Thank You For Your Support

"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means." - Inigo Montoya

OK, part of it is the problem of the English language itself, with its ridiculous rules and exceptions to rules. I'll grant you that.

Still. Let's talk about support. The actual word - "support."

We so often use it to mean "agree with." People will insist that "the way to support" someone is to tell them that you think that they're correct, or that they should be doing whatever they're doing. They will tell you that to "support" your family or friends, you need, in essence, to say to them, "You are right. You are absolutely right."

It makes me crazy.

Most of the times that I felt most supported by my parents were the times when we disagreed.

Look on dictionary.com. They supply 19 definitions for "support," and not one contains the words "agree" or "agreement." Number 3, though, says, "to undergo or endure, especially with patience or submission; tolerate." My parents did a lot of that.

I've shared before the fact that I started attending a church at age seven. I went with the neighbors. My parents did not belong to any religion. Both of them, especially my dad, distrusted organized religions as a whole. Plus, this was one outside the mainstream, deemed kind of loopy. Still, when I announced at age eight that I intended to attend every week, that I wanted to be baptized a member, my parents eventually gave permission.

Were they thrilled? No. Not even close. Did they try to talk me out of it? Sure. I rarely share those details, since I consider them irrelevant to the outcome, but it wasn't all sunshine and roses. My family had reservations. My mom worried that being religious would equate to being judgmental. My dad said things like, "They talk about the importance of the family, but I think that this could tear the family apart." When I wanted to attend Sunday services as well as weekday activities, they worried that two meetings a week was too much. My dad also stressed out because Sunday had traditionally been our "pack a picnic and head into the hills" days, and we'd frequently be gone all day long. He was unamused when I countered this worry by asking, "Couldn't we do that on Saturdays?" To me, his answer of, "But we've always done it on Sunday" sounded like a non sequitur. I got to hear everyone's stories about how they "knew this one Mormon man/woman" and how they did something wrong or hurtful or stupid. My dad's family had some long standing beef with the church that went back to his childhood.

How did they handle all this? They let me join, without undue complaining. I could attend meetings weekly, but I had to wait until I was 12 to be baptized; that was OK with me. By that time, they were pretty comfortable that things would go on as usual at home; nobody had grand worries any more. By the time I was a teen, and my mom had to drive me to and from meetings and activities, it was just a normal part of our lives. They attended activities with me when invited. When my teacher suggested a 40 day sugar fast so that we could better understand Jesus' 40 day fast, my mother obsessively read labels and bought special groceries. When I had early morning religion classes in high school, my mother got up with me to make sure I had breakfast. They didn't worry about sending me on youth group trips or sleepovers, even co-ed ones.

Did they still think that my church was odd, my choices were odd, and sometimes hope that I'd decide that I didn't want to attend any more? Sure. Did they say nasty, snarky, passive-aggressive things? Never. Did they gripe to everyone else, outside of my earshot? No. They told people how nice members of my congregation were.

On the other hand, did I secretly throw out their coffee and wine, sigh and look mournful when they drank those things, when they swore, when they stayed home while I went to church? Never. Did I, or anyone else, pressure them to join, remark on how sad it was that I attended alone, tell them that their salvation was at stake? Nope. Not even once. It's called "being mature."

That's certainly not the only time we seriously disagreed. My dad was deeply upset that I had no interest in being an athlete. They were both deeply disappointed when I decided not to go to college after high school. They didn't always like my friends, and were not happy when I chose one of those friends as my roommate when I moved out. (Truth be told, they weren't happy about me moving out, period, and they disliked the girl in question.) (Also, they turned out to be right that living with her was a bad idea.) When I started dating my husband, my mother told me that she never wanted to meet my new boyfriend, and my dad referred to him as "that wild. bearded thing." They were not happy when I got married at 20, when I had a baby that year and another at 21, when we moved hundreds of miles away, when we bought a home in our new town, when I chose to be a stay at home mom... I mean, there are literally dozens of instances in which they would have made very different choices for me if they could.

(Despite the fact that they thought that I was too young, and the fact that my mother hated playing hostess, we held our wedding in my parents' back yard. I felt very supported.)

It should be noted that my extended family and my friends were often equally horrified, or even more distressed than my parents, by any or all of these events. Quite often the collective opinion was that I'd lost my mind, or that I had tragically low self esteem, or that I didn't know that I had alternatives. Also, my inlaws were not fond of me in the slightest. When we were engaged, if I walked into a room, my mother in law walked out.

The fact that my family soon learned to adore my husband (and kids), and that the years bore out the fact that I had not, in fact, ruined my life, is an aside here, instead of the point. The point is that my loved ones continued to love me and continued to treat me and my family the same way they would have if I had done things differently. This does not mean that everyone lived in a state of denial or that nobody voiced concerns, complaints or (my least favorite) advice. It means that the fact that we disagreed was totally secondary to the fact that we loved each other.

That, folks, is what "support" looks like.

I cannot stand it when I read some account or other of someone doing something that could be controversial - leaving medical school to become a jazz musician, or coming out as gay - their loved ones think that they're doing the right thing, and say, "I agree with you 100%! Live your truth! Follow your path! God wants you to do this!" and other people respond, "Now that's the way to support someone!" and "Anyone who tells you that you're wrong is not supporting you!" Listen up, everybody. That's not support. It's agreement. It's expected. It is the very definition, the epitome, of expected. Can you think of any instance in which someone will agree with you, will think that you're doing the right thing, and will say something derogatory or rude? Will they question you and offer alternatives if they think that you're already taking the best course of action? Good gravy, folks, it is the closest thing to a guarantee that if someone agrees with you, they'll say something positive. I repeat, that is agreement, not support.

Displaying expected behavior is not amazing or worthy of praise. It's a given, like the sun rising.

Actual support should be expected behavior, but alas, it is not.

A friend posted a question on their Facebook page about whether or not it was possible to civil and supportive if your family members disagreed on religion. This was my response.

"When I joined my church at almost age 13, my parents and siblings were supportive (if baffled). I do not belong to the same religion as my parents, siblings, parents-in-law, siblings-in-law, or any of my 11 nieces and nephews (or my grandnieces and -nephews, either). (I also do not belong to the same political party as my husband.)

