My last blog entry inspired quite an unprecedented response from a significant portion of what I ascertain to be the vast sea of my readership. The level of commentary was interesting for two reasons. One, it made me personally happy to gain concrete proof that people actually read my blog. Two, and more importantly, it caused me to deeply consider the importance of a practice that has long been difficult for me—the practice of staying in the question.
The question here is, of course: “Do I want to have children?” The answer is, of course: “I do not THINK so.” But, as I cannot answer it definitively, I have to say that the answer truly is this: “I do not know.”
It is hard for me to say that I do not know the answer to a question that seems so pivotal and crucial to my life’s purpose, my life’s direction, and my life in general. It is my assumption that most of us ask questions and then immediately seek answers. At least, I know I do. So when the answer is not immediately tangible, it causes a certain amount of frustration. It also imparts a sense of failure. As in: how can I still not know the answer to this question--this question that seems so very important and so frequently asked? How is it possible that after many years of asking this question, I feel no closer to knowing how I could or would EVER answer it? How is that POSSIBLE?
And yet it is.
So maybe what I really have to do is just accept that this is a time to just stay in the question.
My feelings surrounding procreation, my own procreation that is, range from ambivalence to trepidation to indifference to antipathy. It used to be that I would tend towards aversion on the topic, and then, in recent years, it seems like I am confronting the topic with tremendous frequency. I know that the situation is, in part, simply due to the time and place I have arrived on the trajectory of my life. But I also wonder if there is something more going on.
For the sake of looking at this issue from all sides: might it also be possible that as I proclaim over and over what I do not want, I am really revealing that the very thing I am overtly rejecting is actually what I do want? It could be that my subconscious knows something--as it so often does--before my conscious mind has processed and understood it. I mean, why else would I be talking about this issue of having children so much?
Again, I do not know.
What I do know is that if, in a few years, I am suddenly saying that all I want is to have children then I will just accept that I have done a 180. To that end, I am not fearful of smug, “I told you so” types of comments. Nor am I worried about people who might say: “But you always said that was what you DIDN”T want.” I can change my mind.
I mean, hello--I am a woman, after all.
But the real point is that I do not know if I will EVER feel one way or another about the topic. There are certainly valid and sound arguments to be made on both sides. So I am trying very hard, as I stay in this question, to not be waiting for that moment of epiphany. To not be constantly anticipating that “aha!” moment.
Because frankly it might never happen.
That reality is perhaps what scares me most. Like many things in life, maybe this situation is truly is a case of having to leap before you know for sure that the net will appear.
I am not ready to make that leap.
My mother fears she has turned me off of being a mother myself because of trite little comments she has made along the way. You know, minor little side musings such as: “You know, I NEVER wanted to be a mother” and “Being pregnant was like having a parasite—for all nine months.” Or my personal favorite: “You know, I am not exactly jumping all over you to have children, because MY life would change quite a bit too.”
She is no fool, my mom.
The thing is though, ironically, that it is these conversations that make me think I want to have a child. These conversations reveal how close a bond we have, my mother and me. Utter honesty is possible and it is refreshing. It is in moments like these that I think: “Gosh, I love my mom so much. Wouldn’t it be nice, in 30 years to have a young person, my own daughter, loving me that much.”
But again, there are no guarantees there. I mean who is to say how any child of mine would turn out. And we could go into the nature versus nurture thing here but let’s just not do that. The bottom line is that some of the whole business is simply not in the control of the parent. There would be no guarantee, no matter what I did, that my 30 something year old daughter would be my best friend. Pretty as it is to think so.
And, back to my relationship with my mother--the strange thing is that I sometimes have no idea why she loves me so much. I am not one who suffers from a poor sense of self (well most of the time, anyway), so that is not what I mean. I know I am loveable--in fact sometimes I overestimate my lovability by a wide margin. But I wonder about how she loves me so much because, as a child, I know I put her through heck. I mean have you met a teenage girl? Wow. Who would wish such a monster on their worst enemy?
Without delving fully into the trunk of awkwardness labeled: “Maggie’s Teen Years,” there is one particular issue I think about now quite a bit. I remember as I waged the war of adolescence, for which I was so ineptly prepared, how often I truly felt angry with her at times when I felt she should have chosen me over my father. I could not believe that she would side with him when I perceived him as being unfair or irrational.
Now, I think about my relationship with my husband and I appreciate that they, my mom and dad, were the team. I was merely the extra on the field--to be dealt with as they saw fit.
A friend of mine once told me that he was impressed with a comment made during an argument he overheard between a parent and her teenage son. The parent looked at the child and said, “I chose your father. I married him because I loved him. I did not choose you, I love you because I have you.”
That sounds harsh, but isn’t it true?
It makes sense now when I think about my mom “siding” with my dad. They chose each other and then they battled years with my siblings and me where we likely, though inadvertently, did quite a bit of damage in terms of eroding the bond they had. Not that any of us were bad kids, but that just seems to be the nature of the game as I see it right now.
And here is the thing: I love my husband. I adore him. If we were to have children so much would change. As I consider the question of procreation, I simply do not know why I would add a component to a life that feels pretty darn complete, especially if that component could drive a wedge between the person I chose as my partner and my teammate. And we have a very strong bond.
But then I wonder if any bond is strong enough to withstand the wear and tear that a child could potentially impart?
I think every bond is. And every bond is not.
There is a question to stay in, if I ever posed one.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Can't Win for Losing
I want to want to have children.
Circumstantially, it certainly appears that my (historically unruly) ducks are all lined up neatly on the path to procreation: I am 32 years old; I have been happily married for over four years; I am reasonably sane; I have a wonderfully supportive network of family and friends.
This network is so supportive; in fact, that they often take it upon themselves to personally assuage what they must collectively perceive to be deep-seated insecurity on my part in terms of my belief in my overall mothering capabilities. It is both heartwarming and unnerving to be so completely showered with compliments.
In fact, if you are ever suffering a bout of low self-esteem, announce to a group of family and friends that you do not want to have children and suddenly the room will be awash with unrelenting enthusiasm for even your most marginal attributes.
The irony to that situation is that I am, of course, deeply insecure about my own potential to be a mother. So, nice as it is to hear, no amount of flattery— sincere or fabricated—can change such a fundamental belief.
The reason I feel I harbor insecurities is not because I feel I would be destined to failure in such a role. I know that I would give parenting one hundred and twelve percent of my efforts if I ever chose that particular option in the choose your own adventure that is my life in progress. And then, I also realize that some of the outcome is simply not in my control. And I could accept that.
If I chose to be a mother.
My main problem is that I do not feel innately inclined to motherhood. I do not coo over babies, I do not feel my life is currently incomplete, my imagined future dreams simply do not have children in them. The whole notion petrifies me. I take this as a sign: I do believe is that I if I truly felt I was meant to be a mother, most of my fears would naturally subside.
