The Gurly Life

Accomodatingwha--?

In the last few months I have been dating a tiny bit more than I normally do. Predictably I learned a few things. And no, not that I'm an introverted misanthrope, that's not news to anyone, least of all me. You might remember my recent 5:30 a.m. ephiphany, wherein I realized that I fantasize about relationships going wrong -- you'll be relieved to know that I've been consciously steering away from such nonsense.

Back to the point: in my dating adventures I have become aware that I'm not a very accomodating person. As Deirdre observed when I informed her of my self-revelation, "No, it's not your strong suit." Hahahaha! Damn right it's not. I do make an effort, and I manage it with friends to some degree, though there is definitely room for improvement.

Anyway. Accomodating. Right. I have been dating a man who is accomodating but who is not in any way a doormat. Which is what made me realize how unaccomodating I am, and how I have a hard time hitting a comfortable middle ground. And by comfortable I mean comfortable for him, too. I'm working on it now.

The other thing that I'm realizing is that I like moving forward at an absolutely glacial pace, although in this context "moving forward" is a figure of speech. Think of the slowest sloth in the world moving through molasses in winter, slow that down a bit, and that's what I'm comfortable with. I think it's because I'm terrified by the idea of ending up with the wrong guy (again!) and wasting more years of my life until I finally realize I don't want to be with that person. So my early response to someone who likes me and wants to see me often is revulsion. I see everything that is wrong with them, whether it's real or not. But when I move slowly, I have enough time to calm down and evaluate the person more accurately. Well, really, I'm evaluating my reactions for accuracy. I think the slow pace gives me the space I need to strike a good balance being a hardass and giving away the farm: in other words, appropriately accomodating.

5:30 a.m. epiphanies

If I wrote down all the brilliant ideas and epiphanies that I have while I'm driving or that wake me up at 5:30 in the morning, you would know that I am, in fact, a genius. Where I fall down is that even after decades of this happening, I am always convinced that I don't need to write it down because ohmygod this is so brilliant no one could ever forget. I always forget.

Every now and again, however, I do remember. This is one of those times. Unfortunately, it is not a billion dollar idea, it's an epiphany.

When the alarm goes off in the morning, I usually spend 10 minutes or so in a state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness before finally waking up. I often dreamfantasize during those 10 minutes. Don't get excited, they're not sexual fantasies. It's things like what I would do with the money if I won a large lotto jackpot, or what I would do if I had 6 months off work, and no money worries. Sometimes I daydream about being in a relationship, and the other day I realized something hideous: my daydreams about relationships never work out. I kid you not. Inevitably, my daydream ends up that the guy is not interested in someone like me, or he doesn't want to be in an exclusive relationship (or worse, he chooses someone else to be exclusive with), or the relationship feels amazing and I think finally I have found the right guy, and then it turns out it's totally one-sided. And so on.

Point is, that my own fantasies, which really can go anywhere I want, always end up with me having to steel myself for disappointment. Every. Single. Time. I'm semi-conscious when I have these daydreams, so I could fantasize about being the Queen of Mars and my paramour is the King of Venus, and who would be there to tell me I'm wrong? No one. Yet, I spend my fantasy time being disappointed and hurt over and over again.

Huh.

I also realized that, to a greater or lesser extent, I've been doing this for as long as I can remember. In some cases, it's a way of dealing with stress and emotional upset. But the problem is that it also perpetuates my hardest-to-shake belief, which is that at best I'm a mediocre catch. [This is the point where you resist the urge to tell me how great I am, because (a) what you say makes no difference, unfortunately, and (b) more importantly, that's not the point of this post.]