Having grown up in an environment where I was taught that all people have intrinsic value, unrelated to their beliefs or actions, and in which I was both encouraged to be respectful to everyone and to think for myself, I will never be able to understand people who think that everyone has to agree, or they can't truly be close, or love each other. I don't understand people who see differences of opinion as betrayal and rejection.

We recently returned from a naming ceremony for my grandniece, daughter of lesbian, Jewish parents. Someone actually said to my husband, "You would go when you don't agree with them?" Of course! They flew here and celebrated with us, with genuine happiness, when our daughter was married in an LDS temple. They don't agree with us or our religious practices, but it made no difference. That's just what reasonable people do for each other.

Most of my friends are pretty great about differences, too. When I invited a (very non-religious) family to my son's baptism, they didn't say, "We don't believe in that, and we think you're a little weird. It would make us too uncomfortable." They said, "What time do we need to be there, and what is the dress code?" When they invited us to their son's gay pagan handfasting (wedding) ceremony, we said about the same - "When should we get there, and what's the dress code?"

I know people who say they'd love people, regardless, but they'd be very upset if, say, their daughter announced a desire to be a nun. Unless someone is sacrificing children or planning other acts of violence, allowing them to freely practice their beliefs, or unbelief, benefits everyone."

I mean, how is this even a question? How are we not all clear on this?

When you look at my close friends, my lifelong friends, my relatives, people that I truly and sincerely adore, you'll find members of my religion. You'll also find drug addicts, drug traffickers, alcoholics, promiscuous people, transgender people, homosexual people, three pack a day smokers, cross dressers, unwed parents, people with multiple sexual partners/spouses, pagans, Jews, Evangelicals, atheists, Wiccans, people who fit more than one of those categories... all kinds of people whose lives do not mirror my standards. Why is this not a problem for me? Because they are my standards, that I have committed to live. They are not their standards.

And let it also be noted here, because this often gets overlooked, that these people love me, despite the fact that I live a vastly different life than they do.

Three of my children are adults, and the youngest is in high school, so now they sometimes hear details that I may not have shared when they were younger. They know now that one of their deeply loved bonus uncles spent years as a drug addicted, alcoholic, promiscuous manager of strippers. When they were children, I didn't let them in on those details, because they didn't need to know. They arguably don't need to know now, but we never ignored those things, or pretended that they didn't exist. We went the route of, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." Sometimes, we said a lot of nothing.

We've always answered questions truthfully, though. When one of my daughters was working on a play that I was in, she asked one night, "Did (our makeup artist) used to be a woman?"

"Yes, he did. His name was (different) then. I knew him as (that person) when we did university theater together years ago."

"I though so. Don't tell him that I could tell."

"He's not touchy about it. He doesn't broadcast it, but he doesn't mind if you ask. Most of us knew him back then. It's not a secret." I don't know if she ever asked him anything - probably not - but it was just another piece of info, like what any of our actors did for a living.

I have never told my children to love someone despite our differences - I simply love that person. There's no need to qualify the feeling or the relationship.

I've never told them to choose only LDS friends, or to avoid certain people, or not to listen to a friend or relative if they have questions or want to explain their own beliefs or practices. When we've been invited to other churches, if our schedule allows we've said "yes." My kids have gone to Vacation Bible School with their friends. I have never displayed dismissive or superior attitudes because someone is different from me. I don't allow my kids to behave that way, either.

Someone once accused me of being "hateful" and "homophobic" because my religion teaches that homosexuality is aberrant behavior and because I believe that same sex unions (and perhaps even opposite gender civil unions) should be "partnerships" instead of "marriages." I felt compelled to point out that my toddlers were sitting on the lap of my gay, HIV+ best friend back in the 1980s, when people were terrified that the virus could be airborne - and, I might add, before my accuser was even born. I have little patience with anyone trying to give me a sensitivity lecture without knowing about my life. Don't assume that because you have one piece of information that you know me.

Do my kids always agree with me? No. As in so many other areas, I follow my mother's lead.

Two of my children have decided to leave my church. Keep in mind, according to my beliefs, this means that they have effectively opted out of the family unit. They may be in heaven, but they won't be my children in eternity. (This is, arguably, harder than my parents had it, since they had no beliefs about an afterlife or the state of one's eternal soul.) Is this painful? Deeply. Does it feel like rejection? Sure. Do I hope that one day, they change their minds? Absolutely. Do I love them less, criticize them more, insist that they move away, withdraw any financial help, tell their siblings to ignore them or plead with them, lie to our family and friends (or ask the children to do so), refuse to spend time with them or to take them on family trips, or engage in any other ridiculous, alienating behavior? No. Do I forbid discussion of religion? No. Do I continue to have weekly family night lessons that are religious in nature? Yes. I do things exactly the same way I always did. My choices are mine. Theirs are their own.

A friend asked not too long ago how I felt about something in my child's life. I replied with a wide smile, "I adore my child."

"Well, that's a very political answer," they said. Yes, it is. It's also the only thing that really matters. How I feel about my kids and their lives is 1. no one else's business, and 2. not going to change anything.

Thank you for your support.

Socially Awkward

"I can't wait to read what you write about tonight on your blog," said a friend at my 30 year high school reunion. I was delighted, but it also gives me performance anxiety.

I didn't attend my 10 year high school reunion; a good friend was getting married that weekend, hundreds of miles away, and it was important that I be there. I attended one event and was with a group that crashed one event for my 20th. I'm not sure if there was an event for the 25th.

When my 30th approached, I thought about sitting it out.

There were a number of reasons for that. My husband was working, and none of my closest school friends were going. The venue was described as "upscale," and frankly, I don't do upscale. (If you have to announce, "We are a classy establishment," I doubt you. Wouldn't it just be obvious if you were? Also, I spend 90% of my life in sneakers, because comfort is paramount to me. If there was a serious dress code, I wouldn't meet it. Trendiness of any kind also annoys me, because it means that something will be outdated soon.) I don't drink, but I'd be arriving two hours late due to other events in my schedule, and I didn't feel like walking into a room full of people who might have been doing some serious drinking by then. Of course, I also wondered how many attendees remembered me or wanted to see me.

