On my next anxiety trip I will take....

Separation has never been my strong suit. When it comes to saying goodbye to someone I’ve become emotionally attached to I often don’t feel like I’m wearing a suit at all.

I crumble, like a gluten free scone. A good portion of me falls to the floor and the whole process gets stuck, dry in my throat. I need someone to put a mason jar full water to my lips, tilt my head back then stroke it all down my throat, the way you give your pet a pill they refuse to swallow.

The idea of separation tends to unravel my heart like a tragic play, then it signals anxiety to my brain. I don’t exaggerate when I say that for the first 4 to 5 years of elementary school, I’d become sick and miss the last day of school with all the fun hoopla - and the goodbyes. I wasn't sick in quotation marks either. I’d literally work my body up to a fever, or wear myself down to strep throat. It was a way of protecting myself from the sadness of separating from the teachers and friends I had grown to love. Even today, I have to mentally prepare for the last day of school, summoning my courage so I can offer a thoughtful and often tearful, “thank you” to the kid's teachers, principals, janitors and crossing guards.

I am sensitive about saying, “I’m sensitive” because I worry that it may seem like I’m implying that others aren’t sensitive, and that somehow there is a judgement there. Sensitivity is just part of my nature, but I don’t think I’m stand out special because of it. I assume everyone has sensitivities, or soft spots, and I think they’re all fascinating.

Anyway, my sensitivity to partings feels like a wound that never quite heals up, but I'm finally okay with it. I don’t care anymore if this sensitivity came from a past life experience, or if I was dropped on my head when I was a baby. I only care about strategies to make myself more comfortable when I send my children to summer camp, or on a field trip, or when it’s time to say goodbye to my favorite pediatrician who retired. I was a hot mess for that one. But then again, I was messy over my cleaning lady who went back to Brazil to tend to her sick father. She was sweet, I was going to miss her. Leaving my dog at the kennel? Who cares that we were going to Hawaii in the morning, I was sleeping on a wet pillow from crying so much.

I have a black leather jacket and whenever I put it on, I think it looks slightly harsh on me. At the same time however, I feel edgy and tough, dare I say badass? So on my next anxiety trip, when my soul is feeling extra sensitive and in need of that thicker skin I wasn’t born with, I’ll grab my leather jacket.

Me, filters and my borrowed thick skin

The other day I said, 'Some days are a march.' Meaning, some days you just have to hold your head high and rely on your strength of muscle memory to move you forward. It's become a mantra for me. So, on my next anxiety trip, I'll grab my leather jacket, and I'll march.

Buddhists assert that pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional. One might simply nod to the anxiety when it arises the way you would a passerby, then shift the focus of your attention to something else. Of course, this is an ongoing practice. And although I work at it, my practice hasn’t become second nature quite yet. I feel I have a window of opportunity to manage my anxiety. Sometimes, it not only gets ahead of me, but it can get ahold of me too. Instead of being a passerby, it feels more like a stalker. So, on my next anxiety trip, I’ll grab my leather jacket, I’ll march, and I’ll decide I don’t need to suffer.

I wish it were that simple.

Anxiety is a butt kicker.

Slam Poetry for Monday

240 seconds slip away like vapor under the door

And we are stuck inside

Still scrambling for lunches, tying a shoe, kicking a ball around inside our heads

Readying ourselves for the day as if time is on our side

But we have turned away from the diligence of time, and it is pissed

This Monday feels more like entering a hazard zone than a new day

This Monday drop-off has moms lighting cigarettes in their cars

One behind me, and the other as she swerves around me

Hoping her child can slide past home plate before the bell

The bell is order and discipline

A fair and noble judge

A signal of preparation and of hope

4.0 kids scrambling out of cars

Dragging their backpack and violins

What the heck is going on here?

Why am I yelling? Why is she lighting up?

Don’t hit that small one who’s dodging cars towards class!

The first bell rings, “You can’t get out of the car here! There are too many cars behind me!”

The threat of trash pick up is real.

My first thought, “Humiliation is what they’ll feel”

My second thought,  “That’s not what they need today”

My third thought, “I hope they provide gloves”

A ping-pong yelling match sets off in my car-

I try to remind myself this is only discomfort

This is not life threatening.

My children can pick up trash. It won’t kill them.

But it will hurt me.

And I won’t. I won’t push snooze tomorrow.

98 years of marriage!

My 14^th wedding anniversary is coming up, and I keep thinking how marriage should be calculated in dog years. 14 human years multiplied by 7 (dog years) is 98 years of marriage! And what is more romantic and inspiring than an old married couple? Some days, it feels like 98 years of devotion and gratitude, other days it feels like tolerance and long suffering. Love is either around every corner, or hiding in a corner waiting to be drawn back out.