That, by the way, is my default. It's my glitch. The place I go where I'm under stress, tired, upset - that I have done something wrong. Here's an interesting quote from Dr. Sylvia Boorstein, from her March interview with Krista Tippett on On Being (this episode found here):

Actually, the Buddha said we have one of five genetic fallback glitches when we're challenged. He said some people fret, some people get angry, some people lose heart and all their energy goes and they don't know what to do with themselves, some people think, "Uh-oh, it's me. I didn't do things right. It's always my fault. I messed things up." And some people need to be sensually soothed. They think, "Where's a donut shop? Where's the pizza?" People have different tendencies. It was very, very helpful for me as an adult to learn that because it completely comes without a judgment. I don't have to say I am a chronic fretter. I could say, you know, when I'm challenged, fretting arises in my mind and it's not a moral flaw. And it's very good for people who have a short fuse to be able to think, "You know, I have this unusual neurological glitch."

For me it's a vicious cycle. My default is "it's me, it's my fault, there's something wrong with me." That's where I go when I'm stressed or tired, which, as a normal human being living and working in the 21st century, is pretty much all the time. I try to work this out before I get up in the morning in my daydreams, sometimes, and those don't go well because that's the glitch, and they perpetuate the glitch further. What's worse, they perpetuate crappy beliefs I have about myself.

So, I will stop having crappy daydreams. I don't think I'll be waking up any time soon thinking how fabulous I am, but at least I won't be deepening that ugly groove. Every little bit counts.

 

A flash of genius

You never know what will impress people, and why, what simple gestures are jaw-droppingly ingenious.

This, from Ivy the Monkey Goddess:

The other day, Elena was having trouble peeling a banana from the stem, so she flipped it over and peeled it from the bottom. It was genius. You had to be there, maybe.

Ivy and I were chatting in my office, when I pulled out my banana. Normally, I peel bananas from the stem and peel down to the bottom. I think most people do that. But this particular banana had a slightly green stem. Anyone who has ever tried to peel an unripe banana (and why would you? but curiosity may have made you do it) most likely knows that the peel is very cellulosy, almost rubbery, and it's difficult to crack that baby open without a knife.

I struggled with the stem for a few seconds, and just as Ivy was beginning to wonder how I was going to solve this problem, I flipped the banana over and opened it up at the other end with no difficulty whatsoever. Ivy's jaw dropped here, and she declared me a genius.

So I wondered, why was Ivy the Monkey Goddess so impressed by this trick? A quick, unscientific Google search revealed that monkeys peel their bananas from the bottom, not the stem. Shockingly, monkeys have a much more elegant way of opening bananas than we do (hah!). The point of this post, of course, is that Ivy is indeed the Monkey Goddess.

I borrowed the video from the same blog.

I might be a barbarian

Last Friday I went to a birthday/reunion dinner. It was the annual reunion of the law clerks and externs who have worked with a particular judge over the years. This year it was also his 70th birthday celebration. Every year I sort of dread it because the judge is always asking me if I have a husband and children yet (and the answer to both those questions is a resounding no), and everyone there is some big shot attorney somewhere with a fancy job and lots of husbands and children. Gag. I have always found it challenging to go to these things as I have not the fancy big firm jobby, nor a husband and children to show off. I felt that showing people picture of my cats flat out on their backs with their cute bellies in the air might have been awkward.

Trying to fit in was, natch, a painful experience for both me and them.

This year I decided not to fit in. So I went, and I was my usual less-than-subtle self. Though I did meet a couple of people who triggered my "FIT IN!!" instinct and I think I oversmiled a lot and made a series of non sequiturs during the conversation that probably had them think I was a bit mental. But never mind that.

At the end of the evening, when it was time to go, I just more or less walked out without even saying goodbye. I realized it in time before it was totally obvious how lame I am, so I pretended I did it on purpose -- first, goodbye to the judge, then go back and say goodbye to the people at my table.

As it turns out, and really shouldn't I have learned this lesson by now?, not trying to fit in worked way better than trying to fit in. I had a great time, met some cool people, and now have a few new friends. Never happened before.