When I say stuff like that, inevitably one of two things happens. Either someone will rush to assure me that only shallow showoffs attend reunions, and there'd be no one there worth seeing, or they'll start trying to console me, as though I were upset, telling me how much "everyone" was likely to "love" me. I don't understand either reaction.

Did I attend school with some shallow, judgmental, superficial or dull people? Undoubtedly; there were over 500 people in our graduating class. A simple numbers analysis would tell you that not everyone was going to be delightful. Do I fear being judged by former classmates? No, I really don't. Some will like me; some will not. That's life. A negative appraisal from anyone, much less someone I haven't seen for decades, won't impact my life in any real way. I'm not worried because I've gained weight, or because my life isn't impressive enough.

But, too, neither will a positive appraisal change things. I don't need anyone to love me any more than I fear them disliking me. It's nice if they like me, but totally OK if they don't. Impressing people is just not on my radar.

I once completely freaked out a friend and coworker. I was having a rough time in my life, and he knew it. He tried very hard to assure me that work should be a sanctuary of some kind, "because everyone here really loves you." I know that he meant well, but it was silly.

"No, they don't," I told him. "They think I'm fairly pleasant to be around, and reasonably good at my job. When I leave - and some day, I will - some of them might miss me for a few days or weeks, but  I won't see many of them ever again. Soon, most of them won't even remember my name or my face, and that's OK. That's how it should be."

He could not imagine why I felt that way, and worse, why I was OK feeling that way. When his wife is upset, she wants to hear how universally adored she is, and how, if anyone dares not to adore her, they're a tiny, insignificant minority, one that should be soundly denounced and then ignored. He assumed, therefore, that other women wanted to hear those same things. Like I said, nice but silly.

Sometimes, even my close friends don't understand me. For instance, I'm an introvert. When I started dating my husband, he truly believed that introverts were a myth. He simply could not imagine anyone having such a mindset. A friend recently informed me, "I know you think you're an introvert, but you're not." Um - pardon?

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not. I've asked other people, and they agree with me."

"I assure you, I am the world's foremost authority on me."

"Nope. You're mistaken."

Anyway. It should surprise no one that I'm awkward in groups.

It's not a matter of not liking people, or being afraid that they don't like me. And I can, and sometimes do, have a great deal of fun in group settings. As a teen, I often went on vacation with a dozen or so other kids. It's just that being with people, even having fun, is exhausting. It's like people who love to work out, or enjoy running marathons. Just because they enjoy it and do it voluntarily doesn't mean that they don't get tired. Extroverts don't understand introverts, because they are energized by groups, activity, noise and action, whereas those things drain introverts, who are energized by quiet and solitude.

"But you're an actor and public speaker!" people say to me. "You can't do that and be an introvert!" Of course I can. Performing or speaking does not entail actual interaction with the audience. I do my thing, they do theirs, and we go home alone. Plus, I'm often speaking someone else's words, so I don't even have to decide what to say.

So - walking into a room full of people that I may or may not know, who may or may not want to see me, doesn't sound fabulous. I've learned to do it, but I've also learned that I can sit out the opportunity without guilt.

There were some friends coming in from out of town, people I hadn't seen in years, that tipped the scale. I have great fun "talking" to them on the computer, so doing it in person should be even more fun.

And so, the Mormon walks into a bar.

I learned fairly early in adulthood that a significant portion of people socialize in bars. Many years ago, it felt odd to be in a bar (and caused me to worry that I'd have to relive some of the worst caretaking memories of my youth, when I had to clean up vomit, console the weeping and other less than fabulous moments). It feels fairly ordinary now, but I still wonder why there aren't an equal number of alcohol free places to hang out. I mean, if you want to be around people, but you don't necessarily want to phone your friends and make formal plans, shouldn't there be someplace where you could just show up, and there will be comfy chairs and snacks and TVs, maybe showing something science fictiony?

I was actually surprised when the first person I saw remembered me. Since the invitation to the reunion had gone out on Facebook, we'd all had the chance to look up some classmates before the reunion, too. "I've been looking at pictures of your family; you have great kids," she said. I felt so invisible in school - in truth, I wanted to be invisible - so the idea that people remembered me was a surprise.

I paid, picked up the nametag with my high school senior portrait and my maiden name on it, and looked for a security blanket - someone I was comfortable with. This is a must in any social setting.

Success! Michele has been my friend since we were in 5th grade. I've known her husband Mark since I was 19 or 20. Our kids grew up together. And they were talking to Stacy - I've known her since elementary school. I made a beeline for their table.

There were hugs and pleasantries. Stacy reminded me that the last time I saw her, it was at the wedding of a mutual friend. Then, Michele and Stacy decided to go mingle - "You want to come?"

"No, not yet. I'm not ready. I'll stay here for a few minutes." The ladies went off to schmooze, while I stayed with Mark and Stacy's husband - in the back of the room, with my back to the wall; my comfort zone.

(When I told this to a friend later, the friend said, "I would have been right there with you; Vietnam vet, back to the wall, eye on the exit." Amen.)

You know how, when your friends get married, you hope that you like the spouse, because otherwise your life will be awkward? Now let me give you an example of why Mark and I are friends, why I would like him even if he weren't married to my elementary school best friend.

He sat next to me, making normal conversation, not wondering why I hadn't gone off with the ladies. After a few minutes, he said, "Are you ready to go mingle yet?" No; I was not. I was more anxious by the moment, unable to see the friends I'd come to see, and terrified almost to tears by the idea of circulating the room. Truth be told, I would have fled right then had I not been too far from the door. I knew that if I tried to leave, I'd be in tears in just a few steps, and then I'd either have to barrel through to the door, or, horror of horrors, have someone stop me to ask what was wrong. No, I was not yet capable of mingling.

"No. If I tried to mingle right now, I'd burst into tears."

"OK. We'll sit here for a while," he said, and went back to an ordinary conversation about our kids.

He did NOT: 1. look at me like I was crazy, 2. think that I was exaggerating, 3. leave me so that he could mingle, or 4. try to console or comfort me in any way. He just GOT IT. I cannot tell you how rare that it. Mark is a godsend. He just sat there and held a normal conversation.

A few minutes later, he checked again. Would I like to go with him while he went to find his wife? Yes; yes, I would. Security blanket in place, we went to find Michele and Stacy.