I am just seven dog years away from being married as long as my parents were. I'm talking about my two biological parents who were married 15 years, or 105 dog years. Unfortunately, the last few years of their marriage were "ruff". We all suffered in our own way. And for better or for worse, I retreated into my own head. My quiet, introverted nature served as my solace. I found a favorite tree branch and sat on it for hours, alone but not lonely.

It was a Saturday morning, and my parents were gathering us together into the living room to tell us something. Being a sensitive twelve year old, I suspected it was about their divorce that seemed to be looming in the thick air. So, I turned the volume way up on the television set to drown out their voices. The show, The Jeffersons was on, and the theme song was playing, “We’re movin’ on up…movin’ on up, to the top…to the top…to a de-luxe apartment in the sky-yie-yie"....."We finally got a piece of the pie-yie-yie-yie". 

I held tears sore in my throat as I ran down the hallway back to my bedroom. I slammed the door behind me as loudly as I could, then, I buried myself under my yellow bedcovers. As I cried, I repeated the words into my pillow, “I am never getting married,  I am never getting married, I am never getting married…..”.

Fortunately, these thoughts didn't repeat themselves (at least consciously) into my adult years. I daydreamed about marriage and family. I had no reservations when it came to marrying my beloved hubs. I was the happiest I had ever been, and I still blame him for everything good in my life. This is not to say I wasn't affected by the divorce because absolutely, I was. I am. And now, as a married adult with children, I am also aware of the tremendous emotional pain my parents must have felt. 

The best and worst moments in my marriage have come from vulnerability. Could a good marriage be as simple as two imperfect people who refuse to give up on each other? Hope so. Getting along can be hard, even for four hours in a row, but hey, in dog years that's a whole week!

I look forward to celebrating my old married couple status this year because really, I can't think of anything sweeter.

don't buy cheap SPANX

It was a Christmas Eve party, a legitimate occasion to take my new little black dress out for her maiden voyage.  I don't normally have occasions for a little black dress, so I felt daring, as one should, and body-shy, as one would.  So, while I was picking up cat food and evaporated condensed milk from Target, I grabbed a pair of generic SPANX. With my little black dress, I wore shiny black boots, black tights, and the black, off brand spanx pencil skirt.

I was all dressed up and feeling fancy.  I danced like a party girl with my own image in the bathroom mirror for a few minutes, free as the wind.  However, before I left the house, I covered little black dress with a sensible denim jacket, then weighed her down even further with a bobble necklace to counteract any va va voom she might be inclined to feel.  It was a family gathering after all.

The Christmas Eve party was great.  I mingled with family, saw Santa, indulged on appetizers, and incorrectly decorated a gingerbread house.  My cousin hosts an amazing party.  She has a gingerbread decorating station that makes you feel like you've just entered Candyland.  I couldn't resist the fun.  I didn’t realize I was supposed to break the one large, pre-packaged piece of gingerbread into smaller pieces, then candy glue them together to form a 3 dimensional house.  The word decorate a gingerbread "house" was lost on me.  What I saw was a big, flat, tallish windowed cookie and I just assumed I was decorating the front of an apartment building.  It seemed a little urban and non traditional, but at the same time politically correct.  House and home are words often used to describe any place of residence.

Adult party goers perused the kid friendly gingerbread station where I parked myself.  They glanced a little longer at my design than the other kids which made me feel a little bit like a show off.  They'd say with a smile, “Oh...look at yours…” and I was thinking to myself, "It’s good, but not that good, let's focus on the kids."  After that person walked away, my daughter very sweetly pointed out to me that I was not doing it right.  Hearing this, I finally looked up from my work and saw her pop-up structure.  In between her giggles she said, “It’s okay Mom, maybe you should just walk away, you could pretend a little kid made it.”  

Being ashamed of your work is not a good lesson to teach your kids so, I thought I would teach my daughter the art of holding your head high and believing in your work.  So, I sat at the table with my back straight, and when people passed by to chat about our designs, I explained plainly, that I decorated an apartment building. No biggie.

Anyway, little black dress, in cahoots with generic spanxs, did what they do well. They made me feel sucked in and smooth, conservative and sassy.  A little Jackie and a little Pamela.

We got home from our evening out and I headed to the bedroom to take off my heeled boots, peel out of my spanx and snuggle into my Christmas-scene flannel pajamas.  I took my denim jacket off first and in the mirror, I noticed I looked unusually lumpy around the middle.  I lifted my dress off and realized that throughout the course of the night, my black generic spanx had shimmied their way up my tights and over my hips, where they landed in the shape of an inner-tube upon my waist, creating what can only be described as, a muffin top.

