I think that I have some sort of Benjamin Button thing happening. Heaven knows that I'm not looking any younger, and I've never felt young, but I seem to be experiencing a lot of things backwards.
As a kid and a teen, I deeply resented the stereotype that kids felt immortal and invincible. I never felt either. I was always the kid saying, "But someone could get hurt!" I was not a risk taker or a thrill seeker. I was acutely aware that death, dismemberment, pain or scarring were very real possibilities. I worried, I fretted, I avoided risk and danger as best I could. I've never "bailed out" of swings or jumped off of a diving board. (Really.)
Describing my behavior as a child to my middle daughter recently elicited The Look and the verdict, "So you were a wet blanket." The wettest, thank you very much.
Said child, in contrast, had no fear as a child. None. I remember clearly having to repeatedly grab the back of her swimsuit and haul her into the shallows at age 2, because she'd just keep walking into the water, even after it was over her head. Not just once, mind you, but over and over. It never occurred to her, in any situation, that she might get hurt or experience an unpleasant outcome. She looked at people as though they were crazy or unintelligible if they warned her. When she did get hurt, she brushed it off like Monty Python's Black Knight - "It's only a flesh wound."
It wasn't until her 20s that it started occurring to her that she might get hurt, and that hurt was bad. Facing situations that she'd never given a second thought to suddenly had her realizing, "Someone could get hurt." Slowly, she noticed that situations caused her worry, and that she was being more cautious.
"This is how the other half lives," I told her. "Welcome to adulthood."
"I hate it! How do people function like this?" she wanted to know.
I, on the other hand, am slowly growing into feelings of invincibility.
More and more, I find myself mentally spreading my arms and saying, "Bring it on. I've got this." Fear of water? I'll go in a submarine, and then across the Atlantic on a ship. Fear of being disliked? Recently I ran into a kid I'd gone to high school with, a kid who was so much cooler than I was that I spent all of high school awed and intimidated. I may have spoken three sentences to this kid during the entire four years we went to school together. Now that I'm much older, twice my high school weight and going gray (and, unfortunately, bald), what did I do? Run up and say hello, then hug him/her.
Kids are supposed to be the dreamy ones, too, setting ridiculous life goals like, "marry a prince." I was such a practical kid. My goals were things like, "be able to afford groceries." I was clear that I could choose any one of hundreds of paths through life, could be a doctor or teacher or lawyer or painter - but I never imagined, or wanted, the usual things kids covet: obscene wealth, fame, privilege. I still don't, but now I see no barriers to pie-in-the-sky plans. If somebody had told me when I was 18 that they wanted to be something ridiculous and impractical, I would have given them the "It's really difficult to make it" speech, and meant it. Now, I'd give them the "Go for it!" speech, and mean it. Sure, it takes hard work and more than a little luck, but it's not impossible. Knock 'em dead, kid. You can do it.
As a kid, I was easy to psych out or intimidate. I know that there were times that I lost competitions just because I let the other guy(s) get to me. Not any more.
Children are supposed to be trusting; I had severe trust issues. OK, I still have some, and there's good reasons for them, but I no longer feel that I have to do everything, or that something is doomed to failure if multiple people have multiple jobs to do. I only have to do my job, my little part, and not worry, or even necessarily think about, anyone else's job. (Sometimes you carry The One Ring and sometimes you kill the Orcs - am I right?)
I never was young, and I never will be, but that's OK. I may have the best of both worlds.
Showing posts with label perception. Show all posts
Showing posts with label perception. Show all posts
Friday, May 30, 2014
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Hot Sauce
I love my home state, really, I do. There's reasons that I live here. I'm almost tempted to launch into a list of wonderful things that my state offers, but that's a discussion for another day.
Because, sometimes, my home state is tacky. Truly, undeniably, high ick factor tacky.
I've complained before about people's perception of our state and its... eccentricities. Sometimes, we are our own worst enemy, perceptionwise.
I've complained, for instance, that one of our local brothels - yes, local brothels, let the snickering begin - advertised itself on its billboards as a "deli." Please.
One of the brothels in the southern part of the state advertises itself on its billboards, up for miles before you encounter the place, as a "travel center." Truly.
Most of the brothels in Nevada have small signs out front that say things like, "Free Truck Parking!" The brothels themselves are usually housed in trailers, or collections of trailers, painted some bright colors. My husband glared daggers at me when I pointed out, on a recent trip, the columns (attached to nothing) surrounding the pink trailers. "Don't they just class the place up?" There were shorter columns around the dirt parking area; tres chic.
The "travel center" either ran into too many irate patrons who hauled their cranky kids in looking for restrooms, slushees and prepackaged pastries, or they discovered that they made more money advertising their primary purpose, because they put up this onsite billboard:
Because, sometimes, my home state is tacky. Truly, undeniably, high ick factor tacky.
I've complained before about people's perception of our state and its... eccentricities. Sometimes, we are our own worst enemy, perceptionwise.
I've complained, for instance, that one of our local brothels - yes, local brothels, let the snickering begin - advertised itself on its billboards as a "deli." Please.
One of the brothels in the southern part of the state advertises itself on its billboards, up for miles before you encounter the place, as a "travel center." Truly.
Most of the brothels in Nevada have small signs out front that say things like, "Free Truck Parking!" The brothels themselves are usually housed in trailers, or collections of trailers, painted some bright colors. My husband glared daggers at me when I pointed out, on a recent trip, the columns (attached to nothing) surrounding the pink trailers. "Don't they just class the place up?" There were shorter columns around the dirt parking area; tres chic.
The "travel center" either ran into too many irate patrons who hauled their cranky kids in looking for restrooms, slushees and prepackaged pastries, or they discovered that they made more money advertising their primary purpose, because they put up this onsite billboard:
OK, truth in advertising; I can get behind that.
The small print just does me in, though: "HOT SAUCE PHOTOS SOUVENIRS."
Hot sauce?
Whether that's a euphemism or a condiment, in this context, I don't really want to know anything more about it.
That leaves me contemplating photos.
When I was growing up, the stereotype of sharing your vacation photos was having friends over to dinner, then making them watch an interminable slide show. Now, of course, it's all about social media; everyone you know, and potentially anyone else, can and will see your vacation photos. "This is me and a prostitute I met near Vegas." Maybe Bob in accounting will be impressed when he sees it, but it's hard for me to envision that. The club of People Who Pay For Sexual Services is not an exclusive or prestigious one; in fact, the first people who come to my mind are serial killers and people with few social skills.
Still, maybe ol' Bob really will be impressed. This is the sci fi themed brothel - yes, there is such a thing, you can't make this stuff up; maybe he's always wanted his photo taken with a "real, live Andorian," but he just doesn't have the cash to attend a Star Trek convention. It's hard for me to imagine a situation in which someone will be excited about their prostitute photo op, but I'll concede that maybe, in some circles, such a situation exists. (The thought just depresses me.)
For years, souvenir shops in my lovely state have been awash in prostitution themed souvenirs. I wish I was making this stuff up. You can buy maps of "The Pleasure Spots of Nevada," with all the legal brothels identified. You can get keychains that say things like, "Crib #4, Mustang Ranch." (The term "crib" hearkens back to the days when that term was slang for a prostitute's room. I can't believe that I know this stuff.)
The idea of buying them at an actual brothel is just a little too ridiculous for me. "Went to Nevada! Paid a hooker! Got a snow globe!"
Maybe you walked past Bob in accounting with your new brothel mug in your hand, hoping he'd be green with envy.
Personally, I can't imagine being impressed because you paid someone to be with you. It calls up images of elementary school kids giggling behind the building - "I gave her a dollar, and she let me touch her boob!"
If a woman walked up to you on the street and said, "I want nothing more than to have all manner of sexual contact with you!" I might think that you're attractive or charming. I still won't be impressed, but it's better than, "She had to - I paid for it."
Living here, though, I've been exposed to how the women feel. I remember a local prostitute calling up a radio station to enter their "Most Boring Job" contest. She's not showing your photo around work, bragging about how great her weekend was.
Sorry, Bob.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
The Right Way
Before I got married, I had heard a great deal about how difficult it is to merge two very different people from different backgrounds into a harmonious team. I thought I was pretty ready for it; we discussed money, kids, where and how we'd spend our holidays, all the basic stuff, and I thought we had pretty well reached agreement.
Then, I got married, and I got used to living with another human and making joint decisions. I felt accomplished. I read (fairly obsessively) everything I could find on marriage, divorce, gender differences and the like, and I felt even more accomplished. I got this!
Of course, real life is messy, and you end up encountering things that you never imagined existed.
After we'd been married for years, had kids, bought a home, negotiated all kinds of marriage stuff together, we were having a familiar argument. It was one of those "you or me" situations - you know, "Either you have to do this or I have to." Those things are things like who'll deal with a misbehaving child, take out the trash, cook a meal, make reservations - a job that must be done by one of the two parents in the house. The same principle applies in situations like when you'll have sex, or where you'll go for the holidays - in general, one person will get their way, and one won't, because chances are, you'll never feel exactly the same about it.
(Before you split hairs, and say things like, "You could hire someone to do that for you," or tell me that one partner could seek out someone else to have sex with, let's establish that the parameters of what's acceptable or possible in our marriage have already been set, by us. There's no money for professional cooks, housekeepers, nannies etc., and adultery is bad.)
My husband said, in irritation, "It's not all about you, you know."
I just couldn't believe that he'd chosen an argument that I thought was guaranteed to make him look bad. "Every once in a blue moon, it should be about me. Choose any method of measurement that you want, and any time frame at all - hours in a day, days in a week or in a month, months in a year - and tell me how often we do things your way and how often we do them my way. I have completely given up on ever having anything that resembles 50/50, but every once in a while, in order to keep things from being ridiculously, unhealthily lopsided, it needs to be about me."
He stared at me astonished, as if this thought had never occurred to him. He's a bright guy, my husband, so I was in turn amazed that he apparently had never considered this.
It was obviously still bothering him two or three days later, because he said, apropos of nothing, "I don't know where you get this whole 50/50 thing."
I thought, "Really?" Again, he's a bright guy. How was this new information? I said, slowly and carefully, "Because there's two of us. That means that things should be divided roughly in half. 50% of the time we should do it your way, and 50% of the time we should do it my way." How was it possible that this was not completely obvious?
I don't advocate a complete tit-for-tat exact accounting of every dollar spent ("OK, you spent $10, so I get to spend $10"), or having each partner take out the trash an equal number of times. That sort of system is an unworkable exercise in insanity in my book. It makes complete sense to have one partner do some things more often than the other. I do 99% of the laundry in our house, 100% of the bill paying and gardening, and about 75% of the cooking. My husband does 100% of the auto repair and maintenance, as well as the computer and appliance repair and trouble shooting. (Trust me, you do not want to hand either of those jobs to me, ever.) But in some very important areas, there needs to be something resembling equality, or things head south in a handbasket very quickly. If only one partner can make decisions in the bedroom, for example, that's deeply unhealthy. And don't even get me started on the fury I feel when men refer to taking care of their own children as "babysitting." It's not babysitting when their mother looks after them; it's most assuredly not babysitting when their father looks after them.
This was not the way my husband saw the world. "His" way, he explained, had "nothing to do" with him, personally, or his opinions on any subject. It was just "the right way" to do things.
Holy cow. Major lightbulb over the head moment. This explained SO MUCH! Suddenly, virtually every argument we'd ever had made sense. Good gravy!
Why hadn't he explained to me that this was his world view, I wanted to know. He was puzzled as to why I had asked. It had not occurred to him that there was another way to view things. He hadn't explained for the same reason he'd never told me that socks go on before shoes. Wasn't this something that everyone knew?
