It’s the eve of my 43rd birthday and despite the horror that best case scenario, half my life is over, birthdays don’t really bother me that much. In fact, most of the time most people are surprised I’m over 40. Either they are terrible at estimating ages or I’m immature enough to pull off “younger”.
But this year, something is different. For some reason, reality has hit the fan, so to speak. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m still companionless, yet another birthday, and no significant other to share it with. Or just the reality of how many things I have waited too long to do.
It’s a cautionary tale really. I don’t like repeating myself, like the conversational recaps that television shows do to make sure the audience is all caught up. Reign is a hyper re-capper. Every time Mary Queen of Scots refers to her mother, she calls her by her full name. Ten episodes in, she’s still doing it. It annoys the crap out of me, but recap I will.
The recap is this and there’s a little TMI here, so brace yourself. But I am including it for a reason. I am including it for all those who have experienced a physical or sexual assault and have isolated themselves as a result.
In my mid-twenties, I experienced a sexual assault. It was my first sexual experience, so you can imagine that it super-sized the already tatters of my trust after a pretty awful childhood... can you say ISSUES?
Well, that was the end of any social experiences until I turned 40. When I did, a serious mid-life crisis hit me and I decided I wanted to live again, but I honestly had no idea how. I like to research things, so I did. I read books, articles, blogs, got advice. I truly had no idea how to date, what to expect, and how to be normal. I had only had three romantic kisses in my entire life, all before the assault, so between the age of 16 and 20. So, not only was I up a creek without a schema, I was also scared to death.
I was scared of being physically close to someone for fear it would invite another assault. I was afraid of being physically and emotionally hurt again. It took me 20 years to pull myself together after it happened. I was also scared of just being out of my depth. I didn’t know how to do anything. I hadn’t hugged or kissed a man in over twenty years. I hadn’t held anyone’s hand. I hadn’t had a date. Imagine an alien in a strange land who had no “normal” reference for the human courting or mating ritual. I was a strange girl in a strange land.
What normal people don’t realize is that they’ve generally had the experiences that I started having in my 40’s, in their teens and twenties.
And of course, then there’s internet dating. I don’t drink, except for an occasional margarita with my girlfriend’s, and I didn’t do sports, so where the hell was I going to meet anyone?
So, how do you figure all of this out while trying not be catatonically scared every time? Well... I just kept trying and failing and trying again and faking it a little. Sometimes, I ran, as fast as I could. Some times, I jumped in... and then ran, my little voice screaming WHAT WERE YOU THINKING! Let me just say, there are frogs, frogs everywhere. I’m sure that there are plenty of frog women as well, I am an equal opportunity disparager after all. But trust me, there are frogs.
Most of the time I didn’t have to figure anything out because it was a quick coffee and “I wish you well.” But then, I met a man I was attracted to and the feeling was mutual, thank god! At least for a little while, I didn’t have to feel like such a loser. But when I asked him to slow down, he was talking about buying a house close to me by the third date, he somehow translated that to “she just wants to be my friend with benefits.” Unfortunately, he didn’t tell me this was the translation, so we saw each other for a couple months, very casually. Him, more casually than me, that’s the unfortunate part. I had no idea I was just a friend with benefits. Increasingly confused, I thought maybe I would just be direct. I told him I would like to see him more if he felt the same way. This was in a text, another unfortunately... His response. “Sorry.” Hmm?? What did that mean? I had no idea. Sorry, I missed that? Sorry, I am lost? Sorry, I don’t speak English? Sorry, I have no balls to just tell you I don't want to see you anymore? I had no idea... So, I went to Facebook to see if he could chat. Why on earth I didn't just call, I have no idea. I guess Facebook seemed easier than texting and... Ummm... Let’s see, a picture of the guy I was seeing, snuggled up with a blonde, celebrating New Year’s Eve... which was the day before. The caption... something like “I’ve met someone so special, I can’t wait to see where the new year takes us!” Granted, this isn’t verbatim, but seriously, this is close.
Wow... WOW... Honestly? I felt like my frontal lobe imploded. I felt like an idiot. I truly had no idea he was seeing someone else or had even thought about seeing someone else, or had even thought about anything, I guess, because apparently, I didn’t know him at all. I felt used and confused and had no idea what was happening or why anyone would do that to another human being. I would have never done that, no matter how casual the relationship. It’s just so disrespectful and kind of mean. It sounds a little old-school, I know it’s 2014 and all, but if I even kiss someone, that’s it for me! I don’t mean instant “head over heels”, I just mean, when you touch someone else’s lips with your own, you owe it to each other to see where it goes. If it’s one date, so be it. You shouldn’t be kissing anyone else until you actually tell the other person it’s over, don’t you think? You shouldn't keep kissing someone when you've started kissing someone else! Is it just me?
Well, after licking my wounds for a while and with a lot of encouragement from my amazing friends, I got myself back out there and started making coffee dates again. More frogs. Frogs wanting a friend with benefits, frogs sending me penis pictures as soon as I trusted them enough to give them my number, married frogs, lying frogs, “open relationship” frogs. I was so exhausted by the end of it, I was ready to give up. Truly ready. I had been defeated, my spirit was completely broken. I had no hope of finding someone. So, I logged into my account ready to delete it and just resigned myself to life alone. I wasn’t happy about it, but it didn’t feel like I had a choice. And alone was familiar. I had reviewed all the options in head and so far was batting 1,000 frogs. Forgive me, I’m not sure if that sports analogy actually works because I’m a sports idiot, but you get the picture. Statistically, I was on the ropes.
Now, let me be clear. I am not the girl who can’t stand being alone so to avoid it, she seeks out any human with boy parts to call boyfriend. Remember, I’ve been alone from age 20 to age 40... technically, 42. And I should include most of my childhood in that as well. I am also not the girl who is in love with the idea of being in love. I’m just not. I think love is messy, relationships can be hard and yes, the experts are probably right, they are work and compromise. I believe that, I just haven’t had an opportunity to test the experts advice. I’m also not the damsel in distress looking for a sugar-daddy to pay her bills. I pay my own bills, thank you. I work on my own car... ok, sometimes, and I have no problem wearing the pants in my family of one. What I am after, is none of these things. I simply am at the point in my life where I finally have the courage to try to share it with someone else. I want to let someone in and vice versa. I want to make someone dinner and snuggle and watch movies and go for walks and go for long drives and go to dinner and go camping (there's a lot of on the go here, do you see the theme?) and build a life and have true intimacy. I want a partner and a friend and a lover. I want to be happy with someone, not just by myself. In fact, I desperately want to let someone into my life and be a part of theirs. I'm starting to think that being a part of theirs is even more important me because I've never really felt like a part of anything... I've always felt like an outsider looking in. Even before the assault.
So... back to the previous paragraph. I logged in to delete my account and scrolling across the bottom of the fish market were pictures of local eligible, or so they say, bachelors. There was a face that caught my eye. Handsome in a cuddly, kind sort of way and so familiar. But I couldn’t place him. Distracted by this shiny object, I clicked “favorite” or something like that. I logged out and forgot to delete my account... And later, he wrote me...