Oddly, whenever I think about actually being a mother, I am somehow intellectually diverted to my longtime fear of heights (also both a prevalent and inexplicable concern). Perhaps my brain makes this seemingly unlikely connection because success on either account is hardly an abstract or intangible concept; these are clearly cases where doing is the only way to gauge preparedness.
I could allow myself to be talked into, say, skydiving, only to be dangling out of a tiny plane, all strapped up to a parachute and a guide/crazy lunatic who tumbles out into thin air several times a day. And then, guess what? My fear is now roaring out of control and there is only one way to go: down. Fast.
Of course, I feel comforted by the fact that I have never felt a visceral need or want to have children. For that matter, I have never felt compelled to go skydiving. And, in truth, I consider both pursuits to be largely optional, expensive, and unpredictable activities. So there you have it. Problem solved. See you on terra firma. Just not in Babies R Us.
Unfortunately, things are not so simple. For one thing, having arrived--rather abruptly, I might add--at my early thirties, many of my friends and peers are caught up in the throes of baby mania. Unlike when I was in junior high school and all my peers were absorbed by what I can only accurately describe as “foolish outfit and hair mania” (see the post on Dinosaur t-shirts for more information) this is not a case where I feel emulating my peers is the route to either personal or social success.
Yet what this situation has done is placed me in a personal pickle of sorts because now I actually must confront my own inner guilt at not wanting to procreate. Due to the particular place I am now occupying on the projected timeline of my life, it seems that this is a topic at the forefront. Therefore I find myself sort of forced to visit and revisit it on a somewhat regular basis.
Complicating matters is that a few years ago I had an unexpected health situation arise and ended up having to see a specialist in order to try to figure it out. So I went to a doctor. And another. And another. And another. Almost two years later I was still without diagnosis.
All was not lost though because through the process, I did gain adequate confirmation of what I had been long suspecting as an ardent House fan: medicine is a guessing game.
Ultimately, the “diagnosis,” after countless tests and retests was incredibly vague. The only piece of said diagnosis that everyone seemed to agree upon was that conceiving would be extremely difficult for me, if even possible.
Now, you might be thinking, well that worked out swimmingly. She did not want to have children and was feeling guilty about the whole situation and now biology has gone and made the decision easy for her. Case closed.
Except you might also remember that I only ever claimed to be “reasonably sane”--which, in my jargon is actually code for “utterly emotionally insane”--so I did what any “reasonably” sane person would do upon hearing news that could, ostensibly, make much of my inner emotional turmoil dissipate: I cried hysterically in the parking lot of the doctor’s office.
And then I decided I needed an objective opinion. If you read my last post then it will come as no surprise that I went to the reflexologist. You know, the natural next step. Yup, off to the basement of fairies and angels to be diagnosed by the foot/witch doctor.
In any case, she listened to my whole story about my issues and proclaimed that she would "cure" me. By the way, I feel it important to note here that the impetus for my visiting her was not because I wanted doctors to assure me of positive reproductive health, but that I wanted to stop being a human pin cushion obtaining nothing but unsatisfactory diagnosis after unsatisfactory diagnosis.
It was a great conversation. For example, she told me that of course my body was messed up since I had been tricking it into thinking I was pregnant with a baby horse for the ten years I was on the pill.
Yup.
She also offered advice: she felt I had to start eating copious amounts of orange colored foods. I left the office, went to the grocery store and bought bags of oranges and carrots, and was still straddling the fence between skepticism and optimism.
Two weeks later, after 22 months of medical uncertainty, I re-visited one of the specialists and was pronounced "cured."
Incidentally, a few months ago I was in Europe. I allowed myself to be cajoled into traveling to the top of an Alp in a ridiculously unstable looking cable car; because I was assured that the view and the experience would be life-altering (presumably in a good way). Again, as a “reasonably” sane person, I went into the little café before boarding the death contraption and ordered a beer. And a shot of what I think was pear schnapps.
I am nothing if not thorough.
In sum, I closed my eyes the entire way up the mountain, white-knuckling both the stability bar and the arm of my unfortunate neighbor, I exited at the top, took two steps onto the mountain, retreated back into the café (thank goodness those were plentiful), and ordered another beer.
It was a miserable experience and I was not glad I did it. I hope you can see where I am going with my analogy.
So, upon my return from Europe, I happened to go back to the reflexologist. Evidently, I just cannot stay away.
This time she was thrilled about the positive energy I was allegedly exuding. She was also exuberant over my “baby energy.” Despite my protests, she was adamant about the baby I was going to have in the future—a little girl. I told her that I had made peace with my non-nurturing disposition and that I was only starting to feel happy and clear about my path to non-motherhood. She smiled (mockingly?) and resigned herself by saying she just"felt it."
So I did what any reasonably sane person would do: I left her office, and cried hysterically.
Sometimes you just cannot win.
Circumstantially, it certainly appears that my (historically unruly) ducks are all lined up neatly on the path to procreation: I am 32 years old; I have been happily married for over four years; I am reasonably sane; I have a wonderfully supportive network of family and friends.
This network is so supportive; in fact, that they often take it upon themselves to personally assuage what they must collectively perceive to be deep-seated insecurity on my part in terms of my belief in my overall mothering capabilities. It is both heartwarming and unnerving to be so completely showered with compliments.
In fact, if you are ever suffering a bout of low self-esteem, announce to a group of family and friends that you do not want to have children and suddenly the room will be awash with unrelenting enthusiasm for even your most marginal attributes.
The irony to that situation is that I am, of course, deeply insecure about my own potential to be a mother. So, nice as it is to hear, no amount of flattery— sincere or fabricated—can change such a fundamental belief.
The reason I feel I harbor insecurities is not because I feel I would be destined to failure in such a role. I know that I would give parenting one hundred and twelve percent of my efforts if I ever chose that particular option in the choose your own adventure that is my life in progress. And then, I also realize that some of the outcome is simply not in my control. And I could accept that.
If I chose to be a mother.
My main problem is that I do not feel innately inclined to motherhood. I do not coo over babies, I do not feel my life is currently incomplete, my imagined future dreams simply do not have children in them. The whole notion petrifies me. I take this as a sign: I do believe is that I if I truly felt I was meant to be a mother, most of my fears would naturally subside.
Oddly, whenever I think about actually being a mother, I am somehow intellectually diverted to my longtime fear of heights (also both a prevalent and inexplicable concern). Perhaps my brain makes this seemingly unlikely connection because success on either account is hardly an abstract or intangible concept; these are clearly cases where doing is the only way to gauge preparedness.
I could allow myself to be talked into, say, skydiving, only to be dangling out of a tiny plane, all strapped up to a parachute and a guide/crazy lunatic who tumbles out into thin air several times a day. And then, guess what? My fear is now roaring out of control and there is only one way to go: down. Fast.
Of course, I feel comforted by the fact that I have never felt a visceral need or want to have children. For that matter, I have never felt compelled to go skydiving. And, in truth, I consider both pursuits to be largely optional, expensive, and unpredictable activities. So there you have it. Problem solved. See you on terra firma. Just not in Babies R Us.