I, on the other hand, had never considered this way of thinking. There are so many right ways to do things, and so few wrong ones. Any judgement of "wrong" should be saved for matters of grave importance and moral judgement, or simple physics. Even then, realize that others may not agree. I know people for whom the Biblical injunction "Thou shalt not kill" necessitates catching insects, spiders, mice, scorpions and anything else that might invade your home and releasing them back into the wild somewhere safe. It means eating no meat and wearing no leather. For me, it means "Thou shalt not commit murder;" in other words, never decide that your wishes and aims are more important than someone else's life. There are times, however, in which it is perfectly acceptable to kill for food, clothing, shelter or self defense - and self defense includes having intruders invade my home. I will squash a bug or shoot a burglar and feel fine about it. I think that people in both camps (and everywhere inbetween) need to back off and allow each other clear exercise of their own conscience.
I grew up hearing, "There's more than one way to skin a cat," and, "All roads lead to Rome," being told over and over that there was always more than one way to accomplish any goal. I also heard "Consider the source," meaning that you needed to take people's motivation and/or abilities into consideration when making a judgement on someone's actions or words. If they meant well, or were just dim, you had to cut them some slack. The idea that there was only one "right" way to do anything was not part of my daily reality.
I was now having flashbacks to instance after instance in which my husband and I had been on completely separate pages. When we first got married, for instance, how I ate and/or cooked my food could send him into a tailspin. I remembered him insisting, completely distraught, "You cannot go on eating your sandwiches that way!" What? It was my sandwich, and I liked it. When I would tell him that, he would huff and roll his eyes, or worse, tell me, "That's irrelevant." How could the way I liked my sandwiches be irrelevant to me? I wasn't making his sandwiches that way and asking him to eat them, I was just feeding myself. Does not compute!
(His beef with my sandwiches, in case you wondered, is that I put only butter and cheese on my grilled cheese. "They have no taste!")
Other times had made even less sense to me. For instance, I cannot stand it when he wakes me by grabbing my feet. The foot of our bed, of course, has always faced the door of our room, no matter where we've lived. It makes me insane when he wakes me by grabbing my feet. I wake up in a blind panic; I cannot imagine any legitimate reason for that behavior. I would rather have someone clamp a hand over my mouth than grab my feet (or ankles or calves). When I would tell him that, he'd say, "It doesn't bother me."
"Then I'll feel free to wake you that way. But I hate it, so please don't do it. Walk the few extra steps to the side of the bed."
This was usually met with some comment about my being "controlling." And, the next time he was in too much of a hurry to take three extra steps, he'd grab my feet. Every time, I got angrier, because I'd told him, very clearly, that I hated it. Every time, he'd be more surprised, because he had been clear that it didn't bother him. So, it's controlling to allow for individual likes and dislikes, but not controlling to insist that everyone has to be the same? Really? How can that be?
To me, it seemed obvious - I should treat him the way he wanted to be treated, and he should treat me the way I wanted to be treated. To him, it looked entirely different, but just as obvious; there was one right way to handle this, and we should both conform to that right way.
Other people suddenly made more sense, as well. I remembered going round and round with certain relatives about the planning of my wedding. They'd ask me something about our colors or flowers or some such, and I'd tell them what we'd chosen. I expected, "Oh, that'll be nice," or just "OK," but most of the time, I'd get, "Have you considered X?" When I would say yes, we'd considered it but decided against it, or no, we hadn't considered it because we didn't like X, I thought that the discussion was over. Instead, these individuals would bring the same things up, over and over, and I'd end up saying "no" over and over until tempers frayed. Then I'd get more of those comments about being "controlling" and "selfish."
"So, it's controlling of me to want to plan my own wedding, but it's not controlling of you to want to plan someone else's wedding?" I'd ask, and get no response that made any sense. Usually it was some variation of, "I just want to help," or, "I just want it to be nice." Please note, people: if you want to help, you ask what the bride wants, and then do that thing. You don't try to take over, especially if you say things that translate to, "It will be awful if we do it your way." Someone else's wedding is not about you and what you want.
Again, I was functioning under the assumption that every person needed to make and act on their own decisions, and other people were thinking that things had to be done "the right way," and if I was doing it "wrong," I needed corrected. I'd never really understood why people got frustrated when I didn't change my mind to mirror their opinions. I wasn't losing my mind because they hadn't ditched their opinions in favor of mine.
Mommy Wars - stay at home vs. employed elsewhere, breastfeeding vs. bottle feeding - and various other public battles made more sense now, too. Everyone thought there was only one right way, and it was their duty to enlighten others. Oh, my goodness. No wonder I didn't understand a great deal of common social interactions!
I now understood ridiculous, repetitive, circular conversations, as well. I've always made certain assumptions about conversation in general; I tend to assume that they're an exchange of information. You tell me how you feel, I tell you how I feel, and then we'll understand each other. I never understood, then, why conversations tended to go over the same ground again and again.
I'd say, for instance, "I like A." The other person would say, "I've always liked B better." The way I saw things, we now had enough information to understand each other's behavior and choices, and that was the point. I'd go on my merry way, wondering why the other person would belabor the point. "There are just so many advantages to B," they'd say. "B is just terrific. You really should try B."
"I have. I like A better," I'd say, wondering why we were going over this again. I would get totally baffled when they'd bring it up again and again. It also made no sense to me when they said, and they often did, "Most people prefer B." I could not understand the relevance. It was like injecting, "The capitol of California is Sacramento," into the conversation. It may be true, but I couldn't imagine what it had to do with anything. If they liked B, more power to them. I liked A. That's why there are choices. It turns out, though, that a great many people's idea of "right" is tied to consensus. Whatever the majority thinks becomes "right." Pointing out the majority opinion was their "subtle" way of trying to get me to see the error of my ways, and change my mind.
This is a bad idea on so many levels. One, I do not generally understand subtlety. It passes me right by. Two, the concepts of "right" and "wrong" are, for me, morality and religion based. Therefore, there really is no "wrong" way to serve food, or wear your clothes, or plan a vacation, or choose a paint color. This is why I have no interest in fashion. Don't tell me I'm wearing the "wrong" shoes or pants or colors or whatever. It's hardly possible for it to be "wrong." (My only clothing rules for my kids were that their clothes had to meet health and morality standards.) Also, in 5 or 10 or 20 years, everyone will have changed their minds about it. (Do you see anyone in MC Hammer pants and a mullet walking down the street any more?) Three, let's think about all of the things that have been accepted by a majority in the past (or present). Are all of them scientifically correct or morally acceptable? No. Therefore, pointing out to me what the majority thinks has very little effect.
This could be why these same people viewed me as "stubborn," "self centered," and, yet again, "controlling." (I'll cop to "stubborn." ;D) I still have a hard time understanding how these terms are applicable to someone who figured that everyone should go their own way, and not applicable to someone who was trying to badger others into changing their minds.
Sometimes, someone will accuse me of promoting chaos, or of being too wishy washy to take a stand. I think they're missing the point. While I may have a high tolerance for chaos, as a religious person I'm usually accused of being too rigid, with too many rules. I do, in fact, have very firm ideas about what is morally right and wrong, and I believe that one day, each of us will stand before God to account for our actions. The thing is, I am not God, and neither is anyone else on Earth, so we don't account to each other. Since we don't have to justify our actions to each other in big stuff, stuff of moral significance, how could it possibly be that we need to stand in judgement over each other for petty things, like our food and clothing choices?
There are so many right ways to do anything, and so few wrong ones. Give everybody a break.
After so many years, my husband and I have figured each other out, to a large extent. We will still occasionally look at each other and think, or say, "Huh?" That's because we're human. Still, we do pretty well, I think.
And now I'm going to exercise come of that controlling personality to tell you what I think you should do. You should make your own choices without needing a majority rule to tell you that you're right. You should let everyone else make their choices.
After all, there's more than one way to skin a cat.
Then, I got married, and I got used to living with another human and making joint decisions. I felt accomplished. I read (fairly obsessively) everything I could find on marriage, divorce, gender differences and the like, and I felt even more accomplished. I got this!
Of course, real life is messy, and you end up encountering things that you never imagined existed.
After we'd been married for years, had kids, bought a home, negotiated all kinds of marriage stuff together, we were having a familiar argument. It was one of those "you or me" situations - you know, "Either you have to do this or I have to." Those things are things like who'll deal with a misbehaving child, take out the trash, cook a meal, make reservations - a job that must be done by one of the two parents in the house. The same principle applies in situations like when you'll have sex, or where you'll go for the holidays - in general, one person will get their way, and one won't, because chances are, you'll never feel exactly the same about it.
(Before you split hairs, and say things like, "You could hire someone to do that for you," or tell me that one partner could seek out someone else to have sex with, let's establish that the parameters of what's acceptable or possible in our marriage have already been set, by us. There's no money for professional cooks, housekeepers, nannies etc., and adultery is bad.)
My husband said, in irritation, "It's not all about you, you know."
I just couldn't believe that he'd chosen an argument that I thought was guaranteed to make him look bad. "Every once in a blue moon, it should be about me. Choose any method of measurement that you want, and any time frame at all - hours in a day, days in a week or in a month, months in a year - and tell me how often we do things your way and how often we do them my way. I have completely given up on ever having anything that resembles 50/50, but every once in a while, in order to keep things from being ridiculously, unhealthily lopsided, it needs to be about me."
He stared at me astonished, as if this thought had never occurred to him. He's a bright guy, my husband, so I was in turn amazed that he apparently had never considered this.
It was obviously still bothering him two or three days later, because he said, apropos of nothing, "I don't know where you get this whole 50/50 thing."
I thought, "Really?" Again, he's a bright guy. How was this new information? I said, slowly and carefully, "Because there's two of us. That means that things should be divided roughly in half. 50% of the time we should do it your way, and 50% of the time we should do it my way." How was it possible that this was not completely obvious?
I don't advocate a complete tit-for-tat exact accounting of every dollar spent ("OK, you spent $10, so I get to spend $10"), or having each partner take out the trash an equal number of times. That sort of system is an unworkable exercise in insanity in my book. It makes complete sense to have one partner do some things more often than the other. I do 99% of the laundry in our house, 100% of the bill paying and gardening, and about 75% of the cooking. My husband does 100% of the auto repair and maintenance, as well as the computer and appliance repair and trouble shooting. (Trust me, you do not want to hand either of those jobs to me, ever.) But in some very important areas, there needs to be something resembling equality, or things head south in a handbasket very quickly. If only one partner can make decisions in the bedroom, for example, that's deeply unhealthy. And don't even get me started on the fury I feel when men refer to taking care of their own children as "babysitting." It's not babysitting when their mother looks after them; it's most assuredly not babysitting when their father looks after them.
This was not the way my husband saw the world. "His" way, he explained, had "nothing to do" with him, personally, or his opinions on any subject. It was just "the right way" to do things.
Holy cow. Major lightbulb over the head moment. This explained SO MUCH! Suddenly, virtually every argument we'd ever had made sense. Good gravy!
Why hadn't he explained to me that this was his world view, I wanted to know. He was puzzled as to why I had asked. It had not occurred to him that there was another way to view things. He hadn't explained for the same reason he'd never told me that socks go on before shoes. Wasn't this something that everyone knew?
I, on the other hand, had never considered this way of thinking. There are so many right ways to do things, and so few wrong ones. Any judgement of "wrong" should be saved for matters of grave importance and moral judgement, or simple physics. Even then, realize that others may not agree. I know people for whom the Biblical injunction "Thou shalt not kill" necessitates catching insects, spiders, mice, scorpions and anything else that might invade your home and releasing them back into the wild somewhere safe. It means eating no meat and wearing no leather. For me, it means "Thou shalt not commit murder;" in other words, never decide that your wishes and aims are more important than someone else's life. There are times, however, in which it is perfectly acceptable to kill for food, clothing, shelter or self defense - and self defense includes having intruders invade my home. I will squash a bug or shoot a burglar and feel fine about it. I think that people in both camps (and everywhere inbetween) need to back off and allow each other clear exercise of their own conscience.
I grew up hearing, "There's more than one way to skin a cat," and, "All roads lead to Rome," being told over and over that there was always more than one way to accomplish any goal. I also heard "Consider the source," meaning that you needed to take people's motivation and/or abilities into consideration when making a judgement on someone's actions or words. If they meant well, or were just dim, you had to cut them some slack. The idea that there was only one "right" way to do anything was not part of my daily reality.