But back to the barbarian thing. For one thing, who walks out without even saying goodbye? I mean, really, who does that? Being socially appropriate is not my forte, let's just put it that way. So right there -- barbarian. I also sat next to someone I had apparently gone to law school with, and I totally didn't remember her, which she pointed out in a whiny hypernasal voice that made me realize why I had blocked her memory from my mind. I made some half-assed apology, something about context, which of course she didn't believe, and then I let it go because I just didn't care. I turned to the nice man sitting on the other side of me and mostly talked to him and the other folks at the table.

The point is that I keep waiting for the moment when I become a refined grown-up, and last Friday I realized: that ain't happening. Thank goodness, because I don't think barbarians wear heels, and if I never wear heels another day in my life, that's just fine by me. Booyah!

The (Face)Book of the Dead

I have struggled with how to write about this because I fear I will upset someone. So I will just write this how it occurs for me, and hope you will forgive any irreverence.

The question that has presented itself to me of late is the following: what do you do when a friend (or acquaintance) dies, but the family does not take down their Facebook page? I know, it's a stupid, first world problem, but.

I understand why the family does not take the page down. It's like cleaning out the belongings of a loved one who has passed away -- I think we do our best to hang on to them because we fear that if they slip into oblivion, nothing will prevent us from disappearing just as easily when we go. Or maybe we just miss the person, and don't want to give away things that still tie us to them in the physical world. Either way, I get this. Some folks operate in a diametrically opposite manner: they immediately get rid of everything that reminds them of the person they lost, the sooner the better -- band aid is ripped off. This I understand a little less, I tend to be on the sentimental side, but I get this, too.

What I'm wondering about is the people left behind. What do we do when someone dies, and their page stays up, week after week? The Facebook page is a great place for friends to go and express how much they miss that person, what that person brought to their lives, and do it within a community that will get it very specifically, a community that doesn't just understand loss at a sympathetic level, but understands that particular loss.

The flip side of this, however, is the near heart-attack I get every time I see a post from the person's page, or a post from someone who writes on their wall. It's not that I think they're writing from the dead, it's just that seeing their name unexpectedly pop up on my newsfeed refreshes the loss for me. As much as I cherish their memory, I don't think I want to be reminded of their death willy-nilly.

This, naturally, comes with its wheelybag of guilt. First, guilt because I'm selfishly concerned about how I feel, when this person I loved is dead. What kind of person thinks this way? Bleah, right? Perhaps I will hide their posts so that I can choose when to go on their page and reconnect with their community when I'm ready to do so. But what if the page is taken down in the meantime and I missed the last messages of love for this person, and missed the opportunity to say how much I cared for them, one last time? What if a last post goes up from the family saying, we're taking the page down soon, please leave any last messages for them in the next two weeks, and I miss it? Epic fail, epic guilt. No, no, that won't work at all.

Oh and let's not forget the guilt about writing this post. I squirm as I write this.

Then I think, ok, they're gone, I'm going to unfriend them. BLEERGGHHHH! Can you hear it? Can you hear that sound, that metallic high-pitched whiny scrapy sound in the back of your head when you say "I'm going to unfriend my dead friend"? Unfriending someone who is alive is perfectly acceptable, but I can't make myself unfriend a dead friend. Can you?

And so I wait. I wait to either get used to the wrenching heartache of seeing their name on my newsfeed when I least expecti it, or I wait for the family to decide to take down the page, the final heartbreak. This is defnitely not an aspect of social networking that I ever imagined when I signed up for Facebook.

I don't care if you read this

Have you ever noticed how when you get really invested in something, it sometimes doesn't work out? For me, it's because I get significant about it and then I get all weird and try too hard, and then obviously blah.

So it is with this blog. For reasons that are too boring to go into here, I lost my mojo for a long time. Over a year, actually. Oh yes. It's true. No, no, it's true. I would get inspired every now and then, and then blah again. I thought, well, I guess I have nothing more to say. It's like reaching the end of the internet, or the Spanish Inquisition - no one actually expects it.

