I always need to be reminded of this — some weekends more than others.
As a matter of fact, I should just stick this Post It to my forehead where I could be sure to see it all day long…except I avoid mirrors, especially on the weekend…and it would be backwards, so I’d have to struggle to read it, even with my glasses. Bad idea, bad idea…
Anyhow, let’s all Relax my peeps and have a marvelous weekend.
Carry On,
xox
“Well, what will you do for money?” The fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Her eyes were huge, and the fear inside them was palpable.
“Nooooo, honey, you’re a jeweler, that’s what you do.” It was not a statement, it was a directive.
“What? Why? Now? You’re in your fifties.” Said by someone whose recent anthem had been: Fifty is the new Thirty.
Turncoat.
Those are just a few of the reactions I’ve gotten when I’ve been asked ‘So, what are you up to?’ And I reply “I’m a writer.”
I’ve said it before and it’s worth repeating. A lot, no, make that most – most people who ask you how you are and what you’re up to – they don’t really want to know.
It’s the amuse bouche of conversation – obligatory and unnecessary.
Which leads me to two important revelations ( bigger than insights, more important to remember than observations) that I’ve had about who I told about the writing in the very beginning; and I think they can apply to anything precious that you’re considering doing in your life.
NUMBER ONE:
Don’t tell just anyone everything. THAT could be considered an act of self sabotage.
That was a hard one for me because I’m about as opaque as Saran Wrap, but you’ve really got to be careful here.
How well do you know the person in front of you?
Are they safe? Meaning, do they have your best interests at heart – or an agenda?
I’ve had more amazing responses and feedback from strangers – on airplanes – than I have from the people close to me.
Probably because they aren’t invested in my old identity.
One guy recently responded “oh wow, that’s great; you look like a writer.” Whatever that meant. It felt like a compliment, but I’m thinking he got a look at my writer’s flat ass.
Advise in a nutshell – take a minute, and size up the asker.
Don’t divulge your new passion/ plans/ career choice/ to anyone who wouldn’t understand, may laugh, or potentially invalidate you – AND you may get burned by a friend.
Just don’t get burned twice by the same flame.
NUMBER TWO:
I’ve found this to be true WITHOUT FAIL.
Whatever insecurities and doubts I’ve had about any new venture I’ve undertaken (and this includes relationships) I’ve always been able to count on them to be mirrored back to me by some assbite naysayer.
So those responses at the top of the page?
Of courses those were my trifecta-of-terror.
Fear of the loss of income, abandoning my long-standing career, and starting something new at my age; lobbed back across the lunch table for me to justify…to myself really.
Because here’s what happens: when you have the mirror held up and it pisses you off, and your hackles go up; all your College Debate Team skills kick in, and you’re able to come up with graphs and evidence and flow charts, to prove to them – AND YOURSELF – why this is the best idea ever!
So how can you be mad? They did you a favor. I’m aware that I’ve played the naysayer role in other peoples dramas many times.
Now I hardly get any blowback because I worked out all the confidence kinks early on and I’m better at owning it.
I’m kind of a writer like someone in their eighth month is kind of pregnant.
Just be advised; if it keeps happening, your doubts are bigger than you think – or you may need new friends.
Remember: Don’t get burned by the same flame twice.
(I swear, we should all embroider that on a pillow)
As always, I so appreciate your comments below.
When have you had your insecurities mirrored back at you? Have you gotten burned by revealing too much to the wrong person? Was it a friend? Or family?
Thanks loves, Carry on,
Xox
This essay was embedded into an interview that my beloved Book Mama,www.bookmama.com Linda Sivertsen, did with the author Laura Munson, deep inside a template for writers to use to craft their book proposals.
http://yourbigbeautifulbookplan.com
I’ve been buried up to my neck in this thing for weeks, writing away, but when I took a minute to check this out – I cried. It was first published in the New York Times Modern Love column where it went viral – and got Laura a book deal!