Unfortunately, things are not so simple. For one thing, having arrived--rather abruptly, I might add--at my early thirties, many of my friends and peers are caught up in the throes of baby mania. Unlike when I was in junior high school and all my peers were absorbed by what I can only accurately describe as “foolish outfit and hair mania” (see the post on Dinosaur t-shirts for more information) this is not a case where I feel emulating my peers is the route to either personal or social success.
Yet what this situation has done is placed me in a personal pickle of sorts because now I actually must confront my own inner guilt at not wanting to procreate. Due to the particular place I am now occupying on the projected timeline of my life, it seems that this is a topic at the forefront. Therefore I find myself sort of forced to visit and revisit it on a somewhat regular basis.
Complicating matters is that a few years ago I had an unexpected health situation arise and ended up having to see a specialist in order to try to figure it out. So I went to a doctor. And another. And another. And another. Almost two years later I was still without diagnosis.
All was not lost though because through the process, I did gain adequate confirmation of what I had been long suspecting as an ardent House fan: medicine is a guessing game.
Ultimately, the “diagnosis,” after countless tests and retests was incredibly vague. The only piece of said diagnosis that everyone seemed to agree upon was that conceiving would be extremely difficult for me, if even possible.
Now, you might be thinking, well that worked out swimmingly. She did not want to have children and was feeling guilty about the whole situation and now biology has gone and made the decision easy for her. Case closed.
Except you might also remember that I only ever claimed to be “reasonably sane”--which, in my jargon is actually code for “utterly emotionally insane”--so I did what any “reasonably” sane person would do upon hearing news that could, ostensibly, make much of my inner emotional turmoil dissipate: I cried hysterically in the parking lot of the doctor’s office.
And then I decided I needed an objective opinion. If you read my last post then it will come as no surprise that I went to the reflexologist. You know, the natural next step. Yup, off to the basement of fairies and angels to be diagnosed by the foot/witch doctor.
In any case, she listened to my whole story about my issues and proclaimed that she would "cure" me. By the way, I feel it important to note here that the impetus for my visiting her was not because I wanted doctors to assure me of positive reproductive health, but that I wanted to stop being a human pin cushion obtaining nothing but unsatisfactory diagnosis after unsatisfactory diagnosis.
It was a great conversation. For example, she told me that of course my body was messed up since I had been tricking it into thinking I was pregnant with a baby horse for the ten years I was on the pill.
Yup.
She also offered advice: she felt I had to start eating copious amounts of orange colored foods. I left the office, went to the grocery store and bought bags of oranges and carrots, and was still straddling the fence between skepticism and optimism.
Two weeks later, after 22 months of medical uncertainty, I re-visited one of the specialists and was pronounced "cured."
Incidentally, a few months ago I was in Europe. I allowed myself to be cajoled into traveling to the top of an Alp in a ridiculously unstable looking cable car; because I was assured that the view and the experience would be life-altering (presumably in a good way). Again, as a “reasonably” sane person, I went into the little café before boarding the death contraption and ordered a beer. And a shot of what I think was pear schnapps.
I am nothing if not thorough.
In sum, I closed my eyes the entire way up the mountain, white-knuckling both the stability bar and the arm of my unfortunate neighbor, I exited at the top, took two steps onto the mountain, retreated back into the café (thank goodness those were plentiful), and ordered another beer.
It was a miserable experience and I was not glad I did it. I hope you can see where I am going with my analogy.
So, upon my return from Europe, I happened to go back to the reflexologist. Evidently, I just cannot stay away.
This time she was thrilled about the positive energy I was allegedly exuding. She was also exuberant over my “baby energy.” Despite my protests, she was adamant about the baby I was going to have in the future—a little girl. I told her that I had made peace with my non-nurturing disposition and that I was only starting to feel happy and clear about my path to non-motherhood. She smiled (mockingly?) and resigned herself by saying she just"felt it."
So I did what any reasonably sane person would do: I left her office, and cried hysterically.
Sometimes you just cannot win.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
So the book is about...
Lately, I have been receiving a lot of questions about the book I am writing.
I imagine this influx of curiosity is due to vigor with which I attempt to force everyone and anyone with whom I communicate to read my blog. Rather generously, these victims are choosing to believe that my relentless enthusiasm for my own blog could not merely be narcissistic—that my inane coersion must actually have a point. They want to know what is at the bottom of this blogging, and assume my point, my raison d’etre, lies within the book. That seems reasonable to me.
But truthfully, book or no book, I just want people to read my blog. I would like it if people read my blog religiously and looked forward to their daily dose, the way a sugar addict looks forward to chocolate. Really, I would just like for my blog to complete people—like Dorothy Boyd did for Jerry Maguire.
The nice thing about me is that I have always had reasonable expectations for my life.
But about the book--I officially and absolutely decided to write a book on the day I celebrated my 32nd birthday. It actually was my 32nd birthday, so the celebration made a certain degree of sense.
A week prior to my birthday, I went to see a reflexologist who I visited in part because having your feet massaged is a strange and unusual pleasure, but mostly because I was seeking some objective life guidance.
Incidentally, I am often seeking objective life guidance from a seemingly endless stream of sources, each of whom possesses a special set of skills differing from my own special set of skills (TBD, in my case) and therefore rendering them qualified to opine on my situation. Often times these quests are inadvertent intentions, and seem to be largely driven by my subconscious. And often times they surprise me in both theory and actuality.
For example it is only when I am fully reclined in what I suspect to be a former dentist’s chair in a basement room where the décor is rife with images of angels and butterflies, incense is wafting around, and my left foot is in the hand of the stranger whose “office” I am now soliciting, that I wonder: “How did this ever come about?” My role in my own life at times seems so removed that I have wondered if I am being beamed away during sleep.
Oddly, I have moments like these quite frequently.
Now, if you subscribe to the sort of new age thinking that there are no mistakes, then I suppose my finding myself in these unusual situations is not due to any sort of fluke, but could rather be interpreted as times when I am being governed by my “true” self or my “higher” self. Yet in plain, non-spiritual, skeptical English (my personal tone of choice), what is going on is as follows: I find myself in strange situations because I am a strange situation personified.
In short, I am a bit of a mess.
I seem to be flailing through life, trying to make heads and tails of the meaning of it all, and often feeling like I am making no headway. What I have not yet done is to have figured out how to wrestle my gremlins, decide upon a color for my parachute, and/or learn what to expect when I am not interested in expecting whatsoever. These "failures" have consumed me for years. And why?
I haven't the foggiest now that I am really thinking about it.
So this realization struck me as I stared at my foot and the stranger holding it: I am a hot mess and I must write a book about it.
And it is not just about me, by the way. Narcissism aside.