I was now having flashbacks to instance after instance in which my husband and I had been on completely separate pages. When we first got married, for instance, how I ate and/or cooked my food could send him into a tailspin. I remembered him insisting, completely distraught, "You cannot go on eating your sandwiches that way!" What? It was my sandwich, and I liked it. When I would tell him that, he would huff and roll his eyes, or worse, tell me, "That's irrelevant." How could the way I liked my sandwiches be irrelevant to me? I wasn't making his sandwiches that way and asking him to eat them, I was just feeding myself. Does not compute!
(His beef with my sandwiches, in case you wondered, is that I put only butter and cheese on my grilled cheese. "They have no taste!")
Other times had made even less sense to me. For instance, I cannot stand it when he wakes me by grabbing my feet. The foot of our bed, of course, has always faced the door of our room, no matter where we've lived. It makes me insane when he wakes me by grabbing my feet. I wake up in a blind panic; I cannot imagine any legitimate reason for that behavior. I would rather have someone clamp a hand over my mouth than grab my feet (or ankles or calves). When I would tell him that, he'd say, "It doesn't bother me."
"Then I'll feel free to wake you that way. But I hate it, so please don't do it. Walk the few extra steps to the side of the bed."
This was usually met with some comment about my being "controlling." And, the next time he was in too much of a hurry to take three extra steps, he'd grab my feet. Every time, I got angrier, because I'd told him, very clearly, that I hated it. Every time, he'd be more surprised, because he had been clear that it didn't bother him. So, it's controlling to allow for individual likes and dislikes, but not controlling to insist that everyone has to be the same? Really? How can that be?
To me, it seemed obvious - I should treat him the way he wanted to be treated, and he should treat me the way I wanted to be treated. To him, it looked entirely different, but just as obvious; there was one right way to handle this, and we should both conform to that right way.
Other people suddenly made more sense, as well. I remembered going round and round with certain relatives about the planning of my wedding. They'd ask me something about our colors or flowers or some such, and I'd tell them what we'd chosen. I expected, "Oh, that'll be nice," or just "OK," but most of the time, I'd get, "Have you considered X?" When I would say yes, we'd considered it but decided against it, or no, we hadn't considered it because we didn't like X, I thought that the discussion was over. Instead, these individuals would bring the same things up, over and over, and I'd end up saying "no" over and over until tempers frayed. Then I'd get more of those comments about being "controlling" and "selfish."
"So, it's controlling of me to want to plan my own wedding, but it's not controlling of you to want to plan someone else's wedding?" I'd ask, and get no response that made any sense. Usually it was some variation of, "I just want to help," or, "I just want it to be nice." Please note, people: if you want to help, you ask what the bride wants, and then do that thing. You don't try to take over, especially if you say things that translate to, "It will be awful if we do it your way." Someone else's wedding is not about you and what you want.
Again, I was functioning under the assumption that every person needed to make and act on their own decisions, and other people were thinking that things had to be done "the right way," and if I was doing it "wrong," I needed corrected. I'd never really understood why people got frustrated when I didn't change my mind to mirror their opinions. I wasn't losing my mind because they hadn't ditched their opinions in favor of mine.
Mommy Wars - stay at home vs. employed elsewhere, breastfeeding vs. bottle feeding - and various other public battles made more sense now, too. Everyone thought there was only one right way, and it was their duty to enlighten others. Oh, my goodness. No wonder I didn't understand a great deal of common social interactions!
I now understood ridiculous, repetitive, circular conversations, as well. I've always made certain assumptions about conversation in general; I tend to assume that they're an exchange of information. You tell me how you feel, I tell you how I feel, and then we'll understand each other. I never understood, then, why conversations tended to go over the same ground again and again.
I'd say, for instance, "I like A." The other person would say, "I've always liked B better." The way I saw things, we now had enough information to understand each other's behavior and choices, and that was the point. I'd go on my merry way, wondering why the other person would belabor the point. "There are just so many advantages to B," they'd say. "B is just terrific. You really should try B."
"I have. I like A better," I'd say, wondering why we were going over this again. I would get totally baffled when they'd bring it up again and again. It also made no sense to me when they said, and they often did, "Most people prefer B." I could not understand the relevance. It was like injecting, "The capitol of California is Sacramento," into the conversation. It may be true, but I couldn't imagine what it had to do with anything. If they liked B, more power to them. I liked A. That's why there are choices. It turns out, though, that a great many people's idea of "right" is tied to consensus. Whatever the majority thinks becomes "right." Pointing out the majority opinion was their "subtle" way of trying to get me to see the error of my ways, and change my mind.
This is a bad idea on so many levels. One, I do not generally understand subtlety. It passes me right by. Two, the concepts of "right" and "wrong" are, for me, morality and religion based. Therefore, there really is no "wrong" way to serve food, or wear your clothes, or plan a vacation, or choose a paint color. This is why I have no interest in fashion. Don't tell me I'm wearing the "wrong" shoes or pants or colors or whatever. It's hardly possible for it to be "wrong." (My only clothing rules for my kids were that their clothes had to meet health and morality standards.) Also, in 5 or 10 or 20 years, everyone will have changed their minds about it. (Do you see anyone in MC Hammer pants and a mullet walking down the street any more?) Three, let's think about all of the things that have been accepted by a majority in the past (or present). Are all of them scientifically correct or morally acceptable? No. Therefore, pointing out to me what the majority thinks has very little effect.
This could be why these same people viewed me as "stubborn," "self centered," and, yet again, "controlling." (I'll cop to "stubborn." ;D) I still have a hard time understanding how these terms are applicable to someone who figured that everyone should go their own way, and not applicable to someone who was trying to badger others into changing their minds.
Sometimes, someone will accuse me of promoting chaos, or of being too wishy washy to take a stand. I think they're missing the point. While I may have a high tolerance for chaos, as a religious person I'm usually accused of being too rigid, with too many rules. I do, in fact, have very firm ideas about what is morally right and wrong, and I believe that one day, each of us will stand before God to account for our actions. The thing is, I am not God, and neither is anyone else on Earth, so we don't account to each other. Since we don't have to justify our actions to each other in big stuff, stuff of moral significance, how could it possibly be that we need to stand in judgement over each other for petty things, like our food and clothing choices?
There are so many right ways to do anything, and so few wrong ones. Give everybody a break.
After so many years, my husband and I have figured each other out, to a large extent. We will still occasionally look at each other and think, or say, "Huh?" That's because we're human. Still, we do pretty well, I think.
And now I'm going to exercise come of that controlling personality to tell you what I think you should do. You should make your own choices without needing a majority rule to tell you that you're right. You should let everyone else make their choices.
After all, there's more than one way to skin a cat.
Monday, May 13, 2013
More Misunderstandings
"It's women like you who make it very difficult for the rest of us," the woman said, fixing me with a hard glare. I had just explained that I do not care if my husband, my kids or even, if need be, my friends, get things out of my purse. My husband especially has my permission to get anything he needs out of it, including cash. I just need a note or a heads-up so I know it's gone before I try to spend it. He can rifle it looking for receipts or pens or whatever he needs.
Just so we're clear, this isn't one sided. I have similar permission to go through his lunch pail, the "man purse" he carries on vacation, his wallet or his pants pocket. He usually goes to bed hours before I do, so I occasionally take cash from his pants pocket while he sleeps, and leave a note: "Hey, I took $X."
Her husband had gotten something simple like gum out of her purse, the woman had told me, in a tone of horror that made it clear that I was expected to gasp, put my hand to my mouth and exclaim, "NO!" She told me, "It's more of an invasion of privacy than a gynecological exam."
I tried to be suitably sympathetic, but I just don't "get it."
I don't understand most gift giving presumptions, either.
On a message board for mothers, I recently read a very angry letter about a gift from a child's dad. Dad had been out of the picture for years and had recently resumed contact. Daughter was 5; he hadn't seen her since she was 2. For her birthday (or maybe it was Christmas), he bought her a sweater. Mom was outraged. "A SWEATER! Nothing for 3 years, then a sweater! I'm so angry I'm thinking of telling him he can't come over when he calls next!"
I'm aware that, since this involves custody issues and hard feelings, it's probably not about the actual sweater. It's probably about unpaid child support and court hearings. Still, the reaction seemed over the top.
I wrote back: "Men are notoriously bad at figuring out gift giving issues, especially when the gift is for a female." That "female" thing isn't exclusive, though. My father in law once gave his 15 year old son a Daniel Boone style fake coonskin cap. It would have been a great gift for a kid half that age. We have photos of my son delightedly wearing his through Frontierland at Disney World when he was 7. For a 15 year old, though, it was worse than no gift.
I offered my opinion that Sweater Dad was probably patting himself on the back. He was probably thinking, "It's practical, it's in her favorite color, she'll wear it every day." Unless told, I said, he would be unaware that anyone would look at that gift and think, "What is wrong with him?"
The mom who wrote the question didn't take issue with my answer, but others did. One woman wrote back that I (names are available on the site, and yes, she called me by name) was " a b***h." "Just because your husband is a loser doesn't mean that the rest of us have to put up with that s**t," she said.
Wow. I thought we were talking about a little girl's sweater.
I polled my friends. "Am I wrong about this?" Most responses were like this one, from a friend since high school - "If my wife didn't buy them, no one would get gifts from me."
It's not the first time I've felt that a stranger was unnecessarily penalizing my husband in matters unrelated to him.
Years ago, while reading a book chronicling the crimes of a serial killer, I noticed that the author seemed to be betraying a bit of bias. The killer's wife, unaware of what her husband did away from home, thought that he was "perfect." She waxed eloquent about how thoughtful and gentle he was.
The author felt it necessary to note, in some detail, though, that he was not the kind of husband who brought flowers home or surprised his wife with jewelry. "If he wanted to get me a gift, we went shopping for it together," the wife said. That made total sense to her. It makes total sense to me - that way, he won't buy the wrong size, brand, color or item.
The author said, in a veiled way, that the woman should have known that something was not right with her husband if he never sent flowers or brought home an unexpected gift. Surely, the (female) author thought, this was a sign that he was insensitive in general and devalued women in particular.
I think that's a huge leap.
In almost 30 years, my husband has sent me flowers twice. This is because I have been very clear on the subject - I don't much care for flower arrangements (or corsages). If he wants to buy me flowers, it should be the kind that I can plant in my garden. Then, they last for years. They're also cheaper.
I'm also not a big fan of jewelry. Almost always, the only thing I wear is my wedding ring. I have made it perfectly, abundantly clear that, if my husband wants to spend a lot of money on me, there had better be plane tickets involved. I do not want a shiny bit of something when I could be on a beach, or a boat, or climbing a pyramid, or seeing a waterfall. I want to go places.
I would almost always value experiences over things. For my birthday and my anniversary, I want taken out on a date.
Friends have tried to explain to me why I'm wrong. "Dates last for a few hours. Vacations last for a week or two. Jewelry lasts forever! You can hand it down to your children."
My kids are out of luck. I own costume jewelry; they're welcome to it. My mom left one piece of "real" jewelry, her wedding ring. (She has three daughters, seven granddaughters, a granddaughter in law and a great granddaughter.)
Another friend tried to explain that, "Jewelry is an investment! It will only go up in value." Uh huh. I know people who've lost jobs and homes lately, and tried to sell their jewelry to come up with a bit of much needed cash. They're usually offered far less than what they paid. That, again, makes sense to me. I can't eat a jewel, wear it, use it to keep warm, live in it - if times are hard, its value is next to nothing. I can't even trade it for much in the case of societal collapse, because no one else can do any of those things with it, either. An apple tree - now that's a commodity with value.
Last Christmas, a friend said, "My wife asked for a vacuum. I got her a sapphire ring instead." As far as I know, his wife was thrilled and he was trying very hard to be considerate. Still, if I asked my husband for a vacuum and he bought me a sapphire ring, I'd be furious. I'd say things like, "Do you ever LISTEN to me? Did you just meet me yesterday?"