It isTHAT beautiful. And touching, and moving and courageous…and, What the Hell, just take a look, I promise you won’t regret it.
xox
MODERN LOVE
Those Aren’t Fighting Words, Dear
By LAURA A. MUNSON
Published: July 31, 2009
LET’S say you have what you believe to be a healthy marriage. You’re still friends and lovers after spending more than half of your lives together. The dreams you set out to achieve in your 20s — gazing into each other’s eyes in candlelit city bistros when you were single and skinny — have for the most part come true.
Two decades later you have the 20 acres of land, the farmhouse, the children, the dogs and horses. You’re the parents you said you would be, full of love and guidance. You’ve done it all: Disneyland, camping, Hawaii, Mexico, city living, stargazing.
Sure, you have your marital issues, but on the whole you feel so self-satisfied about how things have worked out that you would never, in your wildest nightmares, think you would hear these words from your husband one fine summer day: “I don’t love you anymore. I’m not sure I ever did. I’m moving out. The kids will understand. They’ll want me to be happy.”
But wait. This isn’t the divorce story you think it is. Neither is it a begging-him-to-stay story. It’s a story about hearing your husband say “I don’t love you anymore” and deciding not to believe him. And what can happen as a result.
Here’s a visual: Child throws a temper tantrum. Tries to hit his mother. But the mother doesn’t hit back, lecture or punish. Instead, she ducks. Then she tries to go about her business as if the tantrum isn’t happening. She doesn’t “reward” the tantrum. She simply doesn’t take the tantrum personally because, after all, it’s not about her.
Let me be clear: I’m not saying my husband was throwing a child’s tantrum. No. He was in the grip of something else — a profound and far more troubling meltdown that comes not in childhood but in midlife, when we perceive that our personal trajectory is no longer arcing reliably upward as it once did. But I decided to respond the same way I’d responded to my children’s tantrums. And I kept responding to it that way. For four months.
“I don’t love you anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.”
His words came at me like a speeding fist, like a sucker punch, yet somehow in that moment I was able to duck. And once I recovered and composed myself, I managed to say, “I don’t buy it.” Because I didn’t.
He drew back in surprise. Apparently he’d expected me to burst into tears, to rage at him, to threaten him with a custody battle. Or beg him to change his mind.
So he turned mean. “I don’t like what you’ve become.”
Gut-wrenching pause. How could he say such a thing? That’s when I really wanted to fight. To rage. To cry. But I didn’t.
Instead, a shroud of calm enveloped me, and I repeated those words: “I don’t buy it.”
You see, I’d recently committed to a non-negotiable understanding with myself. I’d committed to “The End of Suffering.” I’d finally managed to exile the voices in my head that told me my personal happiness was only as good as my outward success, rooted in things that were often outside my control. I’d seen the insanity of that equation and decided to take responsibility for my own happiness. And I mean all of it.
My husband hadn’t yet come to this understanding with himself. He had enjoyed many years of hard work, and its rewards had supported our family of four all along. But his new endeavor hadn’t been going so well, and his ability to be the breadwinner was in rapid decline. He’d been miserable about this, felt useless, was losing himself emotionally and letting himself go physically. And now he wanted out of our marriage; to be done with our family.
But I wasn’t buying it.
I said: “It’s not age-appropriate to expect children to be concerned with their parents’ happiness. Not unless you want to create co-dependents who’ll spend their lives in bad relationships and therapy. There are times in every relationship when the parties involved need a break. What can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?”
“Huh?” he said.
“Go trekking in Nepal. Build a yurt in the back meadow. Turn the garage studio into a man-cave. Get that drum set you’ve always wanted. Anything but hurting the children and me with a reckless move like the one you’re talking about.”
Then I repeated my line, “What can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?”
“Huh?”
“How can we have a responsible distance?”
“I don’t want distance,” he said. “I want to move out.”
My mind raced. Was it another woman? Drugs? Unconscionable secrets? But I stopped myself. I would not suffer.
Instead, I went to my desk, Googled “responsible separation” and came up with a list. It included things like: Who’s allowed to use what credit cards? Who are the children allowed to see you with in town? Who’s allowed keys to what?