As luck would have it, they were right next to the group I'd been looking for, some debate team and AP English buddies. I had a great time, and stayed much longer than I thought I would, both talking to this group and actually mingling. I had a genuinely good time, and laughed a lot.

I've decided that those conversations are a separate post. I know some very witty, articulate people.

Since the event, though, I've been dissecting it and wondering. The conventions of behavior still seem so puzzling that I wonder if the evening looked the same to me as it did to everyone else.

I discovered that a large percentage of the attendees remembered me. That seemed very odd, especially when I'd mention other schoolmates and get blank looks. I'm not sure why people remember me. I remembered them, and I like them, but I just didn't feel memorable in high school. And while I am proud of the life I have, and would make most of my life choices again, I don't think that my life looks very impressive by most people's yardsticks. I wondered what to say, beyond, "How are you?" and recitations of facts about my kids. Now I worry - did I come off as standoffish? "Odd" I expect, but I hope that nobody felt that I didn't like them or enjoy seeing them.

Conversely, I worry that I was too - what's the word? - affectionate. As long as I live, I will never really understand, for instance, how to treat the genders differently, or even if I should. I once experienced an exceedingly painful time because wires were getting crossed, communication-wise, with someone (actually, several someones) who thought that I was flirting. (See the essay "Gender Blindness.") Truth be told, I do not know how to flirt.

I do not understand, for instance, how eye contact, smiles or ordinary physical contact is supposed to be flirting. I do not know how to live my life without doing these things. At the reunion, what if I made eye contact across the room and smiled at someone who then thought that I was hitting on them? I know that I reached out and touched people's arms, and at least one man's leg, while I was laughing about something he said. What if that was misconstrued as flirting? How many people did I pay compliments to? Oh, my gosh! What if the wrong signals were going out left and right? That would just be extremely awkward! And I can't ask people. "Hey, did you think that I was hitting on you? Because I wasn't." Yeah, that's appropriate behavior, I'm sure.

See, this is why I avoid groups. And casual contact. And small talk.

So, I've decided to do something I'm pretty good at, and to refuse to worry about it. Perception doesn't alter reality, and I can't do much about altering perception. It is what it is. If I start worrying about what people think, I will be wrong a significant amount of the time, and I will make myself crazy. This is an undesirable outcome.

So, I will simply be happy that I went. Class of '84, it was good to see you. I enjoy watching your lives scroll by on Facebook, as well.

Waiting Room Reading

I've been the recipient of a lot of medical care lately. It sounds pretty ominous when I talk about it - I had four different appointments in a week, with 3 different doctors and a lab where I had 9 different tests performed - but it's nothing really scary. A lot of it is stuff like trying to regulate my endocrine system; I've been battling that for years. (Try this drug! Try that drug! Try this new dosage!) One appointment was for muscle relaxant shots in my shoulders. I have mild scoliosis, and the misaligned bones occasionally pinch things, and it hurts. Still, it all adds up and makes me grouchy.

My son said something snarky recently - I forget what - and I said, "Do you really want to upset a woman with diagnosed hormonal imbalances?"

"Why does diagnosed make a difference?" he wanted to know.

"Because I can introduce it as evidence in my defense during my trial for assaulting or murdering you," I said.

"AH!" he replied.

(Disclaimer: That was sarcasm. My son thought it was funny. He does not fear for his safety, and I do not plan to harm him. I hate that I have to point this stuff out, but the Internet is a crazy place full of crazy people, so I feel the need to qualify my statements, lest someone freak out.)

Anyway, frequent office visits means sitting in waiting rooms reading magazines. I really should remember to bring a book. I get stuck reading things I have no real interest in, like golf or fly fishing magazines. Don't get mad - I have nothing against golf or fly fishing, and being outdoors and active is good. I'm just not a golfer or fly fisherman.

On my own time, I don't read anything resembling fashion magazines, and I'm not big on celebrity gossip, so many magazines aimed at people of my gender and/or age don't do it for me, either. I have zero interest in "who wore it best?" or "the hottest trends for the next season!" Consequently, when I get stuck reading these things I'm just freaked out for days by the idea that anybody actually places value on this stuff.

I just saw a magazine article on "celebrities who shouldn't wear sandals," showing us closeup photos of "gross" and "ugly" feet. Are you joking? We're going to mock people's feet? What planet are we on?

Now my podiatrist's concern makes a bit more sense. I recently had the bone structure in both feet rebuilt, and bone screws put in. Surgery means scars. I am OK with this. It's life. The podiatrist, however, kept assuring me that the scars will fade, and if they get raised and ropy, he can trim them down. He even rushed to assure me that my bruised toes, still black and purple a week after surgery, would fade. "And that's normal. It's not like we manhandled you." I couldn't imagine getting freaked out over bruises or scars. Again, this is expected! I finally pointed out that I have scars across my throat - I am so completely not worried about scars on my feet.

This is good, because the nurses said things like, "Wow, those are some gnarly scars." Yes, they are. They're large, raised and purple. Eventually, the purple will fade to red and then normal flesh tone, but that could take a year or two still. I know my skin.

There's a crescent shaped scar on my ankle, as well, from the same operation.

I sincerely cannot bring myself to care that someone else might find my feet "ugly." It is just not a part of my reality. Do people have no actual content to their lives?

My husband sat next to me, trying to concentrate on his phone (probably surfing Facebook or playing Ingress) while he sat with me at the lab, waiting for my name to be called. I was reading a women's magazine and trying to keep my spirits up, despite not wanting to be there. So, I looked for the humor in the situation. I kept calling something out of the magazine to his attention. I'd say, "Look, honey!" and then read some headline like - I swear, this is an actual headline - "Win At Life!"

"I could win at life! It says so!" I said, trying not to laugh out loud. My poor husband grunted and tried not to encourage me.

"Apparently, geometric patterns will give me a 'totally modern vibe,'" I say, practically snorting. He glared at me.

"Look, honey, look! I can find out 'The Secrets to Sexy Legs!'" He grunted again. "Then again, you're not a leg man, " I say.

"And it's a good thing," he responds, "now that you've put that big dent in yours."