22 little annoying things

Someone recently shared a blog post with me, “22 Little Things My Husband Does That Annoy The Crap Out of Me”.

I got to thinking, and made a slightly different list.

22 Little Annoying Things I do that Probably Annoy the Crap out of my Family:

1.  This is how I park my car-

2.  I need downtime like creatures need hibernation.

3.  Bubble gum popping literally hurts my ears, poor kids miss out on this pleasure when I'm around. 

4.  I follow my kid’s friends on Instragram, and I make comments to them like, “Cute pic!”

5.  Unless I have an appointment, I usually don’t shower.

6.  I still worry my teens will choke on apple slices or tortilla chips.  And when I see a jawbreaker, I panic.

7.  I ask my husband if he has brushed his teeth before we go out.  He is a dentist.

8.  I don’t know my way around a kindle, printer, or remote. 

9.  Ever since I saw a black widow in our garage, I remind my family to check their bike helmets for spiders.  (I knew you'd see this one my way).

10.  I always throw a bit of guilt into the enjoyment of white bread and brightly colored processed treats.

11.  Even though my kids are old enough to swallow adult Advil, I will wrestle them to apply their sunblock.

12.  I have Pre-Event Anxiety Disorder.  I was diagnosed by a friend who recognized the signs.  My biggest trigger is hosting a large party at my house.  

13.  I am a product of the 70s.  If it's yellow, I let it mellow.

14.  I force fun upon my kids and suggest activities like nature hikes.

15.  When my husband says something sweet like, “You’re so awesome”, I often respond by saying, “I know.”

16.  I am germ aware (as opposed to germ phobic).  And I will hold a grudge if the kids forget to wash their hands before eating.  Mostly because I reminded them 2 minutes ago.

17.  I’d buy a bumper sticker that read, “Maybe You Should Just Take a Nap”.

18.  I am always worried about kids being too cold.  Not just my own kids, all kids.

19.  People probably wonder if my husband is single because I only attend half of the social engagements we are invited to.

20.  I’m over camping.  I don’t want a rough adventure on vacation.  It is a thrill beyond measure to enter a minimalist hotel room, have someone make my bed for me, and cozy up under tight sheets.  I'd rather wake up under a high thread count than stars.  

21.  I am into eye contact and all things feelings.

22.  I've come to a point where I’d rather have a good therapy session than new winter boots.

As I read this list to my family their heads nodded in unison.  And they were just a little too enthusiastic about adding to the list, before I decided to walk out of the room.  To make them lunch. 

there's a ballerina in your kitchen

My brain is protesting the calls of morning.  Caffeine, check.  Workout, no check.  It’s a morning where if I went back to bed, I’d sleep for days.  Confused by my lack of direction, I thought I'd write, hoping to rouse my dormant, foggy but word laden mind.  The writing process often cleanses me like a hot shower.  Thoughts drape over and around me, softening my edges, scrubbing the rough, scaly parts smooth, until I feel invigorated and complete.

I have an image of a friend of mine twirling artfully in her kitchen.  I stopped by her house yesterday, unannounced, so of course she was in the middle of things.  As she said goodbye to her babysitter and hello to me, she poured Cherrios for her toddler, microwaved a sweet potato and fried two eggs.  All the while, she was engaging me in gracious conversation.  

Women in their kitchens have always been beautiful to me.  It’s not that I think they belong there or necessarily enjoy being there, it’s just the way they move around so deftly that intrigues me.  My friend is a fantastic cook who nurtures herself and others with nutritious and fun foods.  I think cashew butter and crepes are fun, don't you?  And although she might disagree because she spends far too much time in her own kitchen, I’d say she's happy there.  Whenever I am a guest in her house she always provides a colorful, delicious meal that matches her cheerful personality.

I, on the other hand, always feel one step behind and anxious in my own kitchen.  Which may be part of the reason I feel almost mesmerized as I watch others conjure bland food items into a confetti blast of a meal.  

A few weeks ago, I sat at the kitchen table of another friend who was planning her daughter’s birthday party.  She was explaining the order in which she’d prepare the foods so that on the big day it would all come together.  She was the maestro of her orchestra.  As she was talking, she was towel drying a cupcake pan and I thought how nostagic towel drying seemed to me.  I always let my dishes air dry and clutter the counter.  Memories of grandmothers towel drying dishes in their kitchens visited my mind as I watched her.   

When I observe a woman working in her kitchen it’s as if I am seeing a special side of her reserved mostly for the intimacy of her family.  It's somewhat like that child who acts reserved in public, then becomes playful, alive and even a little naughty in the familiarity and security of their own home.