Long story short, we saw each other for 7 months. The best 6 months of my life. The last month, he was more and more withdrawn and I didn’t want to bring up the elephant in the room, so I just smiled and hoped for the best. I won’t tell you the whole story, that’s for us to know. But I will tell you, I’ve been crying since Valentine’s Day, literally. And I don’t say literally, lightly! I can’t seem to stop and today it’s particularly bad. It goes without saying, I hate Valentine’s with a new vehemence I didn’t think was possible. Next V-day, I’m just going to light something on fire or sacrifice a virgin or something and call it good.
So... I’ve strayed off topic a little bit and really what I wanted to say and who I wanted to say it to, is this:
To anyone, man or woman, who has experienced a physical or sexual assault, please don’t spend your whole life “checked out”. You didn’t expect that, did you? I mean it hasn’t exactly worked out for me and as of this moment, while I’m writing this, I am crying so hard I can barely see... but the result is not what you’re after. Please trust me on this. There are good people out there that are worth getting to know. There are people who give you amazing memories and help you to grow. (I was having a Suess moment, forgive me).
I wouldn’t trade all 7 of those months, even the weird one, for anything. I would give anything, my 401k perhaps, to have them back. I was happy. Happier than I ever thought I could be. I finally understood what it felt like to be loved, what it felt like to be wanted, and even what it felt like to have an inside joke with someone. All new to me. And I felt like I had a future. Finally. Imagine that?
Don’t get me wrong, I had a hard time with so many things during this process. I was constantly nervous. The first time he came to my house, I was embarrassed by the state of it. The first time I made him dinner, I spent the whole night hoping I didn’t make him sick. The first few nights that he stayed over, I was afraid to sleep in the bed. For those of you judging the “staying over part”, CAN it! I’m over 40 and Puritan values just don’t apply anymore. I wasn’t afraid of him, ever. It was the fact that I had never slept in a bed beside anyone, ever. I'm not using "sleeping with" as a euphemism here. I truly hadn't ever slept with anyone. For those who have experienced the trauma and loss of control that you do in an assault, you know what I’m talking about. You’re body does things without your permission. You startle easily, you automatically pull back even when that’s the last thing you want to do. Your body isn’t always “engaged”, and here I AM using a euphemism, in the activity if you know what I mean. The "you know what I mean" should clearly indicate a euphemism. See how that works? Your “fight or flight” switch goes on willy-nilly and when it does, you have to stop or fake it until you make it.
So, the first few nights I'd sneak out of bed and sleep on the couch. I felt bad about doing it. He felt bad too. He thought it was his fault. I don’t think he realized how scared I really was and I couldn’t explain it without him thinking it really was his fault, so I just told him it wasn’t him. It really really wasn’t. I wanted nothing more than to snuggle up with him and fall asleep. I felt content with him and safe. And safe meant a great deal to me. But at first, being able to fall asleep with him felt like the Holy Grail. Then, the first night I did stay in the bed, I woke us both by screaming myself awake from a nightmare. Again, I explained this away with a tale of stress and anxiety, but I remember the nightmare vividly to this day. It was of the man who assaulted me, on top of me and choking me. Now, my assault was not violent, as violence goes anyway, although it was a violation of my body. He didn't choke me or anything like that. But I was completely mute during the experience. I couldn't stop him with a "no!" because my voice was gone. I've always felt like he took my voice and that was worse than taking my virginity. I was a victim of “date-rape” without the date part. He was just a friend visiting my apartment when things went all wrong. But I couldn’t tell this amazing, kind, handsome man next to me that the anxiety and vulnerability of being asleep in the same bed as another human being had manifested this nightmare. He would know I was too broken.
And this is silly, but not only was I afraid of all those things, I was afraid of waking up looking like Yoda after a three-day binge next to the man I was falling in love with. The fear of him running for the door was almost too much to bear and I would end up getting up in the middle of the night to dab on a little makeup and comb my hair. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? It sounds so vain, but it was the farthest thing from vanity, I swear.
Even though a truckload of Prozac wouldn’t have cured any of these anxieties, I didn’t want to give any of them up and I wouldn’t have missed any of them for the world.
Six years ago I had given up. I was ready to spend the rest of my life alone. In fact, I was ready to give up on life altogether. But I didn’t. I got another dog so I had something to take care of. Something that I couldn’t leave behind and that, his name is Hairy, kept me going. He kept me going until my spirit finally said, ENOUGH! Get on with it! Stop existing and LIVE!
And no matter how hard the last 6 or so years have been, no matter how scary or difficult the experiences, I am still here. None of them killed me. I'm a little worse for wear. Very tender-hearted at the moment and licking more wounds and racking up more metaphorical scars than I care to have, but I'm still here!
What I’m telling you is, you don’t have to give up. You can believe in love, you can find it, even if it’s only for a brief period of time. It DOES exist. I’ve felt it. You can trust someone with your heart and your mind and your body. The right person will cherish them all even if they don't cherish them forever. You just have to find that person. It might be more than one person, each helping you heal a little at a time. It takes some work and there will be heart break. Sometimes it’s nearly unbearable. But you can sit next to someone again and maybe even hold their hand. You can hug them or better yet, LET someone hug you. You can have another kiss. And my hope is that you get a kiss that makes your toes tingle. You can lay in bed and talk and laugh with someone. You can be whole again.
There are no guarantees in life. I’m not sure I will ever be able to try for another relationship again. I’m just not sure at this point, everything is still too raw. But chances are, after a little time passes, I will probably try at some point. I’ve discovered that the point of life is to try. That’s all we can do... But when it works out, when you have a moment, even if it’s just one brief moment of happiness, all the pain and sadness and struggle are worth it. Trust me, you’ll see.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Friday, May 2, 2014
Monday, March 10, 2014
Chapter 4: My Troll Doll Can Beat up Your Barbie!
Just before I turned 40, I had changed one of the things about my life that I didn’t like. My car. This seemed like an easy thing to do and fairly trivial. Something that I didn’t have to think much about. Just figure out what you like and go find one you can afford. But that seemingly little change actually lit up a slew of other issues that needed to be dealt with. You see, the elephant that I was ignoring was my “hideously ugly” complex. I’d ignored it for a very long time, and let’s just say, elephants have a way of getting noticed... eventually.
It’s not that I didn’t know I had this issue. It’s that I never treated it as being at all serious or even relevant. At some point in my nature or nurture, I became convinced that I was hideously ugly. That became my fact and no one really disputed it. I’m not sure exactly where or when it happened. It just was. It’s part of the reason I hated mirrors so much and also part of the reason for my panic attack during the first topless Jeep ride.
Let me say this... knowing something isn’t rational and letting go of that belief are two totally different things. But fate has a funny way of slapping you in the face with something just when you’re convinced your denial is impenetrable.