For graduations and weddings, my kids know that they will get a trip. They've been to Hawaii, Florida, Mexico and Australia. I suppose we could have given them stuff, or cash, but when we celebrate we go places, we do things. We make memories. Life is all about experiences and memories.
My husband values surprise; I do not. He will not make wish lists or give hints, because he doesn't want to know what he's getting. I truly do not value surprise all that much.
At least we listen to what the other wants. Many, many times, my husband and I misunderstand each other, but not about gifts.
It's hard for me to talk to other people, though. I'm not going to be overwrought about a sweater. I will not be impressed by a diamond tennis bracelet. (Why are they "tennis" bracelets, anyway? Does anyone play tennis while wearing them?) When people ask what I got for my anniversary and I say, "Dinner out," I won't understand why they say, "And?"
And for crying out loud, I'm not going to suspect that my husband's a serial killer because he doesn't send flowers.
Just so we're clear, this isn't one sided. I have similar permission to go through his lunch pail, the "man purse" he carries on vacation, his wallet or his pants pocket. He usually goes to bed hours before I do, so I occasionally take cash from his pants pocket while he sleeps, and leave a note: "Hey, I took $X."
Her husband had gotten something simple like gum out of her purse, the woman had told me, in a tone of horror that made it clear that I was expected to gasp, put my hand to my mouth and exclaim, "NO!" She told me, "It's more of an invasion of privacy than a gynecological exam."
I tried to be suitably sympathetic, but I just don't "get it."
I don't understand most gift giving presumptions, either.
On a message board for mothers, I recently read a very angry letter about a gift from a child's dad. Dad had been out of the picture for years and had recently resumed contact. Daughter was 5; he hadn't seen her since she was 2. For her birthday (or maybe it was Christmas), he bought her a sweater. Mom was outraged. "A SWEATER! Nothing for 3 years, then a sweater! I'm so angry I'm thinking of telling him he can't come over when he calls next!"
I'm aware that, since this involves custody issues and hard feelings, it's probably not about the actual sweater. It's probably about unpaid child support and court hearings. Still, the reaction seemed over the top.
I wrote back: "Men are notoriously bad at figuring out gift giving issues, especially when the gift is for a female." That "female" thing isn't exclusive, though. My father in law once gave his 15 year old son a Daniel Boone style fake coonskin cap. It would have been a great gift for a kid half that age. We have photos of my son delightedly wearing his through Frontierland at Disney World when he was 7. For a 15 year old, though, it was worse than no gift.
I offered my opinion that Sweater Dad was probably patting himself on the back. He was probably thinking, "It's practical, it's in her favorite color, she'll wear it every day." Unless told, I said, he would be unaware that anyone would look at that gift and think, "What is wrong with him?"
The mom who wrote the question didn't take issue with my answer, but others did. One woman wrote back that I (names are available on the site, and yes, she called me by name) was " a b***h." "Just because your husband is a loser doesn't mean that the rest of us have to put up with that s**t," she said.
Wow. I thought we were talking about a little girl's sweater.
I polled my friends. "Am I wrong about this?" Most responses were like this one, from a friend since high school - "If my wife didn't buy them, no one would get gifts from me."
It's not the first time I've felt that a stranger was unnecessarily penalizing my husband in matters unrelated to him.
Years ago, while reading a book chronicling the crimes of a serial killer, I noticed that the author seemed to be betraying a bit of bias. The killer's wife, unaware of what her husband did away from home, thought that he was "perfect." She waxed eloquent about how thoughtful and gentle he was.
The author felt it necessary to note, in some detail, though, that he was not the kind of husband who brought flowers home or surprised his wife with jewelry. "If he wanted to get me a gift, we went shopping for it together," the wife said. That made total sense to her. It makes total sense to me - that way, he won't buy the wrong size, brand, color or item.
The author said, in a veiled way, that the woman should have known that something was not right with her husband if he never sent flowers or brought home an unexpected gift. Surely, the (female) author thought, this was a sign that he was insensitive in general and devalued women in particular.
I think that's a huge leap.
In almost 30 years, my husband has sent me flowers twice. This is because I have been very clear on the subject - I don't much care for flower arrangements (or corsages). If he wants to buy me flowers, it should be the kind that I can plant in my garden. Then, they last for years. They're also cheaper.
I'm also not a big fan of jewelry. Almost always, the only thing I wear is my wedding ring. I have made it perfectly, abundantly clear that, if my husband wants to spend a lot of money on me, there had better be plane tickets involved. I do not want a shiny bit of something when I could be on a beach, or a boat, or climbing a pyramid, or seeing a waterfall. I want to go places.
I would almost always value experiences over things. For my birthday and my anniversary, I want taken out on a date.
Friends have tried to explain to me why I'm wrong. "Dates last for a few hours. Vacations last for a week or two. Jewelry lasts forever! You can hand it down to your children."
My kids are out of luck. I own costume jewelry; they're welcome to it. My mom left one piece of "real" jewelry, her wedding ring. (She has three daughters, seven granddaughters, a granddaughter in law and a great granddaughter.)
Another friend tried to explain that, "Jewelry is an investment! It will only go up in value." Uh huh. I know people who've lost jobs and homes lately, and tried to sell their jewelry to come up with a bit of much needed cash. They're usually offered far less than what they paid. That, again, makes sense to me. I can't eat a jewel, wear it, use it to keep warm, live in it - if times are hard, its value is next to nothing. I can't even trade it for much in the case of societal collapse, because no one else can do any of those things with it, either. An apple tree - now that's a commodity with value.
Last Christmas, a friend said, "My wife asked for a vacuum. I got her a sapphire ring instead." As far as I know, his wife was thrilled and he was trying very hard to be considerate. Still, if I asked my husband for a vacuum and he bought me a sapphire ring, I'd be furious. I'd say things like, "Do you ever LISTEN to me? Did you just meet me yesterday?"
For graduations and weddings, my kids know that they will get a trip. They've been to Hawaii, Florida, Mexico and Australia. I suppose we could have given them stuff, or cash, but when we celebrate we go places, we do things. We make memories. Life is all about experiences and memories.
My husband values surprise; I do not. He will not make wish lists or give hints, because he doesn't want to know what he's getting. I truly do not value surprise all that much.
At least we listen to what the other wants. Many, many times, my husband and I misunderstand each other, but not about gifts.
It's hard for me to talk to other people, though. I'm not going to be overwrought about a sweater. I will not be impressed by a diamond tennis bracelet. (Why are they "tennis" bracelets, anyway? Does anyone play tennis while wearing them?) When people ask what I got for my anniversary and I say, "Dinner out," I won't understand why they say, "And?"
And for crying out loud, I'm not going to suspect that my husband's a serial killer because he doesn't send flowers.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Illness, Part 4: Symptoms
I know, usually symptoms are part 1 of an illness. Sometimes the timeline doesn't look quite so neat and organized.
After I had my thyroid removed in August, people said things to me like, "Was it making you just miserable?" Well... yes and no. I was certainly aware that the way I felt was not optimal, but it was very normal for me.
I really didn't care to discuss how I felt, either, as most symptoms were vague sounding and lent themselves to armchair diagnoses, and people telling me what I "should" do.
Take fatigue; it's been one of the overriding symptoms of my body chemistry gone wrong. Still, the fact that my body chemistry might be screwed was the last considered possibility on everyone's mental list.
It wasn't a new or alarming symptom. As a teenager, I never pulled an all-nighter, for any reason. Slumber parties always found me being the first one asleep. One of my childhood best friends had a slumber party at her house with half a dozen girls piled into the living room. The stereo was on, kids were dancing, the popcorn popper was going - and in the middle of it all, I was asleep on the floor. It was always like that. I was usually the last one awake the next morning, too. The other kids found me very odd.
I never understood the reasoning behind staying up late to study for a big test. Staying up late would guarantee me that I would do poorly on a test. I've never been intoxicated, but I completely understand why studies show that drowsy driving is indistinguishable from drunk driving. Being tired means that my thoughts, reactions, understanding of situations, reasoning ability, emotions, co-ordination and recall are all deeply impaired. If I wanted to do well on a test, it was best that I get extra sleep.
I've read that if you need an alarm clock to wake up, you're not getting enough sleep. That never made sense to me. "Your body will automatically wake up when you've had enough sleep to be refreshed," I remember reading. HA! I laughed. Without an alarm, I would routinely sleep 12 hours or more, and I never felt refreshed. Ever.
It's always been worse when I'm sick. A couple of years ago, when I had the flu, my kids left me alone until after 3 in the afternoon, when my son finally decided he'd better wake me up. (I'd gone to bed at 10 the night before.) Still, everyone's more tired when they're sick.
"You're sleeping too much," people said. "Sleep less and you'll feel better." It did no good to say, "No. I won't." I had two choices: feel like a total, barely functional zombie, or be functional.
Mostly, people said, "Lose weight and exercise more. Then you'll feel better." I got tired of explaining that I felt exactly the same when I was 12 years old and (literally) half my current weight (and still my current height). I fell asleep in high school classes (especially right after lunch) more often than I wanted to count. At 18, I once fell asleep at my office job. I was doing better as an adult, despite being heavier, because I no longer saw any possible benefit in pushing until I'm totally exhausted.
"It's just a habit," people said. "Train yourself to expect less sleep, and you'll be fine." Ugh. This, again, ignored the fact that, as a parent, I've had to function for weeks (and months) straight on very little, constantly interrupted sleep. I know what it feels like, and doing that for long periods is dangerous. It can be done, but it's not good for anybody.
It took me years to convince my husband that when we go on vacation, I can do early mornings OR late nights, not both. If I push too hard, I will get sick. "Illness is caused by germs," he'd say. "There's no way this will make you sick." He's one of those people who wants to be the first one in Disneyland for Magic Morning hours, and the last to leave Main Street an hour after the park has officially closed. I can't do that.
"You're imagining things. You think you'll get sick, so you do," people said. I'm not a hysteric or an attention seeker. I've actually had to go to an urgent care facility while on vacation on more than one occasion. I'd SO much rather be doing something else, but I can't. Attending a friend's wedding in Palm Springs in August one year, I contracted such a vicious case of bronchitis that it took 3 full courses of antibiotics to kill, and left me with permanent lung damage. Six years later, in Florida in April, my newly acquired asthma (thank you, aforementioned lung damage) left me unable to breathe and scrambling to procure an inhaler.
We learned to take it easy. Still, a vacation (which I truly enjoy) usually meant that I'd be sick, while still traveling or after returning home. Sometimes, my husband and kids would leave me in a hotel room to sleep all day one day, so that I could resume functioning for the rest of the trip.
Seven weeks after my surgery, we were taking a trip that we'd planned for over a year. It meant hotels in 4 different cities over 12 days, a lot of driving, amusement parks, museums, the zoo, the aquarium, family visits, the beach and the wild animal park, all with my entire immediate family of 7. We weren't sure how I'd feel, so I was prepared to take a day off if I needed it. I didn't.
One of the biggest surprises after the surgery was how I felt. "You'll be completely miserable for about 6 weeks," the surgeon had told me. "Then it'll slowly start to get better." I never got to completely miserable. I went from mildly uncomfortable straight up to better than I'd ever felt. Five days after surgery, I was shooting portraits.
I started waking up five to ten minutes before my alarm went off - not once or twice, but regularly. Once, I woke up a full hour before my alarm. I lay there thinking, "Is it just my bladder waking me up? Am I still tired?" Nope. So, up I got, and on with my day. It's happened again. Days when I could sleep in had me waking up and ready to go 45 minutes before my alarm went off.
I rarely needed a nap. I think I took maybe 3 naps in almost 3 months. That's unheard of.
We went through the entire twelve day trip, and I felt fabulous. I didn't sleep in, I didn't get sick, my asthma stayed quiet. I came home thinking, "Oh, it'll hit now." I had a full schedule of rehearsals, photos to shoot, early morning classes to take my son to, and I still felt great.