As I engage in conversation with other women, I continually find that we all seem to focus on the areas of our lives where we feel we have somehow "failed." We all have our own specific set of expectations, yet we all seem to hold ourselves to standards that are absurdly high, and often inhuman. While the opportunities available to women are plentiful and appreciated beyond measure, it is exhausting to live in a society that is constantly touting how we can, and indeed should, "have it all." To feel that if we do not take advantage of each and every way it means to be a modern woman, then we are somehow falling short.
I propose that maybe we do not need it all. Maybe we do not want it all. And maybe we would feel a lot better if we came to terms with the fact that what we are, what we have, and what we are doing is just great.
Of course we can be grateful for the society in which we live, but we also need to recoginize our limitations, lest we spend the bulk of our lives measuring out our failures in coffeespoons, Prufrock style.
Or, as in my case, we trundle off to another basement of fairies, angels, and foot doctors to seek the answers from another patchouli-scented sage and leave somewhat inspired and somewhat disappointed. It is a new age sort of hamster wheel.
And let me tell you something: I want off that particular wheel. Hamsters are far worse than birds in my book. Ew.
So my book is about how we can (happily) come to terms with being who we are without spending so much time worrying about who we are not. Sound interesting?
I imagine this influx of curiosity is due to vigor with which I attempt to force everyone and anyone with whom I communicate to read my blog. Rather generously, these victims are choosing to believe that my relentless enthusiasm for my own blog could not merely be narcissistic—that my inane coersion must actually have a point. They want to know what is at the bottom of this blogging, and assume my point, my raison d’etre, lies within the book. That seems reasonable to me.
But truthfully, book or no book, I just want people to read my blog. I would like it if people read my blog religiously and looked forward to their daily dose, the way a sugar addict looks forward to chocolate. Really, I would just like for my blog to complete people—like Dorothy Boyd did for Jerry Maguire.
The nice thing about me is that I have always had reasonable expectations for my life.
But about the book--I officially and absolutely decided to write a book on the day I celebrated my 32nd birthday. It actually was my 32nd birthday, so the celebration made a certain degree of sense.
A week prior to my birthday, I went to see a reflexologist who I visited in part because having your feet massaged is a strange and unusual pleasure, but mostly because I was seeking some objective life guidance.
Incidentally, I am often seeking objective life guidance from a seemingly endless stream of sources, each of whom possesses a special set of skills differing from my own special set of skills (TBD, in my case) and therefore rendering them qualified to opine on my situation. Often times these quests are inadvertent intentions, and seem to be largely driven by my subconscious. And often times they surprise me in both theory and actuality.
For example it is only when I am fully reclined in what I suspect to be a former dentist’s chair in a basement room where the décor is rife with images of angels and butterflies, incense is wafting around, and my left foot is in the hand of the stranger whose “office” I am now soliciting, that I wonder: “How did this ever come about?” My role in my own life at times seems so removed that I have wondered if I am being beamed away during sleep.
Oddly, I have moments like these quite frequently.
Now, if you subscribe to the sort of new age thinking that there are no mistakes, then I suppose my finding myself in these unusual situations is not due to any sort of fluke, but could rather be interpreted as times when I am being governed by my “true” self or my “higher” self. Yet in plain, non-spiritual, skeptical English (my personal tone of choice), what is going on is as follows: I find myself in strange situations because I am a strange situation personified.
In short, I am a bit of a mess.
I seem to be flailing through life, trying to make heads and tails of the meaning of it all, and often feeling like I am making no headway. What I have not yet done is to have figured out how to wrestle my gremlins, decide upon a color for my parachute, and/or learn what to expect when I am not interested in expecting whatsoever. These "failures" have consumed me for years. And why?
I haven't the foggiest now that I am really thinking about it.
So this realization struck me as I stared at my foot and the stranger holding it: I am a hot mess and I must write a book about it.
And it is not just about me, by the way. Narcissism aside.
As I engage in conversation with other women, I continually find that we all seem to focus on the areas of our lives where we feel we have somehow "failed." We all have our own specific set of expectations, yet we all seem to hold ourselves to standards that are absurdly high, and often inhuman. While the opportunities available to women are plentiful and appreciated beyond measure, it is exhausting to live in a society that is constantly touting how we can, and indeed should, "have it all." To feel that if we do not take advantage of each and every way it means to be a modern woman, then we are somehow falling short.
I propose that maybe we do not need it all. Maybe we do not want it all. And maybe we would feel a lot better if we came to terms with the fact that what we are, what we have, and what we are doing is just great.
Of course we can be grateful for the society in which we live, but we also need to recoginize our limitations, lest we spend the bulk of our lives measuring out our failures in coffeespoons, Prufrock style.
Or, as in my case, we trundle off to another basement of fairies, angels, and foot doctors to seek the answers from another patchouli-scented sage and leave somewhat inspired and somewhat disappointed. It is a new age sort of hamster wheel.
And let me tell you something: I want off that particular wheel. Hamsters are far worse than birds in my book. Ew.
So my book is about how we can (happily) come to terms with being who we are without spending so much time worrying about who we are not. Sound interesting?
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Loving Your Problems
My brother recently sent me a list of quotations/life advice as delivered by a woman in her 90’s. Though unequivocally heterosexual, he just loves cheesy quotation e-mail forwards. I do not.
But I loved this one.
The reason I loved it is that it just rang true on so many levels. It seemed to simplify this complicated business of life without discrediting the complications themselves. That sounds more confusing than it is, I promise.
With regards to this woman’s credibility, it stands to reason that if you have reached your ninth decade on this lovely planet, then you have likely weathered a few storms. You must have therefore acquired some knowledge worth sharing with the less experienced youngsters of the world. My personal sentiment is that if you are 90 and you have something to say, anything to say, I feel it is only fair that the rest of us prick up our ears.
While any of the items on the list of about 50 or so are worth exploring, one sticks out at this moment for me: she wrote that if we were all to throw our problems into a ring and then had a chance to look around at everyone else’s problems, we would grab ours back in a second. I am paraphrasing, but you get the gist.
This idea struck a chord with me because lately, I seem to be having so many conversations with a whole variety of people about life’s difficulties, human struggle, and individual effort and frustrations. I am not merely hanging around with a group of victim/martyr complainers (my friend Kevin Morrissey wisely advised me to run from those people like the wind). The truth is that people have valid struggles in their lives every day. I do. You do. We all do.
How “big” the struggle is not a matter of actual measurement, but rather subjective to our own personal sense of perception and relativity. No matter what, on any given day, we will all have problems. No one’s are worse or better, or more or less valid, than the person to your left or to your right.
And yes, that includes those with scads of money in their bank account, the exceptionally physically attractive, and/or those who are extremely gifted in any facet of life.
But let me propose an idea. It is not a particularly new idea, yet it is one that seems to have a certain amount of trouble “sticking.”
Maybe we do not have problems at all. Maybe each and every so called “problem” is really an opportunity, a challenge, a chance for change. Maybe it is a matter of reframing our perspective.