I looked through the list and passed it on to him.
His response: “Keys? We don’t even have keys to our house.”
I remained stoic. I could see pain in his eyes. Pain I recognized.
“Oh, I see what you’re doing,” he said. “You’re going to make me go into therapy. You’re not going to let me move out. You’re going to use the kids against me.”
“I never said that. I just asked: What can we do to give you the distance you need … ”
“Stop saying that!”
Well, he didn’t move out.
Instead, he spent the summer being unreliable. He stopped coming home at his usual six o’clock. He would stay out late and not call. He blew off our entire Fourth of July — the parade, the barbecue, the fireworks — to go to someone else’s party. When he was at home, he was distant. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. He didn’t even wish me “Happy Birthday.”
But I didn’t play into it. I walked my line. I told the kids: “Daddy’s having a hard time as adults often do. But we’re a family, no matter what.” I was not going to suffer. And neither were they.
MY trusted friends were irate on my behalf. “How can you just stand by and accept this behavior? Kick him out! Get a lawyer!”
I walked my line with them, too. This man was hurting, yet his problem wasn’t mine to solve. In fact, I needed to get out of his way so he could solve it.
I know what you’re thinking: I’m a pushover. I’m weak and scared and would put up with anything to keep the family together. I’m probably one of those women who would endure physical abuse. But I can assure you, I’m not. I load 1,500-pound horses into trailers and gallop through the high country of Montana all summer. I went through Pitocin-induced natural childbirth. And a Caesarean section without follow-up drugs. I am handy with a chain saw.
I simply had come to understand that I was not at the root of my husband’s problem. He was. If he could turn his problem into a marital fight, he could make it about us. I needed to get out of the way so that wouldn’t happen.
Privately, I decided to give him time. Six months.
I had good days, and I had bad days. On the good days, I took the high road. I ignored his lashing out, his merciless jabs. On bad days, I would fester in the August sun while the kids ran through sprinklers, raging at him in my mind. But I never wavered. Although it may sound ridiculous to say “Don’t take it personally” when your husband tells you he no longer loves you, sometimes that’s exactly what you have to do.
Instead of issuing ultimatums, yelling, crying or begging, I presented him with options. I created a summer of fun for our family and welcomed him to share in it, or not — it was up to him. If he chose not to come along, we would miss him, but we would be just fine, thank you very much. And we were.
And, yeah, you can bet I wanted to sit him down and persuade him to stay. To love me. To fight for what we’ve created. You can bet I wanted to.
But I didn’t.
I barbecued. Made lemonade. Set the table for four. Loved him from afar.
And one day, there he was, home from work early, mowing the lawn. A man doesn’t mow his lawn if he’s going to leave it. Not this man. Then he fixed a door that had been broken for eight years. He made a comment about our front porch needing paint. Our front porch. He mentioned needing wood for next winter. The future. Little by little, he started talking about the future.
It was Thanksgiving dinner that sealed it. My husband bowed his head humbly and said, “I’m thankful for my family.”
He was back.
And I saw what had been missing: pride. He’d lost pride in himself. Maybe that’s what happens when our egos take a hit in midlife and we realize we’re not as young and golden anymore.
When life’s knocked us around. And our childhood myths reveal themselves to be just that. The truth feels like the biggest sucker-punch of them all: it’s not a spouse or land or a job or money that brings us happiness. Those achievements, those relationships, can enhance our happiness, yes, but happiness has to start from within. Relying on any other equation can be lethal.
My husband had become lost in the myth. But he found his way out. We’ve since had the hard conversations. In fact, he encouraged me to write about our ordeal. To help other couples who arrive at this juncture in life. People who feel scared and stuck. Who believe their temporary feelings are permanent. Who see an easy out, and think they can escape.
My husband tried to strike a deal. Blame me for his pain. Unload his feelings of personal disgrace onto me.
But I ducked. And I waited. And it worked.
Laura A. Munson is a writer who lives in Whitefish, Mont.