My husband couldn't get over it. "That trip would have killed you before! You'd be bedridden for days!" I know! It was amazing.
I also - and this was just as amazing - fell asleep within minutes of going to bed. One of the worst parts of the constant exhaustion I'm used to is that it's perversely accompanied by insomnia. It could take 3 or 4 hours to fall asleep, despite being so tired I was nearly in tears. ("It's because you actually sleep too much," people would say. I will not describe how annoying I found that attitude.) Too often, I resorted to Tylenol PM in an effort to fall asleep. Now, I lay down and actually fell asleep! It was amazing and exciting.
Another "normal for me" problem that I've had my whole like is hypoglycemia - low blood sugar. It runs in my family. I never associated it with my thyroid, or considered it "curable."
When you're hypoglycemic, you need to eat regularly, preferably high protein meals. Skipping meals, especially breakfast, can be disastrous. I have scars on my shoulder from the time I passed out, at age 17, while cooking eggs for breakfast and fell against the burner on the way down. Pregnant with my first child at 20, I passed out at the top of a flight of stairs. I learned to make breakfast my first priority.
When you're fat, and I am, people are very skeptical when you tell them what you eat, when and why. We were friends with the manager of a local pizza place, and he noticed my food one day while we had lunch at their buffet. I had 2 slices of pizza and a salad. "Are you on a diet?" he asked. "Are you trying to be good?" No. That's how I eat. If I felt like having half a pizza, I would. I not only don't feel like it, I'm pretty sure I'd throw up if I piled my plate the way some patrons do. That messes with people's heads. They're sure I do a lot of secret eating. I don't. I don't do a lot of secret anything.
I read weight loss stories where people tell how they'd down a whole pizza and a quart of ice cream, then order Chinese takeout before they changed their ways and lost weight and I think, "Holy cow!" I don't care how big or small you are, eating like that is a terrible idea. It's also nothing that I ever did. I don't binge; I don't starve.
When you tell people that you have a medical condition that requires you to eat regularly, or to stop for a snack during the afternoon, nobody thinks anything of it if you're skinny. If you're fat, they say things about "justification" and "denial" (in private if not to your face). It's SO aggravating.
Again, I'm not imagining these issues. Again, low blood sugar runs in the family.
I know the symptoms. If I don't eat correctly (read: regularly and high protein), first I'll feel nauseated and headachy. If I don't fix it, then I start getting disoriented, shaky and weak. If, heaven forbid, I don't fix it then, my ears will start to ring and the color will drain out of everything, leaving it black and white. If I don't get some juice or something else that absorbs quickly into my system at that point, I faint. The rest of my family gets similar symptoms. My son's vision has never gone totally black and white; he gets a pulsing black ring around the edges of his vision.
After the surgery, I've had no blood sugar issues. I once had a granola bar for breakfast and ate nothing else until 2 in the afternoon, and had no problems. It wasn't even a protein bar or a nut bar, just a plain old Quaker Oat bar barely bigger than a cigar. That, again, is unheard of. I didn't even get a headache.
I went in to my surgeon for a checkup after I came home from vacation. Since my thyroid is gone, I'll be taking daily medication for the rest of my life. He started me on a very generic "adult dose," and at my last checkup told me that he'd be increasing the dosage by 25 milligrams. "You should start to feel a lot better, and have a lot more energy. You should also start to lose some weight," he said. Feel better? More energy? That was almost inconceivable; I'd surely be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.
Soon after switching the dosage, I started to feel run down. I wondered if I was finally getting a cold. Usually, by the end of November, as it is now, I've had two or three ugly ones. I haven't had any this fall.
Nope. Soon I was exhausted, all the time, having blood sugar issues, facing insomnia ... in short, feeling like I did before the surgery.
Worse, I developed one of the symptoms that they had warned me I would develop if I left my thyroid issues untreated - irregular heartbeat. I'll be lying down, trying to sleep, and my heart will start speeding up. Then, instead of a normal "bum bum, bum bum" rhythm, my heart would go, "bum bum, bum bum, bum BAM!, bum bum, bum BAM!" It wasn't even predictable, happening, say, every fourth beat. It happened at random, first after 2 or 3 beats, then after 10 or 12.
After spending almost 2 months feeling amazing, this retreat back into pre-op body chemistry is deeply disturbing. Having heart issues is alarming, so I immediately phoned my surgeon's office and asked to go back to the old dosage. I told them exactly why.
When I say "them," I mean voicemail. I love my surgeon and cannot stand how his office operates. It is harder to get a human being on the phone than it is to win the lottery. I called twice; the pharmacy I use called twice. I finally, days later, got a message on my answering machine from the nurse: "Go get blood work done. We can't change your dose until we know what your blood work says. It will let us know if you need a change."
The worst part of this is that, if they'd actually looked at my chart, they would have seen that my blood work was "normal" BEFORE the surgery. I spent literally 20 years with doctors saying, "Your thyroid is fine. Your blood work is normal." It wasn't until a sharp eyed PA became alarmed by the growths all over my thyroid and referred me to a surgeon that someone said, "Obviously this is not normal!" My surgeon was dismissive of my pre-op blood work, pointing out the gargantuan swelling and unnatural nodules all over my thyroid as being far greater indicators of whether or not something is wrong.
And he was right.
So I phoned the nurse's voicemail back and reminded her of this. Despite assurances by her recorded voice that, "I will get back to you by the end of the day," she did not call back.
Did I mention that I'm experiencing irregular heartbeats? This is not good! I'm shaving my pills down with clippers, trying in vain to cut back my own dose.
Tomorrow, I'm phoning the surgeon's office and simply asking for an appointment to discuss "post-op discomfort or complications." I will not shut up until I get an appointment. I will speak directly to the surgeon, face to face, in an effort to go back to the medication that actually worked for me. And frankly, I will not subject my already angry veins to more blood work unless I have to.
I want the feeling of those two months back! Who knew that "normal" was supposed to feel that good?
After I had my thyroid removed in August, people said things to me like, "Was it making you just miserable?" Well... yes and no. I was certainly aware that the way I felt was not optimal, but it was very normal for me.
I really didn't care to discuss how I felt, either, as most symptoms were vague sounding and lent themselves to armchair diagnoses, and people telling me what I "should" do.
Take fatigue; it's been one of the overriding symptoms of my body chemistry gone wrong. Still, the fact that my body chemistry might be screwed was the last considered possibility on everyone's mental list.
It wasn't a new or alarming symptom. As a teenager, I never pulled an all-nighter, for any reason. Slumber parties always found me being the first one asleep. One of my childhood best friends had a slumber party at her house with half a dozen girls piled into the living room. The stereo was on, kids were dancing, the popcorn popper was going - and in the middle of it all, I was asleep on the floor. It was always like that. I was usually the last one awake the next morning, too. The other kids found me very odd.
I never understood the reasoning behind staying up late to study for a big test. Staying up late would guarantee me that I would do poorly on a test. I've never been intoxicated, but I completely understand why studies show that drowsy driving is indistinguishable from drunk driving. Being tired means that my thoughts, reactions, understanding of situations, reasoning ability, emotions, co-ordination and recall are all deeply impaired. If I wanted to do well on a test, it was best that I get extra sleep.
I've read that if you need an alarm clock to wake up, you're not getting enough sleep. That never made sense to me. "Your body will automatically wake up when you've had enough sleep to be refreshed," I remember reading. HA! I laughed. Without an alarm, I would routinely sleep 12 hours or more, and I never felt refreshed. Ever.
It's always been worse when I'm sick. A couple of years ago, when I had the flu, my kids left me alone until after 3 in the afternoon, when my son finally decided he'd better wake me up. (I'd gone to bed at 10 the night before.) Still, everyone's more tired when they're sick.
"You're sleeping too much," people said. "Sleep less and you'll feel better." It did no good to say, "No. I won't." I had two choices: feel like a total, barely functional zombie, or be functional.
Mostly, people said, "Lose weight and exercise more. Then you'll feel better." I got tired of explaining that I felt exactly the same when I was 12 years old and (literally) half my current weight (and still my current height). I fell asleep in high school classes (especially right after lunch) more often than I wanted to count. At 18, I once fell asleep at my office job. I was doing better as an adult, despite being heavier, because I no longer saw any possible benefit in pushing until I'm totally exhausted.
"It's just a habit," people said. "Train yourself to expect less sleep, and you'll be fine." Ugh. This, again, ignored the fact that, as a parent, I've had to function for weeks (and months) straight on very little, constantly interrupted sleep. I know what it feels like, and doing that for long periods is dangerous. It can be done, but it's not good for anybody.
It took me years to convince my husband that when we go on vacation, I can do early mornings OR late nights, not both. If I push too hard, I will get sick. "Illness is caused by germs," he'd say. "There's no way this will make you sick." He's one of those people who wants to be the first one in Disneyland for Magic Morning hours, and the last to leave Main Street an hour after the park has officially closed. I can't do that.
"You're imagining things. You think you'll get sick, so you do," people said. I'm not a hysteric or an attention seeker. I've actually had to go to an urgent care facility while on vacation on more than one occasion. I'd SO much rather be doing something else, but I can't. Attending a friend's wedding in Palm Springs in August one year, I contracted such a vicious case of bronchitis that it took 3 full courses of antibiotics to kill, and left me with permanent lung damage. Six years later, in Florida in April, my newly acquired asthma (thank you, aforementioned lung damage) left me unable to breathe and scrambling to procure an inhaler.
We learned to take it easy. Still, a vacation (which I truly enjoy) usually meant that I'd be sick, while still traveling or after returning home. Sometimes, my husband and kids would leave me in a hotel room to sleep all day one day, so that I could resume functioning for the rest of the trip.
Seven weeks after my surgery, we were taking a trip that we'd planned for over a year. It meant hotels in 4 different cities over 12 days, a lot of driving, amusement parks, museums, the zoo, the aquarium, family visits, the beach and the wild animal park, all with my entire immediate family of 7. We weren't sure how I'd feel, so I was prepared to take a day off if I needed it. I didn't.
One of the biggest surprises after the surgery was how I felt. "You'll be completely miserable for about 6 weeks," the surgeon had told me. "Then it'll slowly start to get better." I never got to completely miserable. I went from mildly uncomfortable straight up to better than I'd ever felt. Five days after surgery, I was shooting portraits.
I started waking up five to ten minutes before my alarm went off - not once or twice, but regularly. Once, I woke up a full hour before my alarm. I lay there thinking, "Is it just my bladder waking me up? Am I still tired?" Nope. So, up I got, and on with my day. It's happened again. Days when I could sleep in had me waking up and ready to go 45 minutes before my alarm went off.
I rarely needed a nap. I think I took maybe 3 naps in almost 3 months. That's unheard of.
We went through the entire twelve day trip, and I felt fabulous. I didn't sleep in, I didn't get sick, my asthma stayed quiet. I came home thinking, "Oh, it'll hit now." I had a full schedule of rehearsals, photos to shoot, early morning classes to take my son to, and I still felt great.
My husband couldn't get over it. "That trip would have killed you before! You'd be bedridden for days!" I know! It was amazing.
I also - and this was just as amazing - fell asleep within minutes of going to bed. One of the worst parts of the constant exhaustion I'm used to is that it's perversely accompanied by insomnia. It could take 3 or 4 hours to fall asleep, despite being so tired I was nearly in tears. ("It's because you actually sleep too much," people would say. I will not describe how annoying I found that attitude.) Too often, I resorted to Tylenol PM in an effort to fall asleep. Now, I lay down and actually fell asleep! It was amazing and exciting.
Another "normal for me" problem that I've had my whole like is hypoglycemia - low blood sugar. It runs in my family. I never associated it with my thyroid, or considered it "curable."
When you're hypoglycemic, you need to eat regularly, preferably high protein meals. Skipping meals, especially breakfast, can be disastrous. I have scars on my shoulder from the time I passed out, at age 17, while cooking eggs for breakfast and fell against the burner on the way down. Pregnant with my first child at 20, I passed out at the top of a flight of stairs. I learned to make breakfast my first priority.