My mom is a scientist in her kitchen, measuring and analyzing textures and flavors.  She tastes, then adjusts, turns a stir on the stove, peeks into the oven, pausing to double check her work every few minutes.  She is focused, friendly and in control.  She creates beautiful, complex meals and desserts without expectation, or enough praise.  My mother-in-law works so effortlessly that I don’t even realize she is working.  I belly myself up to her counter while she flows with conversation, seemingly without ever breaking eye contact.  She is so well practiced and efficient that it doesn’t occur to me to ask if she needs help.  I just sit and watch, chatting it up.

Wife, friend, daughter, sister, mother, grandmother-they are beautiful as they move around, right there in front of you, even on mac-n-cheese night.  

And for the male dancers who dazzle in the kitchen, you are the danseurs (I looked it up), and I applaud you too.

sanity, aisle five

By the time I finish this post, I will have gotten what I needed out of today.  I needed grounding.  I needed to put workout clothes on with a real intention of working out.  I needed Target.  I needed the warm smell of popcorn mixed with coffee as the automatic doors gesture a welcoming entrance.  I needed the dollar section, and the familiar items all in their familiar places.  There are no expectations at Target.  My appearance can be fresh or worn, I can simply browse or shop enthusiastically.  I can buy cleaning supplies and new eyeliner, toilet paper and a bikini, bread and a new book.  In Target, I can feel anonymous yet connected, surrounded by things for a home.

When my kids were little and my husband would come home from work, I’d high-five him on my way out the door, get into my minivan alone but in a baby daze and drive to Target.  I’d wander aimlessly for as long as I needed to while I shopped for patience and sanity, then I’d drive back home.

Still, as if on autopilot, my car ends up in the Target parking lot when I’m overwhelmed or overtired and in need of a noncommittal outing.  One night, the idea of actually shopping was just too much, so I circled the parking lot until I felt ready to answer to the words Mom or Hun.  

Today, I ordered a prescription refill over the phone in the Target parking lot.  The wifi is great, so I often respond to emails and return calls and texts.  It’s like an office, really.  During my own stay-at-home mom lunch break I’ve taken my favorite to-go salad to the Target parking lot to eat it quietly in my own little private car bubble.  There is just enough activity in the parking lot to not feel alone, but at the same time, no one needs you.  It's an on the go productive break, if you need it to feel that way.

I do a lot of my deep thinking at Target.  In fact, I almost named my blog DeepThoughtsFromTarget. 

After picking up lunch bags, fiber gummies and storage bins, I found the most important thing I needed today.  I found the exquisite and delicious luxury, of streaming, uninterrupted thoughts flowing through my mind, and then, I headed for the checkout.

my year of writing dangerously

Year endings often go by in a blur for me, but I’d feel non participatory if I didn’t reflect a bit and make some fresh resolutions.  I was talking with the hubs about an idea for a post.  Being the psychology nerd that I am, I was thinking about my personal growth this past year.  My meat and potato man told me that when he hears the words “personal growth” he just wants to gag, especially around the New Year.  Uh huh, I get that, good point.

But!  For kicks and giggles and because I desire to go through the cleansing fire of utter vulnerability, I will tell you about a few emotions I’ve experienced during 2013 that have stretched and twisted me until I was an uncomfortable pretzel of a person, going stale.  However uncomfortable, I did grow from these feelings.

Jealousy.  Yes, I am sharing this.  It’s real and ugly and may be the worst natural human emotion there is, or is that hate? or apathy?  No, longing must be the worst but jealousy is nasty.  It rips apart my security, throws blind spots up so I can’t see clearly, then drops me off in the middle of the road, during a hailstorm, naked.

Anxiety.  This emotion shrinks my soul and melts my brain into an impotent or robotic mess. 

Acceptance.  This is where my heart opens and my mind settles.  Breathing acceptance in and out, again and again is letting go, gently but not necessarily organically.  It's an effort.  It's choosing this instead of the overwhelming menu of the unsavory.

Personal growth isn’t just a pretty little feel good.  And I I couldn't have written about these emotions had I not felt, eventually, improved by them. 

Okaayyy…….

On the lighter side of resolutions, I want to remember to bring my reusable bags out of my car and into the stores.  I want to practice yoga so I can continue to untwist my pretzelly self physically, as well as mentally, and I want to embrace 2014 as my year of writing dangerously.

In the end, the hubs gave me two thumbs up for the post and encouraged me to share it.  I asked, "Why? It's so personal."  He said, "someone might relate, what if no one ever talked about uncomfortable things?" Uh huh, I get that, good point.

Happy New Year.