Consider that without the hills, bumps, and climbs, there would be no breathtaking views, no new standpoints, and, most importantly, no more coasting down on the other side. And often the coasting is so worthwhile and enjoyable that the arduous journey becomes a faded and distant memory.
It seems popular culture is saturated right now with people and things offering words about how to live your life to its fullest, how to attract success and happiness. You might not be open to hearing one more word about it, because it might be very true that your hill, whatever it may be, looms especially large right now.
At least, that is how I have been feeling feeling recently. Cognitively, I know the importance of optimism, the laws of attraction, and all that jazz. I believe in it all, and I know on some base level that life is an incredible journey and a gift to be treasured.
Sometimes, however, life just seems to be handing me lemons. Or throwing them at my head, as it were.
For example, lately, one “hill” certainly seemed to be casting a shadow over my life. My issue: I am making a concerted effort to write as much as possible, and therefore pouring so much of myself out into my writing—including this blog. I love to write, but it is also terrifying to me to put myself out there, so to speak. Why? Because the realization was creeping up on me as that dark shadow of the growing hill that maybe no one will ever read or (worse) care to read my work.
And it is not all about external validation, although I would be kidding myself to pretend that is not a component of my fear. It is mainly about the great horrible question—a question to which I both seek and avoid the answer. The question: what if I have nothing worthwhile to say? The underlying implication of course is that if I have nothing worthwhile to say, what am I doing with all of this writing?
What if my following my passion, as I feel I am doing, results in no great success--as all of those darned self-help books have endlessly promised me? What then?
I am telling you my problem seemed, to me, like a pretty big problem. Maybe to many people it seems piddly, childish, and disproportionate to whatever “real” problems they have. You might even be thinking: “That is it? That is this girl’s big problem? I can trump that in a millisecond.” Maybe you can.
Although take a moment to ask yourself why you would want to.
But let me tell you then that I have struggled for years with wondering if I am a person of talent, if I am a person who has anything to offer this world, if I can be successful in this culture where our worth as human beings is so often measured by the label on our business card or the car in our driveway.
And then I have to wonder: what is success really? Just like “problem,” it is a subjective term. I often become caught up in what I think “success” ought to look like, and I frequently feel I fall short. And why do I feel that way? Maybe because as human beings, we place so much stock in the “successes” of others as a way of either validating or nullifying our own place in life.
Life is really a lot of smoke and mirrors. No matter how great it seems others have it, consider the wisdom in that 90 year old woman’s words: it might very well be the case that those so-called “lucky” people are in possession of problems under the weight of which you might collapse. And that is why you have your specific set. That is why I have my specific set.
Now, as I wonder about my struggles with feeling “successful,” with my fears of letting out my inner self to a resounding echo of nothing, I realize that my problems are mine for a reason. They might even be pretty good problems comparatively. And so, I am choosing to look at them as an opportunity.
That being said, I am now redefining what “success” means to me, and it is proving a new hill for me to climb. It is difficult to cut out the extraneous noise of the world that wants to tell me what is “good” or “bad,” what is “normal” or “weird,” what is “success” and what is “failure.” But I am choosing to look at my current big “problem” as a challenge, as a door opening to something new and wonderful.
As I allowed myself to reframe my specific issue, the truth became clear fairly quickly. The truth is that I am writing for myself, because I love it and it is my passion. That alone, without anyone else’s opinion or validation, makes my pursuit a success.
How ironic: I love my problem. Without it, I would not be feeling the way I feel right now. And how do I feel? Like a success.
So now, I invite you to take your biggest, looming, issue and just for one day, for one week, or even just for one hour re-frame it as a positive entity. I hope you will try it. We all deserve to be successes. And, as I look at you from my new place on the hill, I can promise you that we all already are. It is just a matter of perspective.
But I loved this one.
The reason I loved it is that it just rang true on so many levels. It seemed to simplify this complicated business of life without discrediting the complications themselves. That sounds more confusing than it is, I promise.
With regards to this woman’s credibility, it stands to reason that if you have reached your ninth decade on this lovely planet, then you have likely weathered a few storms. You must have therefore acquired some knowledge worth sharing with the less experienced youngsters of the world. My personal sentiment is that if you are 90 and you have something to say, anything to say, I feel it is only fair that the rest of us prick up our ears.
While any of the items on the list of about 50 or so are worth exploring, one sticks out at this moment for me: she wrote that if we were all to throw our problems into a ring and then had a chance to look around at everyone else’s problems, we would grab ours back in a second. I am paraphrasing, but you get the gist.
This idea struck a chord with me because lately, I seem to be having so many conversations with a whole variety of people about life’s difficulties, human struggle, and individual effort and frustrations. I am not merely hanging around with a group of victim/martyr complainers (my friend Kevin Morrissey wisely advised me to run from those people like the wind). The truth is that people have valid struggles in their lives every day. I do. You do. We all do.
How “big” the struggle is not a matter of actual measurement, but rather subjective to our own personal sense of perception and relativity. No matter what, on any given day, we will all have problems. No one’s are worse or better, or more or less valid, than the person to your left or to your right.
And yes, that includes those with scads of money in their bank account, the exceptionally physically attractive, and/or those who are extremely gifted in any facet of life.
But let me propose an idea. It is not a particularly new idea, yet it is one that seems to have a certain amount of trouble “sticking.”
Maybe we do not have problems at all. Maybe each and every so called “problem” is really an opportunity, a challenge, a chance for change. Maybe it is a matter of reframing our perspective.
Consider that without the hills, bumps, and climbs, there would be no breathtaking views, no new standpoints, and, most importantly, no more coasting down on the other side. And often the coasting is so worthwhile and enjoyable that the arduous journey becomes a faded and distant memory.
It seems popular culture is saturated right now with people and things offering words about how to live your life to its fullest, how to attract success and happiness. You might not be open to hearing one more word about it, because it might be very true that your hill, whatever it may be, looms especially large right now.
At least, that is how I have been feeling feeling recently. Cognitively, I know the importance of optimism, the laws of attraction, and all that jazz. I believe in it all, and I know on some base level that life is an incredible journey and a gift to be treasured.
Sometimes, however, life just seems to be handing me lemons. Or throwing them at my head, as it were.
For example, lately, one “hill” certainly seemed to be casting a shadow over my life. My issue: I am making a concerted effort to write as much as possible, and therefore pouring so much of myself out into my writing—including this blog. I love to write, but it is also terrifying to me to put myself out there, so to speak. Why? Because the realization was creeping up on me as that dark shadow of the growing hill that maybe no one will ever read or (worse) care to read my work.
And it is not all about external validation, although I would be kidding myself to pretend that is not a component of my fear. It is mainly about the great horrible question—a question to which I both seek and avoid the answer. The question: what if I have nothing worthwhile to say? The underlying implication of course is that if I have nothing worthwhile to say, what am I doing with all of this writing?
What if my following my passion, as I feel I am doing, results in no great success--as all of those darned self-help books have endlessly promised me? What then?