My 40th birthday was just a few days away now and God knows why, but I decided I would take the day off from work to treat myself to a massage and then spend the day with my dog.
I’ve never had an actual massage before, but I decided part of this new life should include at least acting like a was a normal woman and doing "woman" things. One thing that normal women did was to pamper themselves on occasion, right? I had learned this from watching “Dallas” and of course from listening to the women I work with.
Also, a few months before, I had started seeing a brilliant Chiropractor whom I called Dr.
Hannah. I’ve had this theory that I was in constant “fight or flight” mode for quite some time
now, but Dr. Hannah confirmed it. Clench your fists as tightly as you can and hold it. Now
imagine your whole body feeling like that for years. Turns out that this kind of stress can affect
a lot of body systems, including digestion. Wasn’t that interesting? Turns out that digestion is what
computer people would call, a secondary or non- essential system. That means, when you’re in
danger, it gets turned off basically to conserve power. If you’re in constant stress mode, like this
fight or flight thing, well, your digestion is FUBAR!
In the same office as Dr. Hannah, there are massage therapists. I made an appointment with one. I figured my muscles could use the attention and frankly, so could I. I was, however, quite worried about how I could possibly go through with it. I was still around 340 pounds and I would have to be at least partially naked. The mere thought of that sent me into a little state I like to call Catatonia. I purposefully set that thought aside. I could panic later. I was simply making the appointment today. One tiny step at a time.
Massage Day, aka My 40th Birthday: The day started off alright. I was trying hard not to really think about actually going through with it. I turned on my internal auto-pilot and the Jeep and headed to the appointment.
When I arrived, I made my way inside and checked in. There was paperwork. There was
ALWAYS paperwork, wasn’t there? I completed it and handed it over. The only way I was going to get through this was to tune-out, right? "Tuning out" was something I used to do a lot. If I simply turned off my emotions, nothing could hurt me because I was numb. In fact, "tuning out" was so second nature that sometimes I didn't even realize I was doing it.
Sitting in the waiting room, I was scared to death and desperately trying to look normal. But inside, the fear was mounting. What was I thinking? Why did I ever think I wanted to do this? I could picture the massage therapist cringing in horror at the sight of me and running from the room screaming at the top of her lungs. It was inconceivable that anyone would want to touch me even if I was paying them to do it. It's why I hadn't let anyone touch me for nearly 15 years. It would be too humiliating to deal with, of that I was sure.
I honestly don’t know how I made it from the waiting area to the room, let alone disrobing and getting on the table. Inside I felt horrible. I felt ugly. I felt defeated. What a way to
spend your birthday, you idiot. There’s that little voice again.
But then, Dana came into the room and started chattering away. In fact, she talked so much, I didn’t have to. This isn’t normally what you'd want in a spa experience, I’m guessing? But I was grateful. She asked me a couple of questions and I nodded or shook my head depending on what was appropriate. This actually made me laugh a little considering I was face down in the head rest-y donut thing in the massage table.
“Have you had a massage before?” Dana asked. I shook my head. “Well, she said, some people like deep tissue massage, some don’t. If at any time I’m pressing too hard or it’s uncomfortable for you, you just let me know, okay?”
I nodded.
So far, I loved Dana. She was a little chatty Kathy, but thank God for that! She was busy telling me about her job and her recent dates and I thought maybe she’s so occupied with her conversation that she won’t even notice how hideous I am!
Then she put her hands on my shoulders and started working on my back. Oh my God. It was all I could do not to cry. It didn’t hurt. Not physically. I’m not sure how to describe what happened to me in that moment. I wanted to thank her, to hug her, to pay her mortgage. It wasn’t anything sexual, far from it. It was a validation of sorts. It was like in the act of touching me, bare hands to bare skin, she
acknowledged that I existed. It was honestly the first time I hadn't felt completely alone in the world. How could I ever think that wasn’t important? How could I have ever think that I didn’t need it? How had I lived without it for nearly 15 years?
A few tears fell, but I had to stop them or I would be blubbering and snotting into the pretty spa pillow and I couldn’t have that. So, for the rest of the massage, I concentrated only on the sensory experience and when that was too overwhelming, I concentrated on Dana’s chattering, bless her heart.
When it was over, I held it together long enough to drink my obligatory water, pay the bill and get myself to the Jeep. Then, I promptly broke down. Right there in the parking lot, I let myself feel what had just happened. I let myself absorb what it felt like to be touched again by another human being.
It’s not that I didn’t know I had this issue. It’s that I never treated it as being at all serious or even relevant. At some point in my nature or nurture, I became convinced that I was hideously ugly. That became my fact and no one really disputed it. I’m not sure exactly where or when it happened. It just was. It’s part of the reason I hated mirrors so much and also part of the reason for my panic attack during the first topless Jeep ride.
Let me say this... knowing something isn’t rational and letting go of that belief are two totally different things. But fate has a funny way of slapping you in the face with something just when you’re convinced your denial is impenetrable.
My 40th birthday was just a few days away now and God knows why, but I decided I would take the day off from work to treat myself to a massage and then spend the day with my dog.
I’ve never had an actual massage before, but I decided part of this new life should include at least acting like a was a normal woman and doing "woman" things. One thing that normal women did was to pamper themselves on occasion, right? I had learned this from watching “Dallas” and of course from listening to the women I work with.
Also, a few months before, I had started seeing a brilliant Chiropractor whom I called Dr.
Hannah. I’ve had this theory that I was in constant “fight or flight” mode for quite some time
now, but Dr. Hannah confirmed it. Clench your fists as tightly as you can and hold it. Now
imagine your whole body feeling like that for years. Turns out that this kind of stress can affect
a lot of body systems, including digestion. Wasn’t that interesting? Turns out that digestion is what
computer people would call, a secondary or non- essential system. That means, when you’re in
danger, it gets turned off basically to conserve power. If you’re in constant stress mode, like this
fight or flight thing, well, your digestion is FUBAR!
In the same office as Dr. Hannah, there are massage therapists. I made an appointment with one. I figured my muscles could use the attention and frankly, so could I. I was, however, quite worried about how I could possibly go through with it. I was still around 340 pounds and I would have to be at least partially naked. The mere thought of that sent me into a little state I like to call Catatonia. I purposefully set that thought aside. I could panic later. I was simply making the appointment today. One tiny step at a time.
Massage Day, aka My 40th Birthday: The day started off alright. I was trying hard not to really think about actually going through with it. I turned on my internal auto-pilot and the Jeep and headed to the appointment.
When I arrived, I made my way inside and checked in. There was paperwork. There was
ALWAYS paperwork, wasn’t there? I completed it and handed it over. The only way I was going to get through this was to tune-out, right? "Tuning out" was something I used to do a lot. If I simply turned off my emotions, nothing could hurt me because I was numb. In fact, "tuning out" was so second nature that sometimes I didn't even realize I was doing it.