Ooh. Touche.' This is a clear "stop talking to me" signal. He's lucky that I'm not touchy, and I laughed. The same operation that rebuilt my foot lengthened my tendon, so I have a scar, about two inches long, on my left calf. It does dent significantly inward, kind of like a big dimple. My worry was that I'd cut it while shaving, but it's been months, and that hasn't happened, so I don't think about it much anymore.

But apparently, it's not sexy.

Sitting in another waiting room days later, without my husband, I kept finding more to laugh at. "Be Your Own Stylist, All Month Long!" Apparently their article will show me how. I contemplate this; I've been dressing myself for years - nay, decades - now. Apparently, I should claim to be my "own stylist" instead of simply feeling that I get dressed unassisted. I should add this job title to my mental list.

An article on some fashion show or other features a photo of apparently stylish pants, and urges me to "Stride like the free spirit that you are!" I worry that laughing out loud in an ob/gyn's waiting room will upset the other patrons.

Another fashion show featured dresses. Here's a direct quote: "You obviously become the focal point of the room when you walk in wearing this."

Does anyone want to be the focal point of the room, I wonder. Then I think back to attending a formal event. As one couple walked in, the woman next to me gasped, "I think I've been upstaged." The newcomer had on a very showy, gold gown, and my companion was not happy about it.

Huh. I guess people do want to be their appearance the center of attention. Again, I can't imagine. Even when I was younger and thinner, all I wanted was to not be wearing the least appropriate thing in the room. Now, I'm pretty sure that I occasionally am wearing something that doesn't fit in; for instance, my husband once mistook my dress shoes for my son in law's. I just no longer care if anyone's upset about it.

The ads were just ludicrous. "With the right lipliner and my sexy (name brand) bra, I won't be easily forgotten." HA HA HA HA! Yeah, that's the secret to being unforgettable! The right bra! HA HA HA!

But they're being serious. Truly. This campaign must work. It's a big, glossy, expensive ad in a big, glossy, expensive magazine.

I learned my lesson. I bought a paperback book to carry.

If you see me chewing my cheeks, with my eyes watering, while I'm in a waiting room, it means that I forgot said book, and I'm reading magazines again. Sorry.

Safety Rules

I felt the need to pause the television show we were watching recently and deliver an Important Parental Lecture to my 15 year old.

We were watching one of my favorite shows, a crime drama. A potential witness to a kidnapping was describing how he was nervous, watching a teenager he took to be intoxicated leaving with a man, until he noticed that the man was with a woman who seemed to be his wife - "Then, I figured, it was safe." As I described the moment to my husband the next day, he said, "Oh, you must have come unglued at that point."

My husband knows the story, the story that all of my kids have heard, about one of the most traumatic things that happened in our community when I was growing up. A girl from our congregation at church disappeared, along with her best friend. They were taken, and murdered, by a husband and wife serial killer team. (See "No, Not Cereal...") It doesn't matter if you're Gerald Gallego and Charlene Williams (responsible for the death of the girls from my town) or Paul and Karla Bernardo, a young, beautiful murderous Canadian couple who participated equally, or Cameron and Janice Hooker, with a dominant partner and one who simply goes along. No one can assume that a wife, or a woman, means safety.

My 15 year old is too trusting and naive anyway (a trait that I fear she gets from me). She once received phone calls and e-mails from a stranger that set off all kinds of mental alarms for her dad and me, but none for her. She explained that she felt "it was OK, because she's a woman," and my immediate, gut response was, "Do you know how many of the convicted Manson Family killers were women between the ages of 18 and 21? Three out of five!"

I don't know if that's "good" parenting or not, but I do feel that it's necessary.

Again, I found myself, with the TV program paused, saying, "Never, never never assume that a woman or a couple means that it's safe."

"I know, Mom. They told us that in my Red Cross classes." She's very proud of being a Red Cross Certified Babysitter. She started recounting things the instructor said about how to avoid being a victim - throw whatever you might have in your hands, scream, wet yourself, make a scene, make yourself an unappealing target.

That's fine, but I felt that I had to explicitly warn her again that danger may not look like danger. I reminded her about the girl I knew. Two teens were approached by a woman, a woman a good six inches shorter than my daughter, and offered a job putting flyers under windshield wipers. "They're both dead." Her eyes widened, and I worried, again, that she doesn't remember things that might be important some day.

This isn't the first time I've stopped in the middle of a program to have these discussions. I did the same thing once with three of my kids, two teens and an adult. The subject then was something that happened in 1974 at Lake Sammamish State Park in Washington. An attractive, well dressed, articulate young man with his arm in a sling approached a young woman and asked her for help loading his sailboat onto his car. "What's the red flag here?" I asked. They all looked rather blank. "Something about this scenario should be setting off warning bells. What is it?"

My youngest offered, "He's asking her to leave where she is and go someplace else with him." While I was gratified that she'd internalized one of the safety rules that we'd given her, that wasn't what I was looking for. None of them could think of anything unusual or dangerous about the request.

I pointed out, "How is he going to sail with his arm in a sling?" The younger two went, "Oh!" as the mental lightbulb went on.

My second born, who was 25 at the time, said, "Yeah - I wouldn't notice that at all. It wouldn't occur to me that anything was wrong."

"That," I informed her, "is what keeps me awake at night." She's bright and reasonably well informed, but she doesn't read people or situations well. I worry that it paints a figurative target on her chest.

The attractive young man in question was Ted Bundy. The sling was merely a prop. His arm was just fine - and there was no sailboat. He approached several young women at the park that day. Most turned him down. Two - Janice Ott and Denise Naslund - agreed to help, and died.

I hate the fact that friendliness or helpfulness can be fatal.

Sometimes, when we have these discussions, I can tell that my kids have grown up hearing different safety rules than my generation did. I once paused a program about a workplace shooting. Everyone in the office had been shot, but one was still alive, and attempted to crawl toward the phone while the shooter was still there. Hitting the pause button, I demanded, "What do you do in that situation?" - if you're in the midst of a group shooting.

Both of my teens immediately answered, "Play dead." Without prompting, they both said that the correct response was to hit the floor when the shooting started, and stay there, playing dead, until the shooter was gone. "Then you can dial 911."

I was glad that they both knew the answer that I was looking for, the answer that just might keep them alive.

I was sad that they live in a world where being involved in a mass shooting is seen as a possibility.