I considered for a while shutting down the blog. Maybe starting a new one, a totally anonymous one, so that if I write a post about my vagina, for example, I don't have to worry about my boss being embarrassed, being fired, or never hired by anyone again. Not that I write many posts about my vagina, I think I did that one time (this one doesn't count), but still! I want the artistic freedom, damnit, the Founders owe it to me.

Considering that I'm not sure which of my friends (I think there's a few who occasionally read a post, and a couple who read almost everything) and family (my mom and dad, and that's pretty much it) even read this anymore, and that it was intended to keep them updated on what I'm doing, I wasn't sure if I should continue.

Then I realized I wasn't just blogging for the fun of it anymore, but for readership. I was all, I wish I was a good enough or funny enough writer to have a wider audience. Moan, groan, blah blah vampire emergency blah (just checking to see if you're paying attention). So stressful to write a post and have 3 people read it.

To sum up: no readers, not fun to write. What's the point?

The point is that I like to write my stupid little posts. Sometimes I say something that reaches someone, and that's awesome. And often I don't, I just have mediocre thoughts that I express in a mildly amusing way. Occasionally I hit the jackpot and write a good post.

Occasionally, someone will tell me they read the blog and enjoy it, and then I'm chuffed for a month. Seriously, every reader, every comment, is like a little diamond in my mailbox.

So I continue with my little blog, for no reason at all other than it's fun for me. If no one reads, so be it -- it will just be fodder in the public domain to bring me down one day when I am feeling a smidge too arrogant. But if you do read it, know that you contribute to my creative expression. Thanks for that.

An AHA! moment

One of the things they tell you at Landmark Education is that the level of integrity in any area of your life is as important as performance is to you in that area of your life. The example Landmark always uses is Lance Armstrong's bike. Lance is very invested in a high level of performance in his biking. Therefore, Lance's bicycle, as well as his training, lifestyle etc., in short everything that contributes to his athletic performance, has to be in flawless integrity. If a spoke is missing from a tire, he will not win a race.

The flip side of that is the casual bike rider. The bike will still work with a spoke missing or the tires not being fully inflated. The casual rider won't notice the difference, and won't care, because perfomance in this area is not important to her. Of course, the more things are out of integrity with the bike, the harder it is to make it run, and at some point the lack of integrity makes the bike totally useless.

The example is meant to illustrate how integrity is not about morality or being right or wrong, it's just about performance: without integrity, nothing works, and the more invested you are in performance, the higher the level of integrity needs to be.

Intellectually, this is easy to understand. But it's not always easy to apply it to real life especially in areas where we are particularly blind. You know what I'm talking about -- those things we do that are immediately obvious to everyone around us as being completely anathema to the kind of life we want, but that we're all, what? I don't get it, what's wrong with that? about it.

Last week's bike ride helped me get this concept on a whole new level. If you have been reading (though I think almost no one is at this point), you know that last week I biked for 8 miles with my front brakes on the entire way. My bike was literally out of integrity. It was just the one thing, but once I got it fixed and biked again, I was truly shocked at how much of a difference it made.

It also occurred to me that in life sometimes I do things that just make something a slog instead of a fun, satisfying ride. For me, as you know, this area of life is romantic relationships. I have gotten about 90% better at recognizing the actions that bring me to a grinding halt, but the recognition of those actions hasn't always stopped me - as much as I realized they were not consistent with what I wanted, I thought, meh big deal it's not really affecting what I'm up to.

But then it hit me that those things I do that are out of integrity with what I'm committed to are a lot like that front brake being on. It might seem like just one thing, but the overall effect is to slow me down and make this so difficult and painful that I just don't want to do it anymore.

Point is: AHA!

Does not compute

Thank goodness!

Recently, I tweeted the following: "What ON EARTH do you mean, I'm not your type? What the hell's the matter with you?"

Something prompted it, and this is what this post is about. Actually, it's not really about what prompted it but about my reaction, the above, because it's new for me. You may or may not be aware that I do online dating. Well, more like I'm online but almost never go on dates. But that's another story for another post.