Sitting in the waiting room, I was scared to death and desperately trying to look normal. But inside, the fear was mounting. What was I thinking? Why did I ever think I wanted to do this? I could picture the massage therapist cringing in horror at the sight of me and running from the room screaming at the top of her lungs. It was inconceivable that anyone would want to touch me even if I was paying them to do it. It's why I hadn't let anyone touch me for nearly 15 years. It would be too humiliating to deal with, of that I was sure.
I honestly don’t know how I made it from the waiting area to the room, let alone disrobing and getting on the table. Inside I felt horrible. I felt ugly. I felt defeated. What a way to
spend your birthday, you idiot. There’s that little voice again.
But then, Dana came into the room and started chattering away. In fact, she talked so much, I didn’t have to. This isn’t normally what you'd want in a spa experience, I’m guessing? But I was grateful. She asked me a couple of questions and I nodded or shook my head depending on what was appropriate. This actually made me laugh a little considering I was face down in the head rest-y donut thing in the massage table.
“Have you had a massage before?” Dana asked. I shook my head. “Well, she said, some people like deep tissue massage, some don’t. If at any time I’m pressing too hard or it’s uncomfortable for you, you just let me know, okay?”
I nodded.
So far, I loved Dana. She was a little chatty Kathy, but thank God for that! She was busy telling me about her job and her recent dates and I thought maybe she’s so occupied with her conversation that she won’t even notice how hideous I am!
Then she put her hands on my shoulders and started working on my back. Oh my God. It was all I could do not to cry. It didn’t hurt. Not physically. I’m not sure how to describe what happened to me in that moment. I wanted to thank her, to hug her, to pay her mortgage. It wasn’t anything sexual, far from it. It was a validation of sorts. It was like in the act of touching me, bare hands to bare skin, she
acknowledged that I existed. It was honestly the first time I hadn't felt completely alone in the world. How could I ever think that wasn’t important? How could I have ever think that I didn’t need it? How had I lived without it for nearly 15 years?
A few tears fell, but I had to stop them or I would be blubbering and snotting into the pretty spa pillow and I couldn’t have that. So, for the rest of the massage, I concentrated only on the sensory experience and when that was too overwhelming, I concentrated on Dana’s chattering, bless her heart.
When it was over, I held it together long enough to drink my obligatory water, pay the bill and get myself to the Jeep. Then, I promptly broke down. Right there in the parking lot, I let myself feel what had just happened. I let myself absorb what it felt like to be touched again by another human being.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
My Dating Manifest-O
Over the last year and a half, I’ve learned a few things about dating. I only started doing it when I turned 40. Yes, you heard me right. Long story, just go with me on this. I’m seriously behind the curve when it comes to the modern relationship. But, it’s brought me to this place. The place in time where I’ve decided to write a brief manifesto. I struggled with using the word “manifesto” simply because in the age of the Internet, I didn’t want to get flagged by the Department of Homeland Security. In particular, I live in Montana, where lots of wackos come to embrace their wackoness. Generally, wackos in Montana aren’t actually born here, they’re transplants. I was born and raised here, so I’m perfectly sane... really.
I decided to stick with “manifesto” because it’s time to get serious. It’s time to be true to what I want and send a clear message to those “potentials” out there. I also mean it as a new age-y double entendre. If you know anything about manifesting what you want into your life, you’ll know what I mean.
So, here goes. Listen up people!
If you think relationships are a game to be played with strategies and plans: Move it along, I don’t have time for you. I am who I am. I don’t want to try and manipulate anyone into liking or loving me. So, I’ll just tell you a little about me. I am caring and kind most of the time. I occasionally get pissed off, but that’s usually directed at my family and people who lie a lot. Not once, but a lot. I can stand up for myself, I am hard on myself, I am funny and I can be generous. I am extremely independent. I tried asking for help from someone I was seeing, once, because all my girlfriends told me that guys like to rescue the ladies and to fix things. My girlfriends were mistaken. I am strong, both emotionally and physically. I want a partner, not someone to take care of me or pay the bills. I deserve the same.
If you just want to “help each other out”, aka: friends with benefits: Move it along and quickly. I don’t want to be your friend with benefits. Friends with benefits is a complete misnomer. It should just be called “benefits” or better yet, random sex with someone you sort of know. People (both men and women) who just want benefits typically don’t know what real friendship is... at all. And although I want a relationship that includes lots of the benefit in question, and I mean lots in a very literal way because I spent 15 years in celibacy, I want the benefit to be in addition to a good conversation, endless laughter, spontaneous dancing in the kitchen, sitting on the couch cuddling (yes cuddling) and lots of other things.
If you’re married but unhappy: Run far away from me. I understand your plight, I really do. Things happen, people grow apart, things change, things are complicated, there are assets or children involved. I get it. But grow some balls and make a decision. You aren’t doing yourself, your spouse, your children, or your finances any favors. Is it hard? Abso-freakin-lutely! But life is too short to make each other miserable and trust me, the kids know, and they aren’t happy either. In fact, everyday you “fake it” you are chipping away bit by bit at their ability to have a healthy relationship in the future. And I am not willing to complicate matters further by being your friend-with-benefits-second-choice-waiting-in-the-wings-hoping-you’ll-eventually-choose-me-girl. Nope, sorry. So, run away and good luck in your quest for testicles.
If you want me to take vacation time so that we can sit in your basement and play “World of Warcraft”, forget it. I really shouldn’t have to explain this one.
If you want to uproot your whole family and move to my hometown before we even talk on the phone, let alone meet each other... I’ll run, you stay where you are.
If you want to send me penis pictures before we meet in person: As an artist, I totally appreciate the learning value. And the variety in shapes and sizes is scientifically fascinating. A couple were even fairly impressive, but let’s face it. It’s just a little too exhibitionist. Let’s avoid it. After we’re in a relationship... I'm all for it.
If you bought your car... your jacket... your shoes to impress someone: Move it along. I’m pretty sure we’ll have nothing to talk about. This goes double for someone who makes snap judgements about people’s looks or fashion sense.
If you won’t allow a dog to sleep on the bed or get on the couch: See ya!
If you are relatively honest, funny, sincere, creative, like adventure (not the extreme-you-could-die-zip-lining-in-the-Amazon type but more spontaneous and slightly safer adventures)... if you like movies, being outside, working hard, building a future, laughing, traveling, art, cuddling, zombies, sex (not zombie-sex... ewwwww squishy! And ewwww!) and me... then say hello. Better yet ask me for coffee.
Because here’s the thing. I’m worth it.
I decided to stick with “manifesto” because it’s time to get serious. It’s time to be true to what I want and send a clear message to those “potentials” out there. I also mean it as a new age-y double entendre. If you know anything about manifesting what you want into your life, you’ll know what I mean.
So, here goes. Listen up people!