Letting It Go

All art is, by its very nature, ambiguous. Everyone will experience it differently, even if they agree on the theme or subject. You yourself will experience it differently at different times.

Whenever someone says that their interpretation is the only one, I get a bit annoyed. First, are they the author? If so, I cut them a bit of slack, because they created it. Still, it may have spoken to someone in a way that the author did not forsee or expect.

Nothing has quite dominated the entertainment landscape in recent memory the way the movie Frozen and its music has. So, naturally, I've read and heard a lot about "what it really means." Some of it is perceptive, and some borders on delusional, if you ask me. Still, I feel compelled to add my voice, because I thought that certain things were obvious, but I don't see them in many discussions.

Discussion of Frozen must include discussion of the juggernaut that is "Let It Go." I do not recall any song saturating popular culture the way this one has. Good heavens, it's everywhere.

And it's gorgeous. It's beautiful music. It's fun lyrics. To my mind, though, too many people stop at the "empowerment anthem" take, and don't look any deeper.

Sure, we're thrilled for Elsa that she's not huddling, terrified, alone in her room any more. I like to think that, had her parents lived, they would have quashed that, but (disturbingly) they don't seem to have discouraged it. Obviously, it's not healthy. Of course we're happy for her.

BUT.

There's some very large problems with deciding that this is the pivotal moment, that it's all about her breaking free and living her own life. She's still alone, for one. She won't let anyone near her. Isolation is isolation. Her current choices have made a mess for everyone else, too. Her orphaned sister feels even more abandoned. The kingdom that her parents cherished is without leadership. And, oh yeah, - "You kind of set off an eternal winter. Everywhere." These things are bad.

So, we have to look at the before and after, the cause and effect.

Elsa is different than other people. She has an ability that few have. (She controls snow and ice.) It doesn't worry her or make her feel special - it just is. Most of the time, she uses it for fun. Then, accidentally, she hurts her sister, Anna. Her sister is as much to blame - she didn't listen - but Elsa feels that it's her fault.

Those the family turns to for help unwittingly reinforce the idea that it was, indeed, Elsa's fault. Her ability, what sets her apart, was the cause, they say. She can't control it, which is dangerous. Others will fear her and her ability, and may strike out at her in anger or fear. So, the ability must be squashed and ignored. It's what's best for everyone.

But Elsa can't squash it. It's still there. And they're right - she can't control it. So, she hides. She equates squashing her ability and isolating herself with being "good." To be a "good girl," she can't be herself, or be around other people.

It's important to remember here that being embarrassed or shunned was not her primary concern. Her biggest fear was hurting someone, especially someone that she loved. She's willing to be miserable if it keeps them safe.

Of course, that can't go on forever, especially when she has to take on adult responsibilities. She must be around others. And, because that ability is still there, and because she can't control it, it shows up in the most inconvenient ways, at the most inconvenient times.

So, Elsa runs. She has to get away from other people. When she's truly alone, she thinks, she'll be free. She can be herself, and let what makes her different loose, give it free reign. She can do anything she wants to. "No right no wrong, no rules for me," she sings. When she stops trying to be "good," she'll be happy, she's sure.

But life doesn't work that way. Her sister feels abandoned, and that hurts even more because of the loss of their parents. The citizens of the kingdom feel abandoned, because they counted on her and she left them. Plus, the actions that Elsa did take have endangered everyone's health and safety. She was afraid that she might hurt someone, and now she's potentially hurt hundreds or thousands of people, and she doesn't know how to fix it.

Because she's never learned how to manage her abilities or feelings, how to truly cope in healthy ways, she just runs farther. She feels like "a fool," she fears harming others, but she just can't see any way out except more of what she's already done. The problem is, none of that has worked.

While it's a lovely song, I dislike focusing so much on this moment, because things are such a mess here. Nobody is happy; nobody is safe.

A lot has been written and said about two of the movie's lessons, that evil can come in an attractive, smiling package, and that the love of your family is "true love." Disney and its subsidiary companies have explored both of those ideas in many ways in recent years. Gone is the idea that the villain will be ugly; look at ABC's Once Upon A Time with Lana Parilla and Rebecca Mader. Look at the new Maleficent and Angelina Jolie. Both Once Upon A Time and Maleficent have also had "true love's kiss" be delivered by a family member, by a mother (or "godmother") to a child. I think that recognizing those lessons is extremely valuable.

I think, though, that the powerful lesson taught in the last few scenes of Frozen speaks just as loudly. Elsa, Anna, indeed the entire kingdom, are not safe and happy when Elsa is isolating herself and denying what makes her different. They aren't safe or happy when she just unleashes her power. Everyone is both safe and happy when she learns to control and apply that power.

Think about a power that most of us have - the power of speech. We eagerly teach our tiny children to speak, to recognize and use words. We're thrilled when they do. But almost from that very first moment that we ask our little diaper clad cherubs to say "mama" and "dada," we teach them that there's a proper place and time for words, and there's some words we shouldn't say. We shush them in quiet places like church or a waiting room. We teach them to wait their turn when others are talking. And, the older they get, the more restrictions we put on what words are OK. It's not OK to call other kids names and hurt their feelings. It's not OK to lie. It's not OK to bully or gossip. Once we start hitting adulthood, there's actually laws - slander, plagiarism, perjury, even advertising laws - that govern what's OK to say and what's not. Despite the fact that speech is important - indeed, almost necessary - we can't just unleash it and let it run where it will. We shouldn't "let it go."

Any other ability or aspect of human personalities is the same way. It doesn't matter if you can freeze things, conjure fireballs, read minds, talk, build, create, teach or anything else. It's not in squashing and denying it or in turning it loose that we'll be happy and productive. It's all about control and application.

I think that's what Elsa (and everyone else) has learned by the time we leave her creating a skating rink for delighted citizens, with friends and family around her. Sure, there were people who reacted with fear or anger, but they were the minority. Sure, it's possible to hurt others, but it's not inevitable. It's not a choice between being "good" and "no rules." Using this gift wisely is the goal.

Shopping Parties - Not For the Timid

There was a time in my life when I tried never to turn down any invitations, because I didn't want to disappoint anybody. I was invited to a lot of mommy type events - Tupperware parties, Pampered Chef parties and the like.

Which is how I ended up at a lingerie and lotions party.