As you also know, I have been doing all sorts of cool transformational stuff in this area. One of the things that has become very clear out of all this is that counting someone in or out at the outset because they are or are not my type is a very silly way to go about things. I end up ignoring great people, and follow my hormones into relationships that are just a waste of time. It's a lot like life that way: sometimes I'm thrown in with people I wouldn't give a second glance to, and then over time find they are awesome and I can't imagine what I was thinking not liking them at first. Like that. I think it's even more true online, it seems most of us don't have any clue how to get ourselves across in our profiles that is consistent with who we really are. I say "we" becasue I'm fairly sure I'm still working on my profile.

I am not by any means advocating that what we're attracted to (and not) should be completely discounted - I mean, there are limits. All I'm saying is that I'm finally realizing that "my type" should not be the leading edge of my search for a partner.

Imagine my surprise, therefore, when someone I contacted online told me I'm not his type. I contacted him because I liked what he said in his profile, including that he was looking for a partner. So when he said that thing about not being his type, I was all, WHAT? But don't you know that it doesn't matter that much whether you think I'm your type? What the hell is wrong with you? I think it should be a rule that whenever I have an epiphany, everyone else has the same epiphany. If everyone else was on the same page as me it would just be better. Point is, though, that my normal reaction would have been to feel shitty about myself -- not helpful -- and that did not happen.

I thanked him for telling me and that was that. But now, in retrospect, I wish I had asked him what he meant because the more I thought about it, the more I realized I don't really know what "you're not my type" really means, and I was curious. When he said, "You're not my type," I wish I had responded, "How so?"

Next time.

At long last, another breakthrough

I know you've all been wondering: where have those posts gone, the ones where I have some epiphany about myself, and then write about it like I have no sense of decency?

After years of Landmark Education and PAX Programs and various other personal growth stuff, I think I sorted through most of the shittiest stuff. I don't mean to suggest I couldn't use some improvements, the remodeling never really ends, but the focus has shifted from lifting barriers to building skills that I either don't have, or want to improve.

Naturally, as I build skills, I come across a few barriers. After all, if I didn't have the barriers, I'd already have the skills, right?

So here's a really juicy one. I don't like to admit this one because it makes me look very bad, and I don't like to look very bad - just bad enough to be interesting. This has been brewing for a few weeks, and it's probably rambly.

As you know, I have specifically been doing a lot of work in the relationships realm. My goal is to (one day while I'm still young enough to chew my own food) be in a relationship that is empowering and fulfilling. Much of the work I've done in the last few years has been to that goal. In the recent past, my focus has shifted away from my own individual stuff to partnership. I've been looking at what partnership skills do I need, would I like to have, and so on, especially since partnership skills translate really well in every area of life. I figured even if I have no romantic partnership, I still have friends, family, work, neighbors, and so on. Can't hurt, right?

Of course, though, the focus is relationships.

Imagine if you will the setting: it is early evening in Los Feliz, I am going for a brisk walk in the neighborhood, enjoying nature and listening to music on my iPod. I'm feelin' pretty special, with all my partnership skills, and I'm all, check me out I'm totally fabulous, that's me, yup, yup (nevermind that I'm still single, don't use facts to confuse the issues, please, you know how I hate that).

I'm bouncing along thinking about how great I am (this is always a red flag) and how superior I am to all those other women, poor dears, who are actually in relationships that work, and it suddenly hits me, like a turd between the eyes: that I'm often calibrating who I am in order to catch the right guy (not just any guy, mind you, the right one, whatever the heck that means). I suddenly noticed how I watch myself when I interact with men to see if I'm doing it right. And really, what it comes down to is that I haven't been doing all this personal growth stuff to be a better person, but to manipulate the right guy, when I find him, into being with me, because I'm so awesome. Urgh.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing inherently sleazy about proactively looking for a partner -- it's just that there was something, I don't know, weaselly about how I've been doing it. It's hard to explain, though as you read this you might be thinking, yeah I see it too, but the place I was standing to set my intention was a crappy place. It was like putting ice cream on poo and trying to sell it like a delicious banana split. No, that's not poo, it's chocolate. NOT delicious.