If you think relationships are a game to be played with strategies and plans: Move it along, I don’t have time for you. I am who I am. I don’t want to try and manipulate anyone into liking or loving me. So, I’ll just tell you a little about me. I am caring and kind most of the time. I occasionally get pissed off, but that’s usually directed at my family and people who lie a lot. Not once, but a lot. I can stand up for myself, I am hard on myself, I am funny and I can be generous. I am extremely independent. I tried asking for help from someone I was seeing, once, because all my girlfriends told me that guys like to rescue the ladies and to fix things. My girlfriends were mistaken. I am strong, both emotionally and physically. I want a partner, not someone to take care of me or pay the bills. I deserve the same.
If you just want to “help each other out”, aka: friends with benefits: Move it along and quickly. I don’t want to be your friend with benefits. Friends with benefits is a complete misnomer. It should just be called “benefits” or better yet, random sex with someone you sort of know. People (both men and women) who just want benefits typically don’t know what real friendship is... at all. And although I want a relationship that includes lots of the benefit in question, and I mean lots in a very literal way because I spent 15 years in celibacy, I want the benefit to be in addition to a good conversation, endless laughter, spontaneous dancing in the kitchen, sitting on the couch cuddling (yes cuddling) and lots of other things.
If you’re married but unhappy: Run far away from me. I understand your plight, I really do. Things happen, people grow apart, things change, things are complicated, there are assets or children involved. I get it. But grow some balls and make a decision. You aren’t doing yourself, your spouse, your children, or your finances any favors. Is it hard? Abso-freakin-lutely! But life is too short to make each other miserable and trust me, the kids know, and they aren’t happy either. In fact, everyday you “fake it” you are chipping away bit by bit at their ability to have a healthy relationship in the future. And I am not willing to complicate matters further by being your friend-with-benefits-second-choice-waiting-in-the-wings-hoping-you’ll-eventually-choose-me-girl. Nope, sorry. So, run away and good luck in your quest for testicles.
If you want me to take vacation time so that we can sit in your basement and play “World of Warcraft”, forget it. I really shouldn’t have to explain this one.
If you want to uproot your whole family and move to my hometown before we even talk on the phone, let alone meet each other... I’ll run, you stay where you are.
If you want to send me penis pictures before we meet in person: As an artist, I totally appreciate the learning value. And the variety in shapes and sizes is scientifically fascinating. A couple were even fairly impressive, but let’s face it. It’s just a little too exhibitionist. Let’s avoid it. After we’re in a relationship... I'm all for it.
If you bought your car... your jacket... your shoes to impress someone: Move it along. I’m pretty sure we’ll have nothing to talk about. This goes double for someone who makes snap judgements about people’s looks or fashion sense.
If you won’t allow a dog to sleep on the bed or get on the couch: See ya!
If you are relatively honest, funny, sincere, creative, like adventure (not the extreme-you-could-die-zip-lining-in-the-Amazon type but more spontaneous and slightly safer adventures)... if you like movies, being outside, working hard, building a future, laughing, traveling, art, cuddling, zombies, sex (not zombie-sex... ewwwww squishy! And ewwww!) and me... then say hello. Better yet ask me for coffee.
Because here’s the thing. I’m worth it.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Lori & the Three Vikings
Okay, well first, there are more than three, but still not enough to make me a floozy. Second, the Vikings are kicking my ass slightly less than my now 41 year old hormones are. Third, I believe I have a multiple personality disorder.
Let’s deal with each one of these things separately, shall we?
More than three, but less than floozy...
So the last year of my dating life has been filled with a Goldilocks metaphor. This one is too soft, this one too hard (I’m sensing a double-entendre here, do you sense it too?), this one too cold, this one too hot... I haven’t found the one that’s just right, quite yet. And at this point, I’m not sure I should keep sampling the porridge.
Here’s the thing... no matter their Goldilocks category, the Vikings have all been good guys, each in their own way. But this dating thing hurts. It hurts to be dumped. It's even painful to hurt someone else’s feelings. And they feel exactly the same way in both regards. I’ve heard that geese mate for life, I’ve often wondered if they hurt this much while they’re trying to find their mate. Note to self: Ask a goose for dating advice. Believe it or not, I will actually do this.
The reason that I’m considering not sampling any more porridge is that I don’t want to get hurt or hurt anyone else, again. My last few experiences have broken my heart even if I was the one saying goodbye. That’s the thing about relationships, I guess. You can’t guarantee anything to the other person. You just can’t. No matter how much you want to. You can believe you can with all your heart, but people, including myself (and that's a huge understatement), are unpredictable. Circumstances change, people grow or change, life changes in general and there we are back in Kansas stealing sparkly red slippers off a dead witch so that we can try again.
I’ve found that if I’m honest about this concept, Vikings interpret it one of three ways: They think I don’t want a relationship or want to be alone ("relationship" and "alone" as defined by them); They think I just want sex... Most of the time they’re perfectly fine with this, but they also think it means they can ask my massage therapist out for coffee after they leave my house; or they think I’m playing with them like a cat plays with a three-legged mouse. None of these are the case, but usually I don’t have an opportunity to explain why.
The case is, in fact, that I want to be happy. And if being with someone doesn’t make me happier than I am by myself, then I’ll stay by myself. I don't expect someone to be perfect. I don't expect them to change. I want to love them for who they are. I want to be able to see a future with them. I don’t want to be in a relationship so that I have someone to share half the expenses with. That’s not ethical, and it’s not love. But trust me, a lot of people do it. And if I’m really honest, I’ve thought about it. I also don’t want someone to take care of me in any sense. I want to take care of each other. But again, it would be nice not to feel like I’m holding up the world all by myself all the time. I can’t put into words what happy looks like. At least not specifically... But I think I’ll know it when I see it. Until then, I’m not going to pretend that I can guarantee anything at all.
The Vikings are winning...
Yes, the Vikings AND my hormones are kicking my ass. First I should tell you that I only started dating when I turned 40. Yep. I know, long story, one I’m saving for a book I’m writing. It’s completely true, with the exception of having a few movie or dance dates in high school and college. And by few I mean between five and eight. Pathetic, I know.
Here’s the problem with not dating until you’re 40:
You have no schema! In fact, you’re up a creek without a schema. You just don’t have a clue what to do. This puts you at an extreme disadvantage and means that you’re going to do a LOT wrong. You’re going to hurt yourself and others in the process. You’re going to feel one minute like the world is the most glorious place in the universe (this is an oxytocin rush, just so you know). And the next minute, you’re going to feel like you can’t do anything right.
Let me put this in perspective. I’ve spent 19 years, just shy of half my life span, living alone. I had one roommate for a short period and it was actually good (maybe not for the roommate, because I’m pretty sure I’m hard to live with).
The point of telling you this is that I haven’t done a lot of the relationship-y things that most people have. I haven’t shacked up with a guy. I haven’t had a guy spend the night. I’ve never had a morning after breakfast. Bear with me, the TMI will be over soon. I’ve never cuddled on the couch to watch a movie with my significant other. I’ve cooked dinner for a few people, but the only one I was dating, I wasn’t really dating. It’s complicated. I’ve never had a joint checking account. I’ve never had anyone pay my bills for me, but I helped the it’s complicated guy financially a couple of times. I’ve never rented an apartment, bought a house or a car or even a teddy bear on joint credit. Never adopted a dog with anyone. Never had a child. I’ve never said “Honey, pass me the ketchup.” to anyone.