When you're fat, and I am, people are very skeptical when you tell them what you eat, when and why. We were friends with the manager of a local pizza place, and he noticed my food one day while we had lunch at their buffet. I had 2 slices of pizza and a salad. "Are you on a diet?" he asked. "Are you trying to be good?" No. That's how I eat. If I felt like having half a pizza, I would. I not only don't feel like it, I'm pretty sure I'd throw up if I piled my plate the way some patrons do. That messes with people's heads. They're sure I do a lot of secret eating. I don't. I don't do a lot of secret anything.
I read weight loss stories where people tell how they'd down a whole pizza and a quart of ice cream, then order Chinese takeout before they changed their ways and lost weight and I think, "Holy cow!" I don't care how big or small you are, eating like that is a terrible idea. It's also nothing that I ever did. I don't binge; I don't starve.
When you tell people that you have a medical condition that requires you to eat regularly, or to stop for a snack during the afternoon, nobody thinks anything of it if you're skinny. If you're fat, they say things about "justification" and "denial" (in private if not to your face). It's SO aggravating.
Again, I'm not imagining these issues. Again, low blood sugar runs in the family.
I know the symptoms. If I don't eat correctly (read: regularly and high protein), first I'll feel nauseated and headachy. If I don't fix it, then I start getting disoriented, shaky and weak. If, heaven forbid, I don't fix it then, my ears will start to ring and the color will drain out of everything, leaving it black and white. If I don't get some juice or something else that absorbs quickly into my system at that point, I faint. The rest of my family gets similar symptoms. My son's vision has never gone totally black and white; he gets a pulsing black ring around the edges of his vision.
After the surgery, I've had no blood sugar issues. I once had a granola bar for breakfast and ate nothing else until 2 in the afternoon, and had no problems. It wasn't even a protein bar or a nut bar, just a plain old Quaker Oat bar barely bigger than a cigar. That, again, is unheard of. I didn't even get a headache.
I went in to my surgeon for a checkup after I came home from vacation. Since my thyroid is gone, I'll be taking daily medication for the rest of my life. He started me on a very generic "adult dose," and at my last checkup told me that he'd be increasing the dosage by 25 milligrams. "You should start to feel a lot better, and have a lot more energy. You should also start to lose some weight," he said. Feel better? More energy? That was almost inconceivable; I'd surely be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.
Soon after switching the dosage, I started to feel run down. I wondered if I was finally getting a cold. Usually, by the end of November, as it is now, I've had two or three ugly ones. I haven't had any this fall.
Nope. Soon I was exhausted, all the time, having blood sugar issues, facing insomnia ... in short, feeling like I did before the surgery.
Worse, I developed one of the symptoms that they had warned me I would develop if I left my thyroid issues untreated - irregular heartbeat. I'll be lying down, trying to sleep, and my heart will start speeding up. Then, instead of a normal "bum bum, bum bum" rhythm, my heart would go, "bum bum, bum bum, bum BAM!, bum bum, bum BAM!" It wasn't even predictable, happening, say, every fourth beat. It happened at random, first after 2 or 3 beats, then after 10 or 12.
After spending almost 2 months feeling amazing, this retreat back into pre-op body chemistry is deeply disturbing. Having heart issues is alarming, so I immediately phoned my surgeon's office and asked to go back to the old dosage. I told them exactly why.
When I say "them," I mean voicemail. I love my surgeon and cannot stand how his office operates. It is harder to get a human being on the phone than it is to win the lottery. I called twice; the pharmacy I use called twice. I finally, days later, got a message on my answering machine from the nurse: "Go get blood work done. We can't change your dose until we know what your blood work says. It will let us know if you need a change."
The worst part of this is that, if they'd actually looked at my chart, they would have seen that my blood work was "normal" BEFORE the surgery. I spent literally 20 years with doctors saying, "Your thyroid is fine. Your blood work is normal." It wasn't until a sharp eyed PA became alarmed by the growths all over my thyroid and referred me to a surgeon that someone said, "Obviously this is not normal!" My surgeon was dismissive of my pre-op blood work, pointing out the gargantuan swelling and unnatural nodules all over my thyroid as being far greater indicators of whether or not something is wrong.
And he was right.
So I phoned the nurse's voicemail back and reminded her of this. Despite assurances by her recorded voice that, "I will get back to you by the end of the day," she did not call back.
Did I mention that I'm experiencing irregular heartbeats? This is not good! I'm shaving my pills down with clippers, trying in vain to cut back my own dose.
Tomorrow, I'm phoning the surgeon's office and simply asking for an appointment to discuss "post-op discomfort or complications." I will not shut up until I get an appointment. I will speak directly to the surgeon, face to face, in an effort to go back to the medication that actually worked for me. And frankly, I will not subject my already angry veins to more blood work unless I have to.
I want the feeling of those two months back! Who knew that "normal" was supposed to feel that good?
Friday, September 9, 2011
Glass and Steel
I have no appreciation for modern architecture. I know this about myself. I do not like sleek, modern or dramatic anything, really. What's the point of making a building that looks like a cube balanced on one corner? The fact that you can? The fact that it's different from everything around it? I am unimpressed.
My husband, of course, values those two attributes highly. Looking at houses together is a comedy routine. He'll look at a house and wrinkle his nose in distaste. "It's so boxy and square," he'll say.
"What's it supposed to look like? A butterfly? A car?" Complaining that a house is too boxy is like complaining that shirts are human shaped. Of course it's boxy. It's a big box with windows and doors. That's what it's supposed to be. Ask virtually any elementary school child in America to draw a house, and they'll draw the same thing – a box with a triangular roof, a door, and two windows.
Dan will swoon over the balanced cube. "Do you know how hard it is to engineer that?" he'll marvel. I am not bored easily, but I am bored by trying to imagine how to build otherworldly shapes. Just make a conventional shape and be done with it, already.
Dan loves geodesic domes. He's often said that he'd love to live in one. I'm left wondering where, exactly, I'd hang anything on the walls. Where would I put the furniture, cowering in the center of the rooms? And what about windows? He once told me that if you used the right translucent material, you wouldn't need windows. It would actually be brighter than regular houses with windows. Well, OK, but light is only half of why I want windows.
Recently we got a magazine with a cover story on a new bridge. It looks like, I don't know, maybe a wing – the driving surface is fairly conventional (after all, you have to drive over it,) but the upper portion of the bridge is an elongated triangle, high and soaring at one end and tapering to nothing at the other. The article urged readers to go see the bridge, and make sure they saw it at night, too, when it would be lit. I was just thinking, "Why would anyone travel anyplace to see a triangular bridge?" when Dan saw the article. "Wow, that looks pretty cool," he said. "I'd like to see that." How did we manage to marry each other? I'm so glad most of our home owning decisions are based on finances.
When I was 19, my college fiction writing class received an assignment: describe something from the point of view of two different characters. Each should have an opinion very different from the other. It was an easy assignment for me.
You're always told, "Write what you know." I chose to center the assignment on the building I'd worked in for years, a monolith downtown. My first job was as a runner in the law firm my mother worked for. It was on first the 11th, then the 15th, floor of a bank and office building. The bank took up the lower floors, and various offices – many of them law offices – took up the rest. The building was a towering glass and steel edifice that looked black from the window tinting. It was modern and impressive, and I never really liked it.
One of my characters was a young man, a newlywed. He saw in the tall, shiny black building a symbol of progress, hope and strength. Everything that was right and good and wonderful about his future was embodied in that building. The other character was an elderly man, a veteran. He saw it as a sterile, impersonal, uncaring symbol of a society that was the same. This man knew that progress leaves people behind, that the bottom line is always money and not human beings. I got an "A".
You tend to identify most with the characters whose experiences mirror your own. I was young, I was engaged; on paper, my first character should have been me. Instead, I was the old man; wrinkled, walking with a cane, invisible to passersby, memories of a long ago battlefield unconsciously coloring his world. I wrote both of them well, but the old man was the one who held my opinions.
I'm at a loss to explain why so many museums are so frightfully modern, so Buck Rogers. I love museums, but I love the inside. I tend to think the outside should be old, weathered, stone, that they should show some age, for goodness sake. The most beautiful museum exterior I've ever seen is the Museum of Man in San Diego's Balboa Park. I absolutely swooned over the darned thing. Back in the days when photos took film, and you had to make it count every time you pushed the shutter button, I probably shot an entire roll of film on just the dome. There must be some reason things speak to a person's soul, but whatever the formula, that did it for me.
There's always the shorter, less poetic opinion. One of my sisters once watched me decorating my house or yard – I don't remember which, or what I was using. I just remember her chrome and glass sensibilities being offended as she queried, "What is it with you and old, ratty things?"
My husband, of course, values those two attributes highly. Looking at houses together is a comedy routine. He'll look at a house and wrinkle his nose in distaste. "It's so boxy and square," he'll say.
"What's it supposed to look like? A butterfly? A car?" Complaining that a house is too boxy is like complaining that shirts are human shaped. Of course it's boxy. It's a big box with windows and doors. That's what it's supposed to be. Ask virtually any elementary school child in America to draw a house, and they'll draw the same thing – a box with a triangular roof, a door, and two windows.
Dan will swoon over the balanced cube. "Do you know how hard it is to engineer that?" he'll marvel. I am not bored easily, but I am bored by trying to imagine how to build otherworldly shapes. Just make a conventional shape and be done with it, already.
Dan loves geodesic domes. He's often said that he'd love to live in one. I'm left wondering where, exactly, I'd hang anything on the walls. Where would I put the furniture, cowering in the center of the rooms? And what about windows? He once told me that if you used the right translucent material, you wouldn't need windows. It would actually be brighter than regular houses with windows. Well, OK, but light is only half of why I want windows.
Recently we got a magazine with a cover story on a new bridge. It looks like, I don't know, maybe a wing – the driving surface is fairly conventional (after all, you have to drive over it,) but the upper portion of the bridge is an elongated triangle, high and soaring at one end and tapering to nothing at the other. The article urged readers to go see the bridge, and make sure they saw it at night, too, when it would be lit. I was just thinking, "Why would anyone travel anyplace to see a triangular bridge?" when Dan saw the article. "Wow, that looks pretty cool," he said. "I'd like to see that." How did we manage to marry each other? I'm so glad most of our home owning decisions are based on finances.
When I was 19, my college fiction writing class received an assignment: describe something from the point of view of two different characters. Each should have an opinion very different from the other. It was an easy assignment for me.
You're always told, "Write what you know." I chose to center the assignment on the building I'd worked in for years, a monolith downtown. My first job was as a runner in the law firm my mother worked for. It was on first the 11th, then the 15th, floor of a bank and office building. The bank took up the lower floors, and various offices – many of them law offices – took up the rest. The building was a towering glass and steel edifice that looked black from the window tinting. It was modern and impressive, and I never really liked it.
One of my characters was a young man, a newlywed. He saw in the tall, shiny black building a symbol of progress, hope and strength. Everything that was right and good and wonderful about his future was embodied in that building. The other character was an elderly man, a veteran. He saw it as a sterile, impersonal, uncaring symbol of a society that was the same. This man knew that progress leaves people behind, that the bottom line is always money and not human beings. I got an "A".
You tend to identify most with the characters whose experiences mirror your own. I was young, I was engaged; on paper, my first character should have been me. Instead, I was the old man; wrinkled, walking with a cane, invisible to passersby, memories of a long ago battlefield unconsciously coloring his world. I wrote both of them well, but the old man was the one who held my opinions.
I'm at a loss to explain why so many museums are so frightfully modern, so Buck Rogers. I love museums, but I love the inside. I tend to think the outside should be old, weathered, stone, that they should show some age, for goodness sake. The most beautiful museum exterior I've ever seen is the Museum of Man in San Diego's Balboa Park. I absolutely swooned over the darned thing. Back in the days when photos took film, and you had to make it count every time you pushed the shutter button, I probably shot an entire roll of film on just the dome. There must be some reason things speak to a person's soul, but whatever the formula, that did it for me.