So I walked along a bit more, and thought to myself, what if I do all that I'm doing for no reason at all, just because that's who I am and being a good person is important to me? What a fucking idea!

But that's not all. What also became evident is why I have in the past (thankfully not anymore) been a magnet for married guys. It's a mechanism that I had sort of identified, it had to do with how I engage with men (obviously!), but I hadn't seen the mechanism's agenda. And while I was on my walk, I saw it, and recoiled at the ugliness of it all. Thankfully, it was night, no one could see the grimace on my face, or the gagging. What causes that shift in who I'm being that attracts married men is a voice in my head that says that I want that man to risk something for me, because that means I'm worth something.

What. The fuck. Is that?????

Until I saw that, the best I could is notice when a married guy would start being interested, and bring down the shutters. Not a very empowering defense mechanism, by the way, I don't recommend it. Now I can see it before it even begins. I can hear the voice in my head like I'm some schizo patient off her meds, and I can feel my body shift and my face take on a different expression, it's really weird and creepy. Sooo gross.

All this I saw several weeks before I even left for vacation. I think it was some time in March or April. The first thing that happened was that the emotional charge in the realm of relationships fell away. All of a sudden, I wasn't emotionally invested in getting a relationship. For several weeks, I just didn't care at all about this part of my life. At. All. I forgot to get online to check my profile for weeks at a time, and when I did remember and found no messages from anyone, I'd think, meh, I have to work on my profile anyway, whatever.

Since then I have been noticing immediately when "the married man bomb" activates and have been easily able to disarm it. Over time it is activating less and less and has almost disappeared.

So ... yikes, right?

Now that I've settled, and the married guy issue is disappearing, I'm back doing my work on partnership, and still looking for an awesome guy, sans frustration and disappointment. Thus far, no flopping between white-knuckling it and giving up in resignation.

Now I can get back to the business of playing with my camera, preparing my Guide to Egypt: A Pictorial Representation, and standing on my head for 5 minutes at a time.

Life is good.

A sniggly snag that worked out

Sometimes, things that appear to be a huge pain the ass, things that are conspiring to ruin your whole entire vacation, turn out to be ok, maybe even blessings in disguise. Sometimes, clouds turn out to be the silver lining.

I explain.

My upcoming trip to Europe and Egypt has been planned to the last minute. Planes were booked, people were mobilized, everything was set. Then the Egypt people, 2 weeks before the Egypt trip (it's a Nile cruise from Luxor to Cairo) said, oh sorry, the boat has been cancelled (?) but you can go on another boat on different dates.

I was all, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT? DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY MONTHS AHEAD OF TIME I HAD TO PLAN TO MAKE THIS ALL WORK? Grrrr. [shakes fist angrily]

One of the dates the Egypt people suggested could not work because I would have had to move my return trip, and that was not possible (per the airline, who almost laughed at me when I asked, but were too polite to actually physically guffaw).

The original plan was: London, Barcelona, Egypt, fly home. Hang out with cousin on dad's side Raffy and her family in London, then hang out with cousin on mom's side Giuseppe and a couple of other cousins in Barcelona, then Egypt with my dad. The new plan basically messed up Barcelona. I huffed and puffed and declared I was pissed, but then decided that Barcelona had to eat it.

Instead, the new plan looks like this: London (and I get an extra day there), Egypt with dad, Sicily with cousins and other family members over Giuseppe's birthday weekend. In this scenario, I get to see not just my cousins who were getting together in Barcelona, but also aunts and uncles and my very old grandmother -- 105 and counting.

So one plan was scrapped, at some inconvenience and expense to me and my dad, as it turned out, but another plan was put in place that ensures that I see more of my family. Perhaps the universe doesn't give a shit about my money and convenience, but demands that I go hang out with my family.

Who am I to argue?