Go ahead. Laugh. Get it out of your system.

It wasn't overly raunchy. There were no sex toys. Still, there were things that I didn't normally shop for, and others that I had never shopped for in a group.

Plus, I found out w-a-a-a-a-a-y-y-y more than I ever wanted to know about total strangers.

One of my best girlfriends was the hostess. As is usual with home shopping parties, she was hoping for a certain number of attendees and a certain amount of sales so that she could earn free products. She and her sister were the only people that I knew in attendance. Have I mentioned that I'm uncomfortable meeting people?

Anyway.

Let me be upfront about the fact that I mean no disrespect to the company, its employees, its customers, its manufacturers or its founder's great aunt's childhood sitter's next door neighbor. I simply found myself to be totally out of my depth.

The company had some sweet sounding name like "Pleasant Dreams." The consultant was a lovely woman. (It was a bonus for me that she was large, and that the company made large sizes, so she therefore wouldn't be giving me those sidelong looks that say, "Oh, honey, give up on having any sex appeal.") The products had ridiculous, flowery, euphemistic names. There's a reason that I'm not a product namer. Nobody wants to buy an "ivory bra." They want "Arabian Nights, color: Filtered Moonbeams."

One of the products that the consultant demonstrated - well, not demonstrated, it wasn't that kind of party, more like explained - was a desensitizing cream called Man Delay. Yeah, I know; I cringed. Besides, I had two children and more than a half decade of marriage under my belt at that point, but my first thought was that I never, when I was in a romantic mood, considered novocaine. I could not quite fathom the need this product would fill.

The point, apparently, was that it was supposed to make your man take longer to finish. While I was still trying to wrap my brain around why it would be fun to numb my husband's pertinent parts, things got weirder.

One woman, whom I had never before met, had fairly detailed questions. "I bought some last time," (leaving me thinking, "You attend these parties often?") "My husband lost all sensation. The last thing he wanted to do was have sex, because he couldn't feel anything. We tried waiting, but he was numb all night."

Consultant: "How much did you use?"

Customer: "I don't know." (squirms) "Not, like, the whole jar or anything."

Consultant: "Did you get it all over both of your hands, and really work it it? Were your hands numb?"

HEY! WHOA! I do not want to know this about total strangers! I get pictures in my head when people speak, and I did not want a picture of this woman's hands, or anything else, working it in! But now, there it was, along with mental pictures of her husband that I didn't want to entertain! Good gravy, could I run to the bathroom, or would that look really bad when we're discussing sex acts? Tilt! Tilt!

Consultant: "You should only use the amount that will fit on your fingertip. Otherwise, it's too much, and it defeats the purpose."

I have always been a full disclosure, "let it all hang out" kind of person, on the theory that it was honest and authentic. I believe that this was the exact moment that I began to embrace the concept of Too Much Information. There are things that I don't want to know. There are things that you don't need to know. Privacy is good. It's not about shame, it's about intimacy. Dictionary definition: "Intimacy (noun) 1. a state of being intimate; 2. a close, familiar, and usually affectionate or loving personal relationship; 3. a close association with, or detailed knowledge or deep understanding of, a place, subject, or period of history." Boundaries, folks! There are very few people I want to have these discussions with, and you're not on the list. Decorum, please!

And, of course, because it was a party, there were party games.

One was called something ridiculous like, "Measure Your Romance Level." The consultant read off scenarios, and you gave yourself points depending on your answer. I found myself overthinking it. Asked about times that my husband and I had "walked hand in hand on a beach at sunset," I found myself wondering if the beach had to be an ocean beach, or if lakes counted. After all, we're hundreds of miles from the ocean. This was a clear sign that I was getting pulled into the madness.

Asked to award myself points for every time my husband and I had "been parking" in the past year, I spoke out loud. "I didn't even go parking when I was a teenager!" I mean, really, does anyone think that's what romance looks like?

Apparently.

The consultant stopped the quiz to give me earnest advice. Knowing that I had young children - I think my oldest children were about 4 and 5 at the time - she said, "Put the kids to bed. Then, take a 6-pack and go out to your driveway. You'll be surprised at how a change in scenery can really spice things up." She said this very sweetly and sincerely.

This is the moment that I ended up describing to a family member after the fact. She lived thousands of miles away, a single, childless life, so I looked to her for input on whether or not I was the only one who thought this was crazy.

"Parking is for kids who have nowhere else to go. I mean, in my house, which I own, I have a bedroom with a door that closes, windows with curtains on them, and a king sized bed. And I'm supposed to schlep out to my driveway? In my van, with its narrow seats, a gear shift, and curtainless windows all the way around? And even if I drank, what's with the 6-pack, for crying out loud? We really want intoxicated exhibitionists in the driveway, in full view of God and everybody, instead of in my own private, comfortable bedroom?"

My loved one was not worried about my driveway. She was still trying to wrap her head around the party itself, and why I had attended. It didn't help that, instead of just describing it as "a home shopping party," I had used the comparison, "like Tupperware." Now the outrage came down the line, clear as day.

"You're the one attending sexual Tupperware parties! What the hell is going on out there in suburbia?"

The phrase "sexual Tupperware party," which she used repeatedly (for years afterward) quite frankly also puts images in my head that are best left unthought and unshared.

I don't think that anyone was surprised when I got the very lowest "romance level" quiz score. I even got 50 bonus points, and my score was far and away the lowest.

The 50 bonus points were for my shoelaces. It was the early 90s, and fashion was still reflecting an early-in-her-career Madonna influence. We got bonus points for "having black lace anywhere on your body," and I had wide lace shoelaces in my black leather shoes.

I still got the consolation prize. And an annoying level of sympathy.

Just for the record, in case you're wondering, I've still never felt the need to "spice up" my relationship by retreating to my driveway.

Or numbing anything.

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again..."
- "The Sound of Silence," Simon & Garfunkel

This feeling is familiar, and yet new. I've been struggling to categorize and catalog it for months, with no luck.

Mostly, it's exhaustion.

I have to finally come to terms with the fact that these last years are kicking my butt.

Part of the problem is that I'm very good in an actual crisis. Calm, clear headed, efficient, helpful, unflagging - you want me around when there's trouble. It's after the trouble itself has passed and the danger is gone, or the trauma is past, that I come undone.