Tit for tat – short for this for that. A fair exchange. Quid pro quo, Latin for something for something. A favor for a favor.
How do we feel about that inside of relationships?
I’ve always hated it, because it involves keeping score.
And while some people are brilliant at it, running a metal tally sheet – I suck at keeping score.
I remember being blindsided inside of relationships by brilliant score keepers who insisted that I had fallen behind in the favor department. Apparently not enough tits for all their tats.
“You drive! I’ve driven us around the last three weekends, do you realize how expensive gas is?”
“We always see the movies YOU want to see. Have I told you lately how much I hate science fiction? You OWE me!”
“It seems like it has been all about Janet lately, when is it ever going to be about me?” Ouch.
Some even got sexual depending on the fight. Actual tits for tat. Others were about family, garbage take-out, even food.
WTF?
All of those declarations caught me off guard. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we were keeping score.”
I was sure that when I had signed the agreement after reading the very thick dating manual, that I must have missed the fact that everything was subject to become a line item on a debit sheet, and furthermore, I myself, had neglected to keep score.
DOH!
“You have me at a dis-advantage” I tried to plead my case, sure that I could come up with some outstanding infractions on their part – but I couldn’t – I just thought we were being a couple, doing nice things for each other – not making deals.
Someone told me this story the other day, about going to their therapist loaded down with resentment toward their spouse.
Eventually, after several months of couple’s therapy with her husband, the therapist confronted her and said: “You think you are giving gifts. But you are making deals.”
She was struck dumb. What?????
“A deal is when there is a mutual agreement, an expectation. A gift is given.”
She admitted that their therapist gave her a gift that has lasted a lifetime.
My husband tried ONCE to keep score, reminding me of something he did that he felt wasn’t “repaid”.
“We don’t tit for tat in this relationship,” I snapped, trying not to yell. “Speak up in the moment if you don’t like something, don’t keep score, it isn’t fair unless we both agree to do that – which I will NEVER agree to. Do something nice because you want to, because you love me, or don’t do it at all, and for Godsakes, don’t hold it against me! Some days I will be selfish, some days I’ll be freaking Mother Theresa, some days a warrior, other days needy, don’t take score – deal with it!” Okay, maybe I was yelling.
You see it’s been my experience that on occasion, relationships can feel lopsided. No one promised us equality. That word wasn’t in my vows.
But it’s also been proven to me that the scales do even out…eventually.
It may take a while, but the weekends alone with all the kids, the late nights at the hospital, the hard talks about money, and the times you agreed to sex when you were too tired to think, the Thanksgivings spent with horrible Bonnie and crazy Uncle Ned, summers at the Cape being eaten by mosquitos, early morning carpool, working two jobs to keep things afloat, numerous bad choices, mistakes and failures – they all come back around.
So don’t be so quick to keep score.
Give your love with no expectations – open-hearted, as a gift, and you know what? It will come back to you ten-fold. I promise.
Carry on,
xox
“They say that if you put a frog into a pot of boiling water,
it will leap out right away to escape the danger.
But, if you put a frog in a kettle that is filled with water that is cool and pleasant,
and then you gradually heat the kettle until it starts boiling,
the frog will not become aware of the threat until it is too late.
The frog’s survival instincts are geared towards detecting sudden changes.”
For Valentine’s Day, above and beyond the sweet cards and thoughtful romantic gestures, I received one of the ultimate tokens of love a man can give. My husband tackled something that’s been lurking up at the top of my Honey Do List.
He unplugged my bathroom sink.
While his sink drains happily unencumbered, swiftly out to the Pacific Ocean, mine is so stopped up at this point that even brushing my teeth or a simple hand washing fills the basin and takes several minutes to empty. It has for five years.
As a result, there is always a thin layer of slimy, soapy scum that lines the inside of my sink every time I use it. Rinsing it out is a complete act of futility.
Let water drain. Swish clean water around. Wait for it to drain. Repeat. Again and again until you bang your forehead repeatedly on the porcelain — or the sink is clean — whichever comes first.