I have a vastly different perspective on life than most people and it’s tough for anyone to put themselves in my shoes. I don't blame them, I'm kind of a weirdo. Imagine going nearly 15 years without a kiss of any kind. Fifteen years without someone ever holding your hand. I’m not telling you this to garner sympathy, I’m trying only to describe my perspective.
I woke up this morning with a huge epiphany. One I didn’t like very much. It was: I may never be capable of having a significant other. This is a relief in a lot of ways because let’s face it, dating is hell. It takes an enormous amount of time and effort. This isn’t bad. It should take an enormous amount of time and effort or it wouldn’t matter. It hurts like hell when something doesn’t work out. And again, it should. Without hurt, you wouldn’t have a context for joy. But the other edge of this double-edged epiphany is that there is a pretty good chance (not 100%, mind you, but so far that’s my track-record), that I’ll grow older and eventually die having never experienced the relationship-y things I referred to above. So, yes I’m relieved, the pressure’s off, I can get back to work. But, I am also deeply and profoundly saddened. That takes me to my third point.
I believe I have a multiple personality disorder:
Most of the last year has been maddening! Mad-Hatter maddening. Too many fairy tales in this blog? Well, anyway... When I meet someone, sometimes even before I physically meet them, let’s say we text or talk on the phone, I can usually tell if we’ll be mostly compatible or not. I say mostly because no two people are ever 100% compatible. It’s just not possible to agree on EVERYTHING, or like ALL the same things. That’s why we’re called individuals. But, we can be mostly compatible and in my observations, those seem to be the happiest relationships. I can usually get a sense for compatibility with someone pretty quickly. And on the flip-side I can generally sense when something’s off as well. I don’t believe I’m always right about these things, but I try and make the best decisions with the information I have when I have it. I’ve also learned to trust my Spidey-sense in the last year, because if I ignore it, I regret it. Where are the multiple personalities, you ask? Well...
I seem to vacillate between the realist, the epically horny teenager and the pink sparkly tutu clad princess looking for her prince charming.
The easiest one to explain is the epically horny teenager. Fifteen years of no dating. Nuff said!
The realist. This is the woman who knows things sometimes work out and sometimes they don’t She is too honest, too logical (Lori-logic is a little different than say... Einstein-logic), occasionally skeptical, and always has a plan, flexible though it might be. She tries to be honest with her potential mates because if she fails them, she wants them to be prepared. She wants to spare their feelings right off the bat. In a twisted way, she ends up hurting their feelings by being honest about her own shortcomings. The trouble with the realist is that she never wants to count her chickens before they hatch. In some respects, she robs herself of her own potential futures.
The sparkly pink princess has counted the 5th generation of hatch-lings and built little pink chicken condos with her prince charming. She wants the fairy tale. She believes in the fairy tale. She believes every “this one” might be THE ONE. And with every potential prince charming, she floats around to the beat of her own drum... heart... something. I kind of lost that metaphor somewhere in the middle, sorry. My point is, she wants to jump in with both feet, tutu flying up over her head laughing all the way.
As you can imagine, the realist and the sparkly pink princess don’t get along all that well. For me, that means I’ve got a constant war going on in my head. Take a chance! No, wait and see. TAKE A CHANCE! No, I already know he’s not the one. TAKE A CHANCE, DAMMIT! But what if I do and it doesn’t work out and I hurt him? Argh!!!! Throw in the teenage harlot and I’m ready for meds and a comfy padded room.
Meanwhile, the Vikings end up hating me or dumping me.
At the end of the day, here we all are... Me, the realist, the sparkly pink princess, the teenage harlot and some Vikings, all special in our own way. I don’t know where we’ll all end up, but I know this. Eventually, we’ll get where we need to go. It might hurt, it might never work out. It might be happily ever after. Who knows? None of us. And fate has a funny way of making it happen although she beats the hell out of you along the way.
Let’s deal with each one of these things separately, shall we?
More than three, but less than floozy...
So the last year of my dating life has been filled with a Goldilocks metaphor. This one is too soft, this one too hard (I’m sensing a double-entendre here, do you sense it too?), this one too cold, this one too hot... I haven’t found the one that’s just right, quite yet. And at this point, I’m not sure I should keep sampling the porridge.
Here’s the thing... no matter their Goldilocks category, the Vikings have all been good guys, each in their own way. But this dating thing hurts. It hurts to be dumped. It's even painful to hurt someone else’s feelings. And they feel exactly the same way in both regards. I’ve heard that geese mate for life, I’ve often wondered if they hurt this much while they’re trying to find their mate. Note to self: Ask a goose for dating advice. Believe it or not, I will actually do this.
The reason that I’m considering not sampling any more porridge is that I don’t want to get hurt or hurt anyone else, again. My last few experiences have broken my heart even if I was the one saying goodbye. That’s the thing about relationships, I guess. You can’t guarantee anything to the other person. You just can’t. No matter how much you want to. You can believe you can with all your heart, but people, including myself (and that's a huge understatement), are unpredictable. Circumstances change, people grow or change, life changes in general and there we are back in Kansas stealing sparkly red slippers off a dead witch so that we can try again.
I’ve found that if I’m honest about this concept, Vikings interpret it one of three ways: They think I don’t want a relationship or want to be alone ("relationship" and "alone" as defined by them); They think I just want sex... Most of the time they’re perfectly fine with this, but they also think it means they can ask my massage therapist out for coffee after they leave my house; or they think I’m playing with them like a cat plays with a three-legged mouse. None of these are the case, but usually I don’t have an opportunity to explain why.
The case is, in fact, that I want to be happy. And if being with someone doesn’t make me happier than I am by myself, then I’ll stay by myself. I don't expect someone to be perfect. I don't expect them to change. I want to love them for who they are. I want to be able to see a future with them. I don’t want to be in a relationship so that I have someone to share half the expenses with. That’s not ethical, and it’s not love. But trust me, a lot of people do it. And if I’m really honest, I’ve thought about it. I also don’t want someone to take care of me in any sense. I want to take care of each other. But again, it would be nice not to feel like I’m holding up the world all by myself all the time. I can’t put into words what happy looks like. At least not specifically... But I think I’ll know it when I see it. Until then, I’m not going to pretend that I can guarantee anything at all.
The Vikings are winning...
Yes, the Vikings AND my hormones are kicking my ass. First I should tell you that I only started dating when I turned 40. Yep. I know, long story, one I’m saving for a book I’m writing. It’s completely true, with the exception of having a few movie or dance dates in high school and college. And by few I mean between five and eight. Pathetic, I know.