I am telling you my problem seemed, to me, like a pretty big problem. Maybe to many people it seems piddly, childish, and disproportionate to whatever “real” problems they have. You might even be thinking: “That is it? That is this girl’s big problem? I can trump that in a millisecond.” Maybe you can.
Although take a moment to ask yourself why you would want to.
But let me tell you then that I have struggled for years with wondering if I am a person of talent, if I am a person who has anything to offer this world, if I can be successful in this culture where our worth as human beings is so often measured by the label on our business card or the car in our driveway.
And then I have to wonder: what is success really? Just like “problem,” it is a subjective term. I often become caught up in what I think “success” ought to look like, and I frequently feel I fall short. And why do I feel that way? Maybe because as human beings, we place so much stock in the “successes” of others as a way of either validating or nullifying our own place in life.
Life is really a lot of smoke and mirrors. No matter how great it seems others have it, consider the wisdom in that 90 year old woman’s words: it might very well be the case that those so-called “lucky” people are in possession of problems under the weight of which you might collapse. And that is why you have your specific set. That is why I have my specific set.
Now, as I wonder about my struggles with feeling “successful,” with my fears of letting out my inner self to a resounding echo of nothing, I realize that my problems are mine for a reason. They might even be pretty good problems comparatively. And so, I am choosing to look at them as an opportunity.
That being said, I am now redefining what “success” means to me, and it is proving a new hill for me to climb. It is difficult to cut out the extraneous noise of the world that wants to tell me what is “good” or “bad,” what is “normal” or “weird,” what is “success” and what is “failure.” But I am choosing to look at my current big “problem” as a challenge, as a door opening to something new and wonderful.
As I allowed myself to reframe my specific issue, the truth became clear fairly quickly. The truth is that I am writing for myself, because I love it and it is my passion. That alone, without anyone else’s opinion or validation, makes my pursuit a success.
How ironic: I love my problem. Without it, I would not be feeling the way I feel right now. And how do I feel? Like a success.
So now, I invite you to take your biggest, looming, issue and just for one day, for one week, or even just for one hour re-frame it as a positive entity. I hope you will try it. We all deserve to be successes. And, as I look at you from my new place on the hill, I can promise you that we all already are. It is just a matter of perspective.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Stealing is Wrong
Part I—Stealing from the ‘Sphere
However—and this information is for the benefit of those who are perhaps unfamiliar with what is entailed when on the phone with someone—she was not actually privy to either my exact physical location nor to my current state of being. My uncharacteristic flirtation with that entity we all know as danger was therefore not what was bothering her.
Rather, she was worried about my safety with regards to the expanse of intangible terrain dubbed the “blogosphere.” As a new fan to blogs, courtesy of yours truly, my mother had some valid questions regarding the overall security of the whole enterprise. Her most recent worry was whether or not my “information” was safe.
From a personal standpoint, I could appreciate her concern: I am a quasi-control freak prone to suspicion and paranoia (my current position walking alone and unarmed down a dark street offers some insight as to how those little personality quirks are perpetuated). Moreover, I found her worry to be deeply touching, if not a bit misinformed. My mother, it seems, is under the impression that hordes of unknown people actually read my blog, and are therefore privy to my “information.”
She really thinks I have a genuine readership. How sweet is that?
I reassured her that, while I appreciated her concern, it was really a non-issue. My readership primarily consists of my friends and family—most of whom I verbally and virtually strong-arm into reading my blog by repeatedly providing them with the link in any and every manner available. I then pepper them with questions to gauge their devotion. Aside from stroking my own ego, it is also a nice way to assess their levels of reading comprehension. With my rigorous quizzing, I bet my readers could score 200 points higher on the verbal section of standardized tests. Kaplan ought to consider hiring me, really.
By way of assuaging my mother’s fear, I offer a major point of consideration. If a member of my readership really wanted to steal any of my personal information, or anything I own for that matter, they could do so fairly easily. Like the next time they have dinner at my house for example. After a couple of glasses of wine, I would be ripe for a good hoodwinking. All things considered, that just seems an easier and more straight-forward strategy than going through all of the virtual red tape that must be involved when heisting things from the blogosphere. Just pour me a glass of chardonnay, sneak into my office, open my filing cabinet, and doctor up a few documents. Voila. You, too, can become Margaret White.
But my mother’s concern was less about my social security number or identification being stolen, and was actually rooted in a fear that people would start stealing my material. That they would start profiting from my life stories.
As in they might cut and paste my little tales and gems of wisdom and sell them at some sort of underground trading post, perhaps making heaps of money while innocent me continued to blog away, unawares that my life itself was being looted from right under my nose.
Like me, my mother is not altogether sure how “out there” a person becomes when they are “out there” in the blogosphere. Unlike me, she is convinced that people everywhere are hanging on my every post, waiting to get their grubby little paws on my ideas and take off into the blog-o-abyss.
Not to belabor the point, but it really is sweet. If you are not a little bit touched by my mother’s pride, then you must be a cactus.
Part II – Stealing from the ‘Sphere
First off, if someone was stealing my material, then I would not be angry so much as I would be flattered. It would mean that I had material worth stealing. It would mean that beings other than my mom, dogs, and occasionally my husband, find me witty and interesting. Maybe even brilliant.
Sorry. I got a little carried away there. It seems the air out here in blogosphere is a little oxygen-deprived.
Secondly, I can take solace in knowing that these hooligans could not go on stealing from me forever. Karma would prove an obstacle sooner or later. I am a big believer in karma. If you are reading my entries, then this is something about which you are already aware. If it comes as a surprise to you, then you ought to brush up on my old posts because you will likely be quizzed when we next speak. The main point is that people will get their come-uppance one way or another. Stealing is wrong, people.
For instance, my band of mythical thieving robbers would find themselves in a bit of a pickle if I suddenly stopped blogging or went missing and the well, so to speak, ran dry. Then what?
Thirdly, I have to concede the small logistical issue that I have no idea how to stop people from doing whatever it is they want to do. Especially when whatever it is they want to do involves the inner workings of technology. I was once convinced, after reading an article in Boston magazine about phone hackers, that I was being phone-hacked. I was not. If you have ever spoken to me on the phone, this fact ought to come as little surprise. But the imagined dilemma begs the question: if I were being phone hacked, what would I do to either verify the transgression or to catch the hacker?
I will tell you what: exactly nothing. There are some jobs for which I am simply not qualified. And ignorance can be bliss after all. As with the phone-hacking, if you want to steal my material, then you will likely just do it, no matter what kind of measures I take to protect myself because I frankly would not understand how or why you would be doing it.
Before you decide my technological ineptitude equals your green light to take my goods, I want to make you aware of your own stupidity. Aside from issues of morality and cosmic punishment, consider your own sense of pride. Do you really want to be caught stealing from me? I mean who am I? Compared to people I know, I am quite boring, I could easily give you five to seven names of people whose material is much more worth pilfering.