There's always the shorter, less poetic opinion. One of my sisters once watched me decorating my house or yard – I don't remember which, or what I was using. I just remember her chrome and glass sensibilities being offended as she queried, "What is it with you and old, ratty things?"
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Gender Blindness
I wrote this more than a decade ago. I was writing recently about the number of other people's dates that I've been on as a 3rd wheel - yeah, I'm sure you'll end up getting to read about that, and some of you have known me long enough to remember those dates - and I remembered this essay. It was very painful and confusing for me to figure out, as a middle aged parent, things that most people probably got a handle on long about puberty. Still, in spite of the difficulty and confusion, I do think things would be better if they were the way I always thought they were.
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I found out, years after the fact, that when I first met my husband he was intimidated by the number of male names in my conversation. It wasn't just the references to movies with Scott and Mike or lunch with Darren, it was talk of entire vacations with Tony, Guy, Joe, Andy and the like – the weekend in the Bay Area, the trips to Disneyland. No one I knew ever assumed that I was dating any of the guys attached to these names, so it never occurred to me that any one else would.
For one thing, trips were never one on one, just me and a male. It was usually large groups of us. I remember going through Disneyland confounding the ride operators by answering, "15," when they asked, "How many in your party?" For another, I've inherited a bit of my mother's habit of assuming that if I know something, so does everyone else. Mostly, though, I thought there was an invisible but unmistakable sign around my neck that forever branded me The Buddy, never ever to be confused with The Leading Lady. Growing up, my friends all seemed to see it.
Dan, on the other hand, assumed that with all kinds of men in my life, I must be fielding all kinds of offers for dates (or more.) I guess that's actually a prudent assumption to make if you're going to be asking someone out. He was sure these men were at least potential rivals.
A woman I met in adulthood still has trouble believing that I was one of the guys. She's sure none of them could have missed unmistakable signs of being female, like breasts. They all noticed that I had them, I'm sure, but I still wasn't considered a girl. I was gender neutral. The only time they thought of me as being a female is when they came to me for romantic advice, as in, "You're a girl. What do girls like?" I could never understand why they asked someone who never dated for dating advice. When I'd bring it up, though, I was always told that it was because I had access to secret girl thoughts, because girls would talk to me about guys. Girls, of course, asked me things too, but it was usually rhetorical – "Isn't he gorgeous?" My male friends wanted actual battle plans. How do I impress her? How do I ask her out? Where should we go? I wanted to snap, "How should I know?" I knew how to impress me, not anybody else.
One male friend actually overlooked the whole gender thing to the point that he actually said to me, "Don't ever get a girlfriend, Sharon. They're too expensive." When I responded, in a withering tone of voice, "I don't think that'll be a problem," he said, "Oh, you know what I mean." Well, no, I didn't, but I assumed he didn't actively mean to be either brain dead or offensive.
Dan did not grow up in a world of platonic relationships. When he heard me mention going places with someone named Tony, it would no more have occurred to him that it was platonic than he would have assumed that a sound heard in the woods was Bigfoot (in whom he does not believe). It was simply not part of his reality. In his reality, "platonic" meant either, 1. The girl you liked didn't like you back, or 2. It was part of a ruse used to get close to a girl without admitting that you were interested. Remember the speech in "When Harry Met Sally" about how she only thought she had male friends? That was pretty much how Dan felt.
As an adolescent, Dan wanted to grow up to be a swinging 70's disco god. I wanted to grow up to live on the equivalent of Sesame Street, where it not only didn't matter what color (or gender) your neighbor was, it didn't even matter if they were human. We inevitably experienced culture clash.
It didn't take him too very long to decide that I really wasn't dating any of these guys. It took a lot longer for him to formulate an opinion as to why. He was making First Contact with an alien race.
I still struggle sometimes with understanding how or why male and female friends are different. If I could talk to one about buying underwear, or childbirth, or why I hate pantyhose, why couldn't I tell the other? If I spent time on the phone, or shopping, or going to lunch with one, surely it was OK to do it with another, plumbing notwithstanding. I wasn't going to be having sex with any of them. When I was growing up, none of this was a problem. After reaching adulthood, no one seemed to understand or expect it.
Whenever I couldn't make it to some event Dan wanted to attend, I'd always call a girlfriend of mine to go with him. He won't attend any kind of event alone, and it seemed silly to call a guy friend. If he wanted a guy to go with, he could call one, right? I had no problem with this. I thought it was very funny when one of his coworkers was flustered by Dan's appearance at the company dinner with a lovely woman who was not his wife. I was extremely annoyed when I was house managing a play and an usher became quite worried when my husband and best friend showed up together. If it was a secret that they were together, they would have gone somewhere else, wouldn't they? I was just sure the intentions were obvious.
It was also alternately funny and puzzling when it was me out with a male friend because my husband could't attend the function, especially when I ran into someone I hadn't seen in a long time. They had no idea quite what to think. I remember attending a theater company dinner and introducing my escort as, "This is my friend, Tim." One woman said, nervously, "That's nice. Did I tell you that I'm getting a divorce?" I didn't understand such people. I just thought they had a very narrow view of the world.
I grew up in a church in which people are often affectionate, physically and otherwise. Men were just as likely as women to hug you, pat your shoulder or knee, kiss your cheek, walk down the hall with their arm around you or offer you any kind of help. Age and marital status were immaterial. Men could, and did, comment that it was wonderful to be surrounded by beauty when they were in the Young Women organization for 12 to 18 year olds, just as they did when they were visiting in the women's organization. They might also stand with their arm around you at a public function, even if you were both married to other folks. Nobody worried that this was inappropriate. When I was a sophomore in high school, my bishop held a co-ed youth group sleepover at his house. (In later years, when such co-ed functions were no longer allowed for church youth groups, I thought decidedly judgemental and angry thoughts about the people whose bad behavior had forced the policy change.) If the rest of the world wasn't that way, I was just unaware.
I had to change my mind after I discovered that there were actually people of both genders who misinterpreted my behavior. Aside from basic gender blindness, I was sure that my status as a very married, large, religious mother of four precluded any such misunderstanding. It was quite traumatic to find out that I was wrong.
A friend had become convinced that I was hitting on her husband. To make matters worse, her husband also thought so. He never said anything, and she waited until she was utterly furious before she brought it up. She simmered for six months or so before blowing up at me. I had to ask what, exactly, was bothering them.
The examples she gave me made no sense to me. "You always laugh at his jokes. You always sit by him even when there's other empty seats. You go talk to him when you're having problems." Well, sure. Guilty as charged. It wasn't an invitation to fall into bed. Luckily, she had been around me in various settings enough to see what I meant when I said, "I treat everybody that way." If the jokes are funny, I laugh. Sometimes I'll laugh louder if they aren't funny, to save the joke teller from that horrible, crickets chirping silence.
I was in a play at the time, and the 18 year old ingenue frequently sat on my lap while I brushed her hair. She often joked that she and I were having an affair, and the lighting tech told her every time that she had to bring in video. (I wondered whether this behavior wasn't her way of avoiding being too chummy with the single guys. She was adorable and perky and 18, and everyone noticed.) One of the men in the cast, a 19 or 20 year old college student, had a ritual with me (actors tend to be big on rituals) of my slapping his rear end with my purse before we went out for a certain scene. At work, I frequently brought in things for male co-workers – chocolate chip cookies to share with the other chocoholic in the office, for example. One man in the office called me his "favorite file clerk," even though I was the only file clerk. I never, ever imagined that any of these things would be construed as "passes," and I told my friend so.
As for telling her husband my problems, well, he'd asked. When I'd looked down or distracted, he'd wanted to know why. I'm generally a "too much information" person. There are only a few subjects I don't want to discuss. Otherwise, if you want to know, I'll tell you. Occasionally, if you don't want to know, I'll still tell you. I quite probably have too few boundaries.
I adore your husband, I told her, but I'm not looking to trade mine in. "Anything I've ever said in front of him, I'd say in front of my bishop! He's a great guy, too."
Even though she told me she found it hard to believe that I was "that naive," she did concede that, yes, indeed, I did tend to treat everyone that way. I did discover, though, that there had been other times someone thought I was making a pass, and I thought I was merely making conversation. Who knew that "I missed you," or "Wow, you look great," would be taken as expressions of sexual interest? Not me, certainly.
I have finally had to admit that I've gotten it wrong. There are differences between male and female friends. I can now intellectually explain to you why this is. I can tell you what the differences are. But, deep down, I still feel that the rest of the world just doesn't "get it." I still think there shouldn't be any difference. I've just had to realize that we shouldn't have to have locks on our homes (or cars or what have you), but we have to anyway. Maybe there shouldn't be a difference in friendships, but there is.
I became temporarily unhinged. I thought about all the times I'd scoffed at references to eye contact being a sexual signal. What if it was? How do you go through life not making eye contact, not smiling at people? I did that with everybody – people I passed in the mall, people in restaurants, people where I worked. And, I'd always assumed it was safer to have male friends who were married. That way, I was sure, no signals would get crossed. But they did! What now? And how about compliments? Who could I compliment? Who could I hug? Trying to hash it out with the women I knew wasn't entirely successful. "Some men think you're making a pass at them if you're doing nothing but breathing," one said. AAUUGGHHHH!
I've dated one person in my lifetime. One. I am not equipped to make sense of these situations.
I became terrified of saying or doing anything. My usual yardstick – does it bother me or my husband? – had proven to be worthless. My past experience had proven unreliable. What now? My desk was at the far end of the office; everyone had to pass it to get to the break room, the bathrooms or the Xerox machine, which was also a shared printer. I'd always looked up from my work, smiled at whoever went by, and made small talk if they were amenable. Now, I spent days staring straight down at my desk, looking at no one, speaking to no one. My nerves were fried.
I asked my husband, "Is it just me?" I asked my friends, "Is it just me?" They were all supportive, but I still didn't really know if it was just me.
I probably still don't know. There's a good chance I won't ever really "get it." But hey, if you're thinking that I made a pass at you any time after 1985, no matter what gender you are, you're mistaken. OK?
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Growing Up Is Hard To Do
My youngest daughter was asked to speak in church last weekend. I think she did a great job. She took a great deal of her talk from published sources, so she did a lot of reading quotes instead of presenting her own take on the subject, but why reinvent the wheel? If you find a source who says it eloquently, quote them. She was poised, spoke clearly and, like the actress that she is, knew what and how to emphasize.
Afterwards, someone who frequently sees her in her class at church said to me, "She does a much better job reading things she's familiar with instead of reading straight from the scriptures. She ought to read her scriptures out loud more often." Well, everyone should probably read their scriptures more, but that's another subject. When she's asked to read a scripture passage aloud in class, she stumbles and fumbles and stutters and asks for help. I smiled and nodded; every parent spends time doing that when listening to others describe their kid(s). You see, when asked to read a scripture out loud at home, or even in a class I'm in, she does it beautifully, handling even the foot long Hebrew names better than many adults. When her parents aren't around, though, you'd swear she was a struggling reader who'd never even seen a Bible.
It took me back to watching her oldest sister give a talk in the children's meeting at church. She'd chosen to read a story out of a church magazine. She couldn't have been any older than seven, because we moved to a different town the summer after she completed first grade. Again, practicing this story at home, she sounded great. Once she got to church, she sounded borderline illiterate.
Most of the time when a child read something aloud during these meetings, one of the leaders (or a parent) would stand next to them and whisper the words in their ears, and they'd repeat it into the microphone. This was especially true with the younger children, who weren't confident readers yet. I knew my child, and knew she didn't need me.
I watched her hesitate and mumble for a few sentences, then stood up and whispered in her ear, "You can do it." It was like flipping a switch. Suddenly her reading was smooth, clear, precise. She had no trouble with any of the pronunciations, understood the punctuation, and sounded like a child years older than she was. Afterward, all the leaders and teachers swooned over her, telling her what a great job she did. Instead of basking in the praise, she stared at the floor and fidgeted.
