday night, and no longer labeled myself a "loser" because of it. I left the social coordinating up to others and showed up at the appointed time and place. Maybe it wasn't as frequent, but that as A-OK with me. And then I moved to L.A.
For the last four years, I have been going with the flow, very much like I did in New York. I met Andi who is a bit of a social coordinator, herself, and have just shown up where and when she tells me. But lately, I've decided I need to get married, and if I'm going to get married, I'm going to have to leave my apartment (Blergh!) And in order to leave my apartment, I must make plans. I mean, I can't just go outside and meet someone, can I? (Don't answer that.) No, no, no. So, I've dusted off my social coordinator role and put it back on. And quickly remembered something: I hate social coordinating! I mean, back in the day when I just hated myself, I would grin and bear through it. Now, though? Well, I kinda like myself better, and social coordinating feels a bit like self-punishing work! What I hate about it is the lack of responsibility on behalf of the other participants. "Do you want to go out to X on Friday or Saturday?" Yes, is the normal answer. "Does Saturday work for everyone? Should we meet at 7 or 8?" As for when and all that, no one cares and they leave it up to me. And while a control freak -- and, yes, I am one to a degree -- would appreciate this ultimate control over everyone else, I have also learned from experience that it allows other people to, well, flake out and blame you. "Oh, I'm sorry I didn't make it; I had something else to do before that and didn't realize that it might conflict. Seven was kinda early anyway." Yes, but you didn't tell me you had something before because if you did, I would have made it 8. Or, you could have said, "How about 8 since I have something to do before that and I might need a little time?" AGH!
The funny thing is I usually find one person who is as equally invested in the experience, whether it was Karl or George or now Andi. And there is a small consolation in that. As for the rest of the posse? I'll be at the Renaissance Faire on Sunday. Come if you like, but I'm not coordinating anything.
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