Part of it is that there's nothing tragic going on. This is just normal stuff, a normal life. But, objectively, I have to admit that things are adding up.

Arbitrarily, let's pick the mark of three years ago. I've had three major surgeries in three years. They all went well. I recovered nicely. Still, I'm in residual pain, and fundamental things - for instance, how I walk - are forever altered. My endocrine system is shot, and my body chemistry has been forcibly altered. Those things are tiring, in and of themselves.

I have ongoing health issues, and I'm developing a deep, unwanted hostility and hatred for insurance companies. Not helpful.

My mother is gone. We'll soon come up on the second anniversary of her death. I have been unable to attend church on Mother's Day since she passed. So often, I want to call her, want to visit her, and I can't.

My childhood best friend passed away; he was 48. If you want to know how tightly someone is woven into your life, pull that thread loose. Sometimes it feels like everything will unravel. He touched everything in my life, from the time that I was 14.

My son left for college hundreds of miles away. It was easier than sending his sisters, because he's the third child, and we've Been There, Done That. It was also harder, because his older sisters attended public school and left the house at 6:30 am, often not returning until 10 pm or later. My son was homeschooled, so even when he worked 5 or 6 hours a day, he was home with us for hours a day. His absence is more noticeable.

Part of it is that I've been down the rabbit hole, and I'm together enough to recognize that I'm not there. I remember that a bit too vividly. Twice in my life I've had breakdowns so complete that they blackened the sky, choked the air with ash, just consumed everything in their path. This is not one of those times. (And for this, I thank God.)

There are times of great joy and deep contentment, and lots of normalcy, and I honestly think that I've handled everything well, but do you know how I can tell that I haven't? Or, maybe I have, but that hyper competent period is wearing off. Stuff I should be able to shrug off doesn't shrug. It gnaws at my extremities like some annoying, rabid animal.

"Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains."

The other day, I was thrown into mourning for the fact that my two closest girlfriends moved away after high school. I mean, I handled this clear back in 1984, and suddenly my middle aged self is in tears. What gives?

OK, maybe that's easy to diagnose. I keep seeing in my head two absolutely beautiful smiling brunet high school boys, and all the memories shared with them, and they're both dead now. As time goes on, there will be fewer of Us left, the ragtag community, the family we created for ourselves, the group of former kids who were my life in high school, who still populate my life now. We'll all leave each other sometime. I've become (probably annoyingly) effusive, reminding them how much I have always adored them. I fear becoming clingy and syrupy and maudlin.

Circumstances are preventing me from doing a lot of otherwise normal stuff, like auditioning. I was in a show, had just started rehearsals, when my mom passed away. I had the presence of mind to step down from a major role to a chorus role, but I had no business being in a show. My head was not in the game. I need solitude when I'm hurt - I'm like a canine who needs to find a den and lick my wounds. I stayed because I've never dropped out of a show, and I also hoped that doing normal things would help. During times of stress, I crave normalcy. I hoped that it would feel normal. I didn't even tell anyone that my mom had passed away until we were performing, and then I told all of four people in a cast and crew of dozens.

It never did feel normal. Months of rehearsal, and it never felt right. It felt empty. And good heavens, let's not even talk about the work I did. The work stunk. I also, for the first time in my lifetime, since I started acting at 12 years old, missed an entrance - missed an entire scene - during a performance. That's just unacceptable. That's more humiliating than being naked in public. It's horrifying to even admit. And yet, I think that maybe three people even noticed. I was only in two freakin' scenes - crowd scenes. I was so unnecessary and expendable, yet knocking myself out trying to do a decent job. Yet I was not thinking clearly enough to see that I should have bowed out entirely.

I hear that being intoxicated is like that - you honestly can't tell whether or not you're functional.

I recently looked back at the photos I shot of the show, and I was pleased to discover that they were good. That part of me continued to function quite well. That was nice to know.

I'm finally reaching the point that maybe I could handle a show. But, months of being wheelchair bound, and more time with my feet in casts, means that it's not an option. If I can't even drive, I sure as heck can't rehearse or perform.

Since I can't work on anything, I'm even less inclined to watch anything, because it's painful. So, I don't even see most of my friends' shows, which means that I'm missing out in all kinds of ways.

Maybe I'm not ready for a show yet. Ordinary human behavior is too difficult for me right now. People will be inconsiderate, annoying, self centered - you know, human - and it's just too much. I finally understand about "the straw that broke the camel's back." You just can't handle one more freaking thing. Any rudeness or nastiness or even just annoyingness pushes past the breaking point. And, you know and I know, life is FULL of rudeness and self centeredness.

I've always been very Greta Garbo, but I need to be alone even more now. It's exhausting to be with people. EXHAUSTING. Not depressing or unfulfilling, just so tiring.

It's not that I don't like you. Chances are, I do. I like people in general. I deeply love many people, personally. I just like them at a distance. Don't take it personally.

I'm perfectly OK with being flawed. (I mean, have you seen my housekeeping? Please.) But here's what I'm going to do, what will preserve my sanity and keep me from unleashing the dogs of war on random passers by, or people in my family who simply chose the wrong moment to be insensitive. Sometimes, I am not going to cope well. I'm just not.

I will burst into tears when the radio is on - some days, not at all, and some days, with virtually every song. And here's the thing - I'm going to stop being embarrassed or upset by it.

I don't want you to comfort me and tell me it'll be OK. I really, truly, don't. I don't want you to get manic in your efforts to cheer me up, trying to get me to laugh. It will just annoy me.

Most of the time, I am fine. Everything is great. Even things that hurt are small potatoes. I sit here in a climate controlled house that I own, eating every day, sleeping in a bed, showering - life is luxurious. I have family. I have friends. I love what I do, and I pretty much set my own hours.

And yet. Sometimes, life will shatter at a moment's notice. That's as normal and predictable as the sun rising. Sometimes, I will break.

Sometimes, I will also sleep too much or eat too much sugar. And you know what? I will not feel guilty.

And sometimes, I will regret having said all of this, because people still won't understand, and I'll feel exposed, and everyone will be awkward, and good grief, can I just live on a deserted island?

Sometimes, I just need quiet.

"And the sign said, the words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered
In the sound of silence."