One of the leaders said to me, "Sometimes all it takes to shine is to hear that your parents have confidence in you." Again, I smiled and nodded. This was most certainly not how this daughter viewed things.
She was furious with me. I had caused her to stand out, to look DIFFERENT than the other kids, in public, and that was unforgivable. Especially at that age, in kindergarten and first grade, we had lots of discussions that began with her saying, "Everybody else..." She HATED the fact that she stood out. She had insisted that instead of the beautiful coloring she did at home, "In school, you're SUPPOSED to scribble. Everybody does." The same went for any other skill; it fell on deaf ears to tell her that the other kids were doing the best they could, and she should do the best SHE could. "It should all be THE SAME," she would insist.
She was also angry because I had deprived her of the attention of the leaders, the one on one of having somebody focus on just her instead of on a large group of kids. She didn't see that with all the praise she was getting, she was getting more attention, positive attention, and that it came from every adult in the room, not just one. She wanted the leader standing next to her, whispering in her ear. Plus, I had made her stand out as different, and that was just wrong.
My middle daughter has always had a severe case of Middle Child Syndrome, never feeling quite as though she got as much attention, recognition, praise or whatever else as she wanted. She frequently voiced the opinion that, "Things are only special when the oldest and the youngest do them." Even though we insisted that accomplishments were special whenever anyone achieved them, she'd roll her eyes and tell us we were wrong.
My son is happiest sitting quietly in the back of a classroom, being unnoticed. He does not like to be singled out. He blows most praise, from any source, off; he's such a total perfectionist that he doesn't think that much is praiseworthy. (He constantly tells me that people's standards are too low. Every now and then, he'll look at what the average person can do as compared to what he's done and announce, "People are idiots!" I try to convince him otherwise, but am frequently thwarted by 1. people who are idiots and 2. his conviction that my standards are too low.) He has made an armchair diagnosis of his little sister - "narcissistic personality disorder."
Ah, my youngest; she deeply craves attention. Mostly, she wants people to think that she's adorable. Somewhere in both her conscious and unconscious mind, she remembers when people found her mere existence adorable. As the youngest, she noticed that when we were out in public, when people swooned over any of the children it was over her, the baby. Everything she said, did and was had adoration heaped on it by the ton. Every baby experiences this.
When my nephew Jeremy was nine, he asked one day, "Aunt Sherrie? How come everybody just loves babies, but once you get older nobody cares?" At that point, he was watching the phenomenon from the opposite perspective; he was the oldest child in our household of five children. It was my son, the baby, who was receiving the swooning and adoration at that point. We'd be out in public with all five kids, little blond stair steps, and all people would see was, "Oh, look at that baby! He's so cute!" Sure, he was adorable, but so were the big kids.
I explained my belief: "I think it's because babies are all potential, so people can imagine them as anything they want. They've never disagreed with someone, or done anything that would offend them. People look at a baby and imagine the very best of everything. Plus, it's just hardwired into people to love babies - otherwise, they'd never be willing to deal with all the work and exhaustion and sacrifice of caring for a completely helpless, tiny person. It's a survival of the human race thing."
I don't know if it helped Jeremy, but I think it was a good explanation.
My youngest simply knows that it used to be an absolute given that her place in the universe was 1. at its center and 2. surrounded by adoring subjects. When she hit about seven years old, she noticed that it was no longer a given that she was darling. People did not automatically swoon over her mere presence or existence. She became convinced that it was because she wasn't cute enough any more. I remember watching her get her Girl Scout cookie order form one year and sighing, "I won't sell as many cookies this year. I used to be cuter." Half of her life has been a pre-adolescent version of the midlife crisis.
She recently had to move up from the children's organization at church to the youth organization. She was not thrilled. She insisted, frequently and loudly, that getting older meant, "I'll be BORING!" ("Boring," by the way, is worse than death.) She tries in vain to recapture what it felt like to be three and precocious. Most kids her age exult in leaving behind the little kids; she is sure that if she's surrounded by younger children, she'll be cute by association. She's warming up to the whole youth group thing, which is good. I suspect a lot of that has to do with great leaders and other youth, but a lot has to do with being the youngest one in the group. That is her comfort zone.
Her older siblings watch her exhibit some immature behavior and cringe. "Why does she DO that?" they ask. I remind them all that they did immature things when they were younger. Frequently they say things like, "Yes, but I was stupid," or "I have no idea what I was thinking." Well, OK, I tell them, it's the same for her. Eventually she'll "get" it.
"Can you get her to stop that?" they ask. They do not like the answer - "No, I can't." A couple of days ago I asked her older sister, "Did you listen to me all the time, and do what I told you to without question?" She snorted at the ridiculousness of this.
"NO!!"
"Well, neither does she."
I have to admit, I have more patience than I otherwise would because I do have older kids. They're adults now, delightful adults, so I know that no phase lasts forever. This too shall pass. If I didn't know that, sometimes being a parent and saying things for the 1,849th time, this week alone, would drive me literally insane.
Eventually, my "baby" will discover that we have a culture in which teens are considered the height of attractiveness. She will, I hope, be delighted to be a teen. She will discover that growing up means more freedom, more choices, not being boring.
Oh please, oh please.
I'll settle for anything that is progress toward age appropriateness, and pride in getting there, and worry about how she'll eventually deal with the loss of youth, the youth she now does not want, when we get there.
Afterwards, someone who frequently sees her in her class at church said to me, "She does a much better job reading things she's familiar with instead of reading straight from the scriptures. She ought to read her scriptures out loud more often." Well, everyone should probably read their scriptures more, but that's another subject. When she's asked to read a scripture passage aloud in class, she stumbles and fumbles and stutters and asks for help. I smiled and nodded; every parent spends time doing that when listening to others describe their kid(s). You see, when asked to read a scripture out loud at home, or even in a class I'm in, she does it beautifully, handling even the foot long Hebrew names better than many adults. When her parents aren't around, though, you'd swear she was a struggling reader who'd never even seen a Bible.
It took me back to watching her oldest sister give a talk in the children's meeting at church. She'd chosen to read a story out of a church magazine. She couldn't have been any older than seven, because we moved to a different town the summer after she completed first grade. Again, practicing this story at home, she sounded great. Once she got to church, she sounded borderline illiterate.
Most of the time when a child read something aloud during these meetings, one of the leaders (or a parent) would stand next to them and whisper the words in their ears, and they'd repeat it into the microphone. This was especially true with the younger children, who weren't confident readers yet. I knew my child, and knew she didn't need me.
I watched her hesitate and mumble for a few sentences, then stood up and whispered in her ear, "You can do it." It was like flipping a switch. Suddenly her reading was smooth, clear, precise. She had no trouble with any of the pronunciations, understood the punctuation, and sounded like a child years older than she was. Afterward, all the leaders and teachers swooned over her, telling her what a great job she did. Instead of basking in the praise, she stared at the floor and fidgeted.
One of the leaders said to me, "Sometimes all it takes to shine is to hear that your parents have confidence in you." Again, I smiled and nodded. This was most certainly not how this daughter viewed things.
She was furious with me. I had caused her to stand out, to look DIFFERENT than the other kids, in public, and that was unforgivable. Especially at that age, in kindergarten and first grade, we had lots of discussions that began with her saying, "Everybody else..." She HATED the fact that she stood out. She had insisted that instead of the beautiful coloring she did at home, "In school, you're SUPPOSED to scribble. Everybody does." The same went for any other skill; it fell on deaf ears to tell her that the other kids were doing the best they could, and she should do the best SHE could. "It should all be THE SAME," she would insist.
She was also angry because I had deprived her of the attention of the leaders, the one on one of having somebody focus on just her instead of on a large group of kids. She didn't see that with all the praise she was getting, she was getting more attention, positive attention, and that it came from every adult in the room, not just one. She wanted the leader standing next to her, whispering in her ear. Plus, I had made her stand out as different, and that was just wrong.
My middle daughter has always had a severe case of Middle Child Syndrome, never feeling quite as though she got as much attention, recognition, praise or whatever else as she wanted. She frequently voiced the opinion that, "Things are only special when the oldest and the youngest do them." Even though we insisted that accomplishments were special whenever anyone achieved them, she'd roll her eyes and tell us we were wrong.
My son is happiest sitting quietly in the back of a classroom, being unnoticed. He does not like to be singled out. He blows most praise, from any source, off; he's such a total perfectionist that he doesn't think that much is praiseworthy. (He constantly tells me that people's standards are too low. Every now and then, he'll look at what the average person can do as compared to what he's done and announce, "People are idiots!" I try to convince him otherwise, but am frequently thwarted by 1. people who are idiots and 2. his conviction that my standards are too low.) He has made an armchair diagnosis of his little sister - "narcissistic personality disorder."
Ah, my youngest; she deeply craves attention. Mostly, she wants people to think that she's adorable. Somewhere in both her conscious and unconscious mind, she remembers when people found her mere existence adorable. As the youngest, she noticed that when we were out in public, when people swooned over any of the children it was over her, the baby. Everything she said, did and was had adoration heaped on it by the ton. Every baby experiences this.
When my nephew Jeremy was nine, he asked one day, "Aunt Sherrie? How come everybody just loves babies, but once you get older nobody cares?" At that point, he was watching the phenomenon from the opposite perspective; he was the oldest child in our household of five children. It was my son, the baby, who was receiving the swooning and adoration at that point. We'd be out in public with all five kids, little blond stair steps, and all people would see was, "Oh, look at that baby! He's so cute!" Sure, he was adorable, but so were the big kids.
I explained my belief: "I think it's because babies are all potential, so people can imagine them as anything they want. They've never disagreed with someone, or done anything that would offend them. People look at a baby and imagine the very best of everything. Plus, it's just hardwired into people to love babies - otherwise, they'd never be willing to deal with all the work and exhaustion and sacrifice of caring for a completely helpless, tiny person. It's a survival of the human race thing."
I don't know if it helped Jeremy, but I think it was a good explanation.
My youngest simply knows that it used to be an absolute given that her place in the universe was 1. at its center and 2. surrounded by adoring subjects. When she hit about seven years old, she noticed that it was no longer a given that she was darling. People did not automatically swoon over her mere presence or existence. She became convinced that it was because she wasn't cute enough any more. I remember watching her get her Girl Scout cookie order form one year and sighing, "I won't sell as many cookies this year. I used to be cuter." Half of her life has been a pre-adolescent version of the midlife crisis.
She recently had to move up from the children's organization at church to the youth organization. She was not thrilled. She insisted, frequently and loudly, that getting older meant, "I'll be BORING!" ("Boring," by the way, is worse than death.) She tries in vain to recapture what it felt like to be three and precocious. Most kids her age exult in leaving behind the little kids; she is sure that if she's surrounded by younger children, she'll be cute by association. She's warming up to the whole youth group thing, which is good. I suspect a lot of that has to do with great leaders and other youth, but a lot has to do with being the youngest one in the group. That is her comfort zone.
Her older siblings watch her exhibit some immature behavior and cringe. "Why does she DO that?" they ask. I remind them all that they did immature things when they were younger. Frequently they say things like, "Yes, but I was stupid," or "I have no idea what I was thinking." Well, OK, I tell them, it's the same for her. Eventually she'll "get" it.
"Can you get her to stop that?" they ask. They do not like the answer - "No, I can't." A couple of days ago I asked her older sister, "Did you listen to me all the time, and do what I told you to without question?" She snorted at the ridiculousness of this.
"NO!!"
"Well, neither does she."
I have to admit, I have more patience than I otherwise would because I do have older kids. They're adults now, delightful adults, so I know that no phase lasts forever. This too shall pass. If I didn't know that, sometimes being a parent and saying things for the 1,849th time, this week alone, would drive me literally insane.
Eventually, my "baby" will discover that we have a culture in which teens are considered the height of attractiveness. She will, I hope, be delighted to be a teen. She will discover that growing up means more freedom, more choices, not being boring.
Oh please, oh please.
I'll settle for anything that is progress toward age appropriateness, and pride in getting there, and worry about how she'll eventually deal with the loss of youth, the youth she now does not want, when we get there.
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