We’ve both attempted all the usual quick fixes for a slow drain, with gratifying, but alas, temporary results. The clog was beyond the P-trap, inside the wall. This called for desperate measures – hence my Valentines Day request. “Baby, will you PLEASE fix my sink?”
When the time came, he showed up with all the prerequisite tools of the trade, wrenches, a bucket and towel. My husband is nothing if not deliberate. He slowly and carefully loosened the joints, making sure that the bucket, resting on a beach towel, was set in position to catch any debris. When he had everything open to the wall he stuck his face, glasses at the tip of his nose, up to the open pipe in order to get a good look inside. I could tell by his determined walk back to retrieve MORE tools, that he was up against an extremely foul foe. There was one hell of a disgusting hair, gel, and toothpaste, mouthwash, hand cream, and orchid moss monster clog that inhabited that pipe.
When he returned, he was lookin’ kinda sexy, armed with gloves and a screwdriver looking thingy, I offered to run the garden hose inside the bathroom, “to flush the little fucker out to sea.”
He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “I’ve got this” was his dry reply.
Shit, shit, shit. Note to self: You know better than to stick your nose into a Honey Do List repair. Especially a Valentines Day Special. Back away. Slooowly.
After about half an hour, he emerged triumphant. “Go run the water” he said, following me back into the bathroom so he could see my reaction.
I washed my hands, and the thirty seconds that it used to take for the water to back up, came and went. I stared at the perfectly functioning drain – as if a miracle had occurred. “I can’t remember the last time the water drained so fast” (in other words exactly as it was designed to do.) I reached over and gave him a big hug. “I’m serious, this sink has been backed up for as long as I can remember”
He gathered his tools and as he walked away he shared this little nugget: “It’s just like the boiled frog.” It was so out of context it took me a minute.
“You’re right, it is!” I yelled down the hall.
God, who made the sexy, makeshift, philosophical plumber so smart? And why in the hell do I keep doing this to myself?
Remember my sad excuse for a smart-phone? It was so old and decrepit, so tired from all of the demands that I laid on it, that in the end all it could accomplish – was to be a phone. And it wasn’t even good at that. Wah,Wah. The End. New phone. Nirvana!
The boiled frog!
There’s no danger I need to escape – just annoying bullshit. I’m the frog, sitting happily in water where the boiling point is so gradual, slow, and subtle, it just becomes…an aggravating part of life. Now as I write this I’m taking a mental inventory of other boiling frogs that are causing me grief. I declare 2015 the end of BOILED FROGS!
What are your boiled frog situations? I know you have them. Confess.
Carry on,
xox
It is my humble opinion that this applies to falling in love as well.
Love you my peeps,
Happy Valentines Saturday!
xox
On the private Facebook page of that kick-ass online business school I took last year, a post caught my eye.
I try not to read them. I barely understand them. I’m neither “cool” enough nor smart enough to be a part of this group. I slid in through the side door, the “blogger” who created her own website and then limped off to throw up. I just barely recovered, my brain hurting from the overexertion.
Anyhow..
It was written by a young man, an aspiring entrepreneur, whose boyfriend had booked a fancy, shmancy weekend away.
They were headed to a beautiful warm weather resort, with messages, fine dining – the whole shebang.
The intention behind the trip, his boyfriend told him, was to celebrate his best year EVER.
In his endearing, aw shucks way, he admitted to us, his tribe of up and coming internet movers and shakers, that this had been less than a stellar year for him.
“I didn’t hob knob with the rich and famous this year” he said. “No high level meetings, no mastermind groups, no Ted talk or speaking engagements at all. Instead of multiple six figures, I lived off savings.”
He went on to explain that 2014 had been a year of reinvention for him.
He took what appeared to be a thriving business and changed it up, downsizing some things, while reinvesting in others. He went on to explain that he’d spent the whole year at his desk with his hands in the clay. “If anyone wanted to find me I wasn’t on the road as usual, running from event to event, I was at my desk, from dawn to dusk, and I have never grown and changed, and worked harder in all my fucking life.”