My brother, for example. Boy, that guy has some STORIES.
Finally, in this day and age where everyone likes to sue everyone else, do not think that suing the pants off a snarky material stealer is beneath me. Actually, sometimes I am big on talk, small on action. This is one of those times. I would likely never sue anyone. People who sue other people are generally sort of bold and rebellious. I am unsure if you know anything about me and my history with being bold and rebellious.
But historically, I have been neither bold nor rebellious.
Now, if you want to buy my stories, J Peterman style, then you are welcome to do so. We can set up a meeting at a mutually convenient time. In fact, I bet I could get my brother to throw in some of his stories and we might be able to work out some sort of limited time offer on a twofer.
But seriously, do not steal, lie, or cheat—off of me or anyone else for that matter. It just is not nice and I promise it will bite you in the butt in the end. Like a killer cat on a quiet street. You know what I am saying, you true blue readers.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Finding Sense in the Nonsense
I often wonder how and why I have arrived at this particular place in my life at this particular time in my life.
You may be interested to know that the answer is always the same: I have no idea how or why.
What I do know is that I like to laugh at all the errors I made along the way to becoming the person I am today. The errors will likely be funnier when I can appreciate them from a place of being wholly successful, wholly content, and/or wholly self-aware.
Wholly whole, I suppose, is the goal here.
But right now I will just have to settle for holey whole.
If you are as awkward as me, then you can understand that there was quite a lot to laugh at before I became the partial-butterfly with big aspirations that I am this very day. One such period of time came to mind as I was leafing through a photo album recently.
In 1990, I was twelve, I was in sixth grade, and I was an active participant in perpetuating what I can view in retrospect as being a rather abysmal t-shirt movement of the times. What I did not realize then, and have only just begun to understood now, is how this whole t-shirt debacle was indicative of my general development as a human being.
As a middle-schooler in a Massachusetts suburb in 1990, t-shirts were very big. Literally. There was an art to wearing the t-shirt, and the first criterion was to wear your t-shirts approximately five sizes too large, tuck them into your pants and then “blouse” them out. It was then essential that the sleeves be rolled two to three times. It seems rather counterintuitive to have to roll up the sleeves and thereby completely strip the garment of its main practical purpose, but fashion is a long and loyal friend to irony, I suppose. Of equal significance to the manner in which the shirt was worn, were the actual brands involved. “Vaurnet” t-shirts, preferably exhibiting multiple neon colors, were quite popular, as were “Co-ed Naked” t-shirts.
The latter variety had terribly hokey and mildly perverse sayings that somehow translated as being scandalous to most adolescents (and were therefore extremely cool), and innocuous enough that parents or school administrations could not easily ban them. Additionally, and at the heart of my recollections, there were these ridiculous t-shirts which featured, perplexing as this fact remains, dinosaurs engaging in various sporting activities.
The idea behind these “Saurus” shirts was to wear the t-shirt with the specific dinosaur that was pursuing your particular athletic activity of choice, and the words “Football-a-Saurus” or “Ballet-a-Saurus” or whatever was below the illustration of the dinosaur wearing and carting around the appropriate equipment for the cited endeavor.
I wonder now if this t-shirt line was limited to only stegosaurus, brontosaurus, and whatever other members of the dinosaur species possessing names ending in “-saurus.” I cannot recall a pterodactyl being depicted, but I could be wrong. That being said, I would understand if someone who sported a “Basketball-a-Dactyl” now felt resentful towards me.
Something that eludes me entirely is how, where, and why a dinosaur made the final cut as the featured mascot. Admittedly, at the time I did not think about it, but just accepted it as cool. Now that I am considering the reasoning behind the selection, I am baffled. Who wants to be a dinosaur? And, how exactly are dinosaurs acceptable emblems for athleticism? As you may have guessed, I am not an expert on prehistoric creatures; however, I have seen Jurassic Park. Frankly the dinosaurs stomping around in that film were hardly displaying qualities typically associated with athletic competence. They seem neither particularly agile nor especially coordinated. As with so many of life’s unsolved mysteries, I feel I am missing a vital piece of the puzzle.
In any case, my brother had “Tennis-a-Saurus” and “Hockey-a-Saurus” t-shirts. This situation made sense as he was quite involved in and exceptionally good at both sports. My best friend, a gifted athlete, did not even seek the shirts out, but was given, on various occasions, a “Soccer-a-Saurus” a “Swim-a-Saurus” and what seemed like a host of other, apt, “Saurus” shirts she could wear with effortless pride. I remember wanting desperately to wear a t-shirt of my own that revealed my specific athletic talents to the world and proclaimed me as a part of a recognizable group. Unfortunately, there was not a sport with which I identified, or one for which I showed any real aptitude.
They did not make (oddly enough), a “Reading-a-Saurus,” which probably would have been the best suited shirt for me, although it would not have been a very cool proclamation by middle school standards. Evidently, and just like the cool crowds I have witnessed in both various movies and in the real life drama of junior high school, these saurus’s were not terribly scholarly, just quite sporty.
Now, as I write these words, it seems evident that these shirts were representative of a hope to prove that I belonged somewhere and somehow. It is true that the shirts themselves were nothing more than an utterly unfortunate trend of the early 1990’s, but they were also indicative of something larger. I wanted to wear a t-shirt to fit in on a merely superficial “fashionable” level, but I also wanted to secure a sense of validation that I was good at something, and that, as a result, I was making a valuable contribution to the world.
I can ascertain that, subconsciously, it was an incredibly appealing prospect to know enough about myself and the talents I possessed had to offer that I could wear it on my chest. It was an appealing concept at the insecure age of twelve. Frankly, it is appealing now, at the equally but differently insecure age of 32. It was disappointing that I could not find the shirt that accurately represented my talents and proficiencies when it seemed like others were proclaiming them with ease and pride all over the place.
Now, as I often grasp at straws to make sense of what my exact contributions are to this world, I am astounded that those same feelings still rear their (dinosaur?) heads with alarming frequency.
In the end, I wound up with a rather sad little collection consisting of two “Saurus” t-shirts. They were both inapplicable to my life and it felt terribly unsatisfying, even fraudulent, to wear the shirts. Frankly, it was depressing to try to fit a mold for which I was so clearly not cast. They did not accurately sum me up, and now I see that no t-shirt could, can, or ever will. Although when I think of myself at age twelve, I do think a brontosaurus with a frizzy hair and braces, clutching a book with the words “Awkward-a-Saurus” below it might not have been that far off.
Then or today—minus the braces.
Improbably enough, it seems that some pretty deep soul searching can be inspired from a dinosaur playing field hockey. The transparency of the desire for acceptance is quite apparent now. Of course, in adolescence we are constantly questioning and evolving because we truly do not have any idea who we are or who we will be. Yet there is a definite undercurrent of feeling pressured to know something about yourself and how you will make an indelible contribution to the world in general. At age twelve, I was not yet aware that success is not all about athletic prowess—nor did I seem to know that it is not at all about sporty dinosaurs.