Here’s the problem with not dating until you’re 40:
You have no schema! In fact, you’re up a creek without a schema. You just don’t have a clue what to do. This puts you at an extreme disadvantage and means that you’re going to do a LOT wrong. You’re going to hurt yourself and others in the process. You’re going to feel one minute like the world is the most glorious place in the universe (this is an oxytocin rush, just so you know). And the next minute, you’re going to feel like you can’t do anything right.
Let me put this in perspective. I’ve spent 19 years, just shy of half my life span, living alone. I had one roommate for a short period and it was actually good (maybe not for the roommate, because I’m pretty sure I’m hard to live with).
The point of telling you this is that I haven’t done a lot of the relationship-y things that most people have. I haven’t shacked up with a guy. I haven’t had a guy spend the night. I’ve never had a morning after breakfast. Bear with me, the TMI will be over soon. I’ve never cuddled on the couch to watch a movie with my significant other. I’ve cooked dinner for a few people, but the only one I was dating, I wasn’t really dating. It’s complicated. I’ve never had a joint checking account. I’ve never had anyone pay my bills for me, but I helped the it’s complicated guy financially a couple of times. I’ve never rented an apartment, bought a house or a car or even a teddy bear on joint credit. Never adopted a dog with anyone. Never had a child. I’ve never said “Honey, pass me the ketchup.” to anyone.
I have a vastly different perspective on life than most people and it’s tough for anyone to put themselves in my shoes. I don't blame them, I'm kind of a weirdo. Imagine going nearly 15 years without a kiss of any kind. Fifteen years without someone ever holding your hand. I’m not telling you this to garner sympathy, I’m trying only to describe my perspective.
I woke up this morning with a huge epiphany. One I didn’t like very much. It was: I may never be capable of having a significant other. This is a relief in a lot of ways because let’s face it, dating is hell. It takes an enormous amount of time and effort. This isn’t bad. It should take an enormous amount of time and effort or it wouldn’t matter. It hurts like hell when something doesn’t work out. And again, it should. Without hurt, you wouldn’t have a context for joy. But the other edge of this double-edged epiphany is that there is a pretty good chance (not 100%, mind you, but so far that’s my track-record), that I’ll grow older and eventually die having never experienced the relationship-y things I referred to above. So, yes I’m relieved, the pressure’s off, I can get back to work. But, I am also deeply and profoundly saddened. That takes me to my third point.
I believe I have a multiple personality disorder:
Most of the last year has been maddening! Mad-Hatter maddening. Too many fairy tales in this blog? Well, anyway... When I meet someone, sometimes even before I physically meet them, let’s say we text or talk on the phone, I can usually tell if we’ll be mostly compatible or not. I say mostly because no two people are ever 100% compatible. It’s just not possible to agree on EVERYTHING, or like ALL the same things. That’s why we’re called individuals. But, we can be mostly compatible and in my observations, those seem to be the happiest relationships. I can usually get a sense for compatibility with someone pretty quickly. And on the flip-side I can generally sense when something’s off as well. I don’t believe I’m always right about these things, but I try and make the best decisions with the information I have when I have it. I’ve also learned to trust my Spidey-sense in the last year, because if I ignore it, I regret it. Where are the multiple personalities, you ask? Well...
I seem to vacillate between the realist, the epically horny teenager and the pink sparkly tutu clad princess looking for her prince charming.
The easiest one to explain is the epically horny teenager. Fifteen years of no dating. Nuff said!
The realist. This is the woman who knows things sometimes work out and sometimes they don’t She is too honest, too logical (Lori-logic is a little different than say... Einstein-logic), occasionally skeptical, and always has a plan, flexible though it might be. She tries to be honest with her potential mates because if she fails them, she wants them to be prepared. She wants to spare their feelings right off the bat. In a twisted way, she ends up hurting their feelings by being honest about her own shortcomings. The trouble with the realist is that she never wants to count her chickens before they hatch. In some respects, she robs herself of her own potential futures.
The sparkly pink princess has counted the 5th generation of hatch-lings and built little pink chicken condos with her prince charming. She wants the fairy tale. She believes in the fairy tale. She believes every “this one” might be THE ONE. And with every potential prince charming, she floats around to the beat of her own drum... heart... something. I kind of lost that metaphor somewhere in the middle, sorry. My point is, she wants to jump in with both feet, tutu flying up over her head laughing all the way.
As you can imagine, the realist and the sparkly pink princess don’t get along all that well. For me, that means I’ve got a constant war going on in my head. Take a chance! No, wait and see. TAKE A CHANCE! No, I already know he’s not the one. TAKE A CHANCE, DAMMIT! But what if I do and it doesn’t work out and I hurt him? Argh!!!! Throw in the teenage harlot and I’m ready for meds and a comfy padded room.
Meanwhile, the Vikings end up hating me or dumping me.
At the end of the day, here we all are... Me, the realist, the sparkly pink princess, the teenage harlot and some Vikings, all special in our own way. I don’t know where we’ll all end up, but I know this. Eventually, we’ll get where we need to go. It might hurt, it might never work out. It might be happily ever after. Who knows? None of us. And fate has a funny way of making it happen although she beats the hell out of you along the way.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Pickles & Prohibition are for the Birds
First, my grandma is a great cook. She’s made several tons of comfort food throughout her life, feeding anyone who would eat. Even feeding me when I didn’t want or need to eat. It’s her way of showing people they’re loved. It can be a little frustrating, especially if you’re round like me, but it’s also really lovely. There’s nothing like a good bowl of homemade clam chowder with real cream and butter and a freshly baked loaf of bread to make you feel like someone cares. Even though she’s good at making just about anything, my grandma is actually famous for her dill pickles. I call them “poignant pickles” because they're a mixture of so many things.
She gives a jar to random strangers when she feels like it and of course always shares with her family. I can’t tell you how many times someone has said to me, “I ate that entire quart jar of pickles in one sitting, they were excellent.” or “Can you get me some more of those pickles.” Our family attorney has even settled the bill in pickles... they have to be good right?
I’m not going to share the recipe here even though my grandma would say it wouldn’t make any difference. She says her pickles are special because of the water she uses. It’s well water from the place her and my grandpa built together in 1967. She still lives there and swears that the well water is full of the right combination of minerals which in turn affects the flavor and crispness of the pickles. She’s shared the recipe with others and they never have the same result, so she could be right about the water. However, I prefer to think my grandma’s secret ingredient is a little magic. She puts a lot of love into everything she makes and I think that's what makes the pickles so special.
My grandma is also a little quirky. Sometimes... a LOT quirky, okay? She’s scared to death that I will quit my job to be a full time artist because the job means security. But my grandma risked everything in the early 1960’s to start her own beauty salon. In fact, she had a successful business for 43 years and finally retired when she was 78 years old. She also encouraged my grandpa to take risks. Before video rental was the norm, she suggested they think about starting a video store. He declined. She also suggested he buy a truck and do water-hauling for outlying communities operating cisterns, this would have also been a very good business in our area. But, he declined. Here’s the paradox: my grandpa never took a risk but always encouraged me to do what made me happy no matter what it was, even art. My grandma always took risks and doesn’t want me to leave my steady paycheck. Now you know why I’m confused most of the time.