Would he have labeled it his best year EVER? Probably not. Because the yardstick we all use for that doesn’t take into account anything besides the money and fame.
The outside trappings of success.
But his boyfriend could see it. He understood. And he knew it needed to be celebrated. Don’t you just love that?
I could SOOOO relate! I too have had the best/worst year of my life. By the standards set by society at large – it sucked.
But in laying the foundation, the hard work, the networking, perseverance, personal growth and general all around richness – it was my best year EVER!
My husband has witnessed the changes and repeatedly suggested that we celebrate them.
How lucky am I?
Wouldn’t it be great to pay homage to those years that don’t look so great from the outside but change us forever on the inside?
Because isn’t that what makes a person a true success?
Thoughts please?
Carry on,
xox
My Peeps,
That was a doozy of a Mercury Retrograde. But it’s OVER!
It’s safe. You can come out now!
It felt to me like everything old and unwanted circled around, bitch-slapped me and then left. But not without giving me the finger first!
Whew!
Let’s all shake it off and get back to the business of being Happy.
Carry On,
xox
I’m not one to quote the bible, but HELLO? The truth is the truth. Isn’t this where all the confusion in life stems from?
We, myself included, meditate, take walks, listen to music, do yoga, chant, and kiss our dogs, in order to line up with that Essence, that Being, that voice inside of us that is wise and kind and has our back. Our true Master.
The Captain O Captain of our ships.
Then we, and I’m definitely included here, get knocked out into left field by attempting to serve another.
Our demanding boss, our overreaching mother, our unreasonable, dissatisfied spouse, our spoiled, over indulged, checked-out children, even the guy at Target who wants us to move to another line.
The entire world is loud and full of jackassery, and I must admit it gets my attention MOST of the time.
All the petty, insignificant things have a way of making it to the top of my list and hey, listen, I’d be happy at times to ONLY SERVE TWO masters.
So, I call Bullshit!
I just have to say BACK OFF!…ENOUGH!…PEOPLE!
Get in line.
Take a number.
Single file.
I’ll listen to you one at a time, and I reserve the right to send you back to the end, until you learn to behave yourselves.
I can no longer serve two (hundred) masters. I now realize my limitations and I’m no longer ashamed. I’m actually relieved.
You see, in trying to make everyone around me happy, I wasn’t living my best life, which turned me into one crazy ass bitch, and then I was no good to anyone. Least of all myself. I began to lose my ZaZaZu which makes life no fun at all, and Janet a very, very dull girl.
Wanna hear a truth? YOU are NONE OF MY BUSINESS.
So I’m gonna disappoint a few of you. I’m takin’ to YOU Target guy.
I will NO LONGER toe the line.
I will NO LONGER sacrifice feeling good to make you happy.
I will NO LONGER be the condition that has to change in order for things to work.
I will NO LONGER stay quiet and be less than who I am.
I will NO LONGER sacrifice my soul to make money.
I will NO LONGER take on your issues and carry them on my back like some overworked bell boy at a Vegas hotel on Memorial weekend.
I will NO LONGER chase desire.(KJ)
I will NO LONGER cook if I’m not feeling it. But I will not let us starve. I’m NOT mean. I WIll order pizza.
I will NO LONGER take you to the park twice a day and throw the ball incessantly like one of those pitching machines, so you can just stop your whining. Once is enough. It’s not ALL about you! My existence is not about being your beck and call girl, you little bitches.
(Sorry, a little dog rage.)
But…
I WILL laugh more,
Sleep longer,
Wear comfortable shoes,
Write sassier,
Live louder,
Wear impossibly cruel, high heels,
Be a walking contradiction,
Stop apologizing,
Be mystical and believe in magic,
Drink carbonated, sugary beverages occasionally,
Be bolder,
Take chances,
Watch silly singing shows,
Say fuck whenever it strikes me,
Eat after ten,
And walk BY MYSELF once a day, without the dogs, for my own sanity and peace of mind.
I’m committed to only one Master now, and she knows what’s best for me.
How about you? You in?
Carry on,
Xox