Countless other material possessions dubbed as “cool” or “necessary” have been (and doubtlessly will be) encountered in any given day, month, or year. In retrospect, they are often amusing, occasionally mortifying, and sometimes completely forgotten. Those shirts represented a vehicle expediting the messy business that is belonging. Remembering them now is a humorous reminder that the path to feeling like a validated and valued human being is about as inexplicable, unpredictable, and absurd as a ballet-dancing dinosaur.
You may be interested to know that the answer is always the same: I have no idea how or why.
What I do know is that I like to laugh at all the errors I made along the way to becoming the person I am today. The errors will likely be funnier when I can appreciate them from a place of being wholly successful, wholly content, and/or wholly self-aware.
Wholly whole, I suppose, is the goal here.
But right now I will just have to settle for holey whole.
If you are as awkward as me, then you can understand that there was quite a lot to laugh at before I became the partial-butterfly with big aspirations that I am this very day. One such period of time came to mind as I was leafing through a photo album recently.
In 1990, I was twelve, I was in sixth grade, and I was an active participant in perpetuating what I can view in retrospect as being a rather abysmal t-shirt movement of the times. What I did not realize then, and have only just begun to understood now, is how this whole t-shirt debacle was indicative of my general development as a human being.
As a middle-schooler in a Massachusetts suburb in 1990, t-shirts were very big. Literally. There was an art to wearing the t-shirt, and the first criterion was to wear your t-shirts approximately five sizes too large, tuck them into your pants and then “blouse” them out. It was then essential that the sleeves be rolled two to three times. It seems rather counterintuitive to have to roll up the sleeves and thereby completely strip the garment of its main practical purpose, but fashion is a long and loyal friend to irony, I suppose. Of equal significance to the manner in which the shirt was worn, were the actual brands involved. “Vaurnet” t-shirts, preferably exhibiting multiple neon colors, were quite popular, as were “Co-ed Naked” t-shirts.
The latter variety had terribly hokey and mildly perverse sayings that somehow translated as being scandalous to most adolescents (and were therefore extremely cool), and innocuous enough that parents or school administrations could not easily ban them. Additionally, and at the heart of my recollections, there were these ridiculous t-shirts which featured, perplexing as this fact remains, dinosaurs engaging in various sporting activities.
The idea behind these “Saurus” shirts was to wear the t-shirt with the specific dinosaur that was pursuing your particular athletic activity of choice, and the words “Football-a-Saurus” or “Ballet-a-Saurus” or whatever was below the illustration of the dinosaur wearing and carting around the appropriate equipment for the cited endeavor.
I wonder now if this t-shirt line was limited to only stegosaurus, brontosaurus, and whatever other members of the dinosaur species possessing names ending in “-saurus.” I cannot recall a pterodactyl being depicted, but I could be wrong. That being said, I would understand if someone who sported a “Basketball-a-Dactyl” now felt resentful towards me.
Something that eludes me entirely is how, where, and why a dinosaur made the final cut as the featured mascot. Admittedly, at the time I did not think about it, but just accepted it as cool. Now that I am considering the reasoning behind the selection, I am baffled. Who wants to be a dinosaur? And, how exactly are dinosaurs acceptable emblems for athleticism? As you may have guessed, I am not an expert on prehistoric creatures; however, I have seen Jurassic Park. Frankly the dinosaurs stomping around in that film were hardly displaying qualities typically associated with athletic competence. They seem neither particularly agile nor especially coordinated. As with so many of life’s unsolved mysteries, I feel I am missing a vital piece of the puzzle.
In any case, my brother had “Tennis-a-Saurus” and “Hockey-a-Saurus” t-shirts. This situation made sense as he was quite involved in and exceptionally good at both sports. My best friend, a gifted athlete, did not even seek the shirts out, but was given, on various occasions, a “Soccer-a-Saurus” a “Swim-a-Saurus” and what seemed like a host of other, apt, “Saurus” shirts she could wear with effortless pride. I remember wanting desperately to wear a t-shirt of my own that revealed my specific athletic talents to the world and proclaimed me as a part of a recognizable group. Unfortunately, there was not a sport with which I identified, or one for which I showed any real aptitude.
They did not make (oddly enough), a “Reading-a-Saurus,” which probably would have been the best suited shirt for me, although it would not have been a very cool proclamation by middle school standards. Evidently, and just like the cool crowds I have witnessed in both various movies and in the real life drama of junior high school, these saurus’s were not terribly scholarly, just quite sporty.
Now, as I write these words, it seems evident that these shirts were representative of a hope to prove that I belonged somewhere and somehow. It is true that the shirts themselves were nothing more than an utterly unfortunate trend of the early 1990’s, but they were also indicative of something larger. I wanted to wear a t-shirt to fit in on a merely superficial “fashionable” level, but I also wanted to secure a sense of validation that I was good at something, and that, as a result, I was making a valuable contribution to the world.
I can ascertain that, subconsciously, it was an incredibly appealing prospect to know enough about myself and the talents I possessed had to offer that I could wear it on my chest. It was an appealing concept at the insecure age of twelve. Frankly, it is appealing now, at the equally but differently insecure age of 32. It was disappointing that I could not find the shirt that accurately represented my talents and proficiencies when it seemed like others were proclaiming them with ease and pride all over the place.
Now, as I often grasp at straws to make sense of what my exact contributions are to this world, I am astounded that those same feelings still rear their (dinosaur?) heads with alarming frequency.
In the end, I wound up with a rather sad little collection consisting of two “Saurus” t-shirts. They were both inapplicable to my life and it felt terribly unsatisfying, even fraudulent, to wear the shirts. Frankly, it was depressing to try to fit a mold for which I was so clearly not cast. They did not accurately sum me up, and now I see that no t-shirt could, can, or ever will. Although when I think of myself at age twelve, I do think a brontosaurus with a frizzy hair and braces, clutching a book with the words “Awkward-a-Saurus” below it might not have been that far off.
Then or today—minus the braces.
Improbably enough, it seems that some pretty deep soul searching can be inspired from a dinosaur playing field hockey. The transparency of the desire for acceptance is quite apparent now. Of course, in adolescence we are constantly questioning and evolving because we truly do not have any idea who we are or who we will be. Yet there is a definite undercurrent of feeling pressured to know something about yourself and how you will make an indelible contribution to the world in general. At age twelve, I was not yet aware that success is not all about athletic prowess—nor did I seem to know that it is not at all about sporty dinosaurs.
Countless other material possessions dubbed as “cool” or “necessary” have been (and doubtlessly will be) encountered in any given day, month, or year. In retrospect, they are often amusing, occasionally mortifying, and sometimes completely forgotten. Those shirts represented a vehicle expediting the messy business that is belonging. Remembering them now is a humorous reminder that the path to feeling like a validated and valued human being is about as inexplicable, unpredictable, and absurd as a ballet-dancing dinosaur.
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