My grandma also uses quirky turns of phrase. Anytime we were considering adopting a new dog or cat, she would say we should check the “pond” not the pound. I’m honestly not sure where that came from, probably just pronunciation, but it makes me laugh every time I hear it. When we’d watch the news together about someone who committed a crime and was getting probation, she would refer to it as “prohibition”. “He’ll probably only get prohibition...”, she would say. Also not sure where that came from, but hilarious. It’s the little things that people do that make you love them.
And finally, my grandma loves the birds. She’s an honest to goodness “mother nature” figure even though she still wears bright pink lip stick and dyes her hair platinum blonde. She’s in her 80‘s now. Like me, she loves to plant things, to dig in the dirt and sit in the yard and watch the birds. This connection or similarity I have to her was something I didn’t fully appreciate until the last year or so. It’s because of her that I love these things as well. Don’t get me wrong, my grandma can be “scary hell on wheels” and stubborn as a goat, but she can also be gentle and kind and full of heart. I’ve watched her nurse kittens with eyedroppers and hold broken birds tenderly in her hands. She looks at flowers like she can actually see God in them. And she can grow nearly anything. And even though she fought with my grandpa over almost everything, she loved him with all her heart. And he loved her back.
Some time after he passed, we were talking about her “ladies”, her friends and customers from the beauty shop. She said a lot of them were on the look out for boyfriends at the senior center. First of all, they were all ages 70 and above and I thought this was adorable. In fact, I thought “maybe there’s hope for me yet!” But I wondered if she was trying to covertly ask permission to date maybe thinking it would offend her daughters or grandchildren. I told her that if she wanted to find a companion that it was her business and that no one should hold that against her. That I wouldn’t hold it against her. It was only natural and she deserved to be happy. She said something that I will never forget. “Why would I want a boyfriend? I had my love. That’s all I need.” Yes, grandma, it turns out, that’s something else I got from you.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
I Think I Sprained My Uvula
Now, don’t get me wrong, I can chatty Cathy with the best of them, I really can, but there’s a point in time when I prefer to not talk. In fact, there are times when useless chatter sets my teeth on edge (low-hanging pun, couldn’t resist). My point is that they say Silence is Golden for a reason. I did a little research into that phrase, and by little I mean I Googled it and looked at one of the results, this isn’t a dissertation. (Sidenote: you know you've made it when people start using your company name as a verb.) Evidently, the first example of "Silence is Golden" in the English language is from a poet named Thomas Carlyle, which is a little ironic if you think about it. But it may have even been used in ancient Egypt as well... also ironic considering the recent vocal uprising.
My point is that a lot can be said with silence. In fact, I didn’t realize how much I could actually talk (verbose would have been a shorter way to say this) until I tried to teach a 4-hour class immediately after a wisdom tooth extraction... three wisdom teeth to be exact. Besides the embarrassing drooling, my speech was as illegible as a drunkard's handwriting. So, I resorted to writing out what I had to say on the available marker board in the classroom. Let’s just say, all of my talking made me high as a kite. It also made me consider my words more carefully and it definitely made me admire those who use an economy of phrase communication style. To this day, I worship the monosyllabic! Something I am really not capable of.
Another interesting turn of phrase is A picture is worth 1,000 words. We’ve all heard this one, right? I love this one. Is it because words are cheap and art is expensive? I don’t think so. I think it has to do with the amount of bull you can put into a picture as opposed to a sentence. Quite frankly, I can only speak for the US here, but we talk too much. We talk so much that we quit actually saying anything about 15 years ago. I blame marketing experts. A great example of this is modern business lingo. Have you noticed that all the great “management/business/leadership/training experts” basically say the same thing, just with different words. They take an old idea, re-brand it so they can copyright it, and then they sell it. I guess everyone needs to make a living, but when I see things like this, I just want to scream “EMPORER’S NEW CLOTHES!! EMPORER’S NEW CLOTHES!!!”
I’m also not a fan of filling awkward silences with useless chatter. Don’t get me wrong, I do this. It’s awkward and I’m co-dependent, so I like to fix things. But it’s still annoying. It’s taken me a long time to realize that some people communicate s-l-o-w-e-r. They need time to digest the conversation as they go along. This is a good thing... I mean actually thinking about what we’re going to say before we spew meaningless jibber-jabber on our conversational partner is generally appreciated by said partner.
And finally, in silence, you can hear. Okay, I know that sounds like a leap in logic, but silence gives you moments to listen with your ears and your everything else. Have you noticed that intuitive people tend to be more quiet while “sales” people tend to chatter? It’s because intuitive people are listening, they are absorbing. Sales people, on the other hand, are trying to convince you of something. Remember that real communication is primarily non-verbal. Some experts estimate that up to 80% of what we say isn’t in the actual words we use. It’s in the cues we get or give. If we’re constantly chattering, we miss all the good stuff. I’m talking about the crinkle of the eyes, the fidgeting, the smile or frown, the nod etc. In the non-verbal, we can connect. And ultimately, this is what we’re so desperate to do right now. Unfortunately, this desperation is actually the trigger of some of the jibber jabber. It’s a vicious cycle isn’t it? So, the advice for myself and if you agree with me, for you, is “when in doubt, shut up”. I could have made this more elegant, but it would have taken more words.
L
My point is that a lot can be said with silence. In fact, I didn’t realize how much I could actually talk (verbose would have been a shorter way to say this) until I tried to teach a 4-hour class immediately after a wisdom tooth extraction... three wisdom teeth to be exact. Besides the embarrassing drooling, my speech was as illegible as a drunkard's handwriting. So, I resorted to writing out what I had to say on the available marker board in the classroom. Let’s just say, all of my talking made me high as a kite. It also made me consider my words more carefully and it definitely made me admire those who use an economy of phrase communication style. To this day, I worship the monosyllabic! Something I am really not capable of.
Another interesting turn of phrase is A picture is worth 1,000 words. We’ve all heard this one, right? I love this one. Is it because words are cheap and art is expensive? I don’t think so. I think it has to do with the amount of bull you can put into a picture as opposed to a sentence. Quite frankly, I can only speak for the US here, but we talk too much. We talk so much that we quit actually saying anything about 15 years ago. I blame marketing experts. A great example of this is modern business lingo. Have you noticed that all the great “management/business/leadership/training experts” basically say the same thing, just with different words. They take an old idea, re-brand it so they can copyright it, and then they sell it. I guess everyone needs to make a living, but when I see things like this, I just want to scream “EMPORER’S NEW CLOTHES!! EMPORER’S NEW CLOTHES!!!”
Are you wise too? Tell the world! http://www.cafepress.com/naughtyviking.424327962
Coming soon to www.naughtyviking.com
L
Shameless marketing, we all have to make a living: http://www.cafepress.com/naughtyviking